Preview: The Fated Battle Once More

Time stood still at that moment.

The threads filling the sky froze in midair.

The mad smile on Salas's face stiffened.

He could clearly feel that all his Nen had been tightly locked down by an invisible force.

Forget controlling the threads—he could not even move a finger.

The scent of death poured down from above like an icy sea.

He closed his eyes and calmly accepted the outcome of being reduced to nothing but dust.

Thirty seconds.

It felt as long as an entire lifetime.

Yet the fist capable of crushing everything never came down.

Salas stiffly opened his eyes.

He met Saitama's utterly emotionless gaze.

The overwhelming hatred and hysterical madness from moments ago had all become the greatest joke in the world.

A metallic sweetness welled up in his throat, and his voice came out hoarse beyond recognition.

"Why... didn't you kill me?"

Saitama scratched his head, walked to the edge of the ring, picked up his barbecue sauce bottle, and wiped the dust off it with his sleeve.

"Why would I kill you? You're not a monster."

He paused.

"And you aren't buzzing anymore."

Salas froze.

He lowered his head and looked at his hands—the hands that had just controlled countless threads while screaming like a madman.

Now, they were perfectly clean.

Then he suddenly laughed.

Not a hysterical laugh, nor a smug one.

It was a clean laugh, one filled with relief.

"You're right. Summer mosquitoes are more formidable."

"And this mosquito won't make any more noise."

He struggled to his feet and dusted himself off.

When he looked at Saitama, only pure reverence remained in his eyes.

"A space no larger than one's grasp is divine."

With that, he turned and left.

"Wait."

At some point, Hisoka had vaulted over the railing and stepped onto the ring.

He twirled that corner-folded Ace of Spades in his hand, and an intense craving for power burned in his golden eyes.

Salas paused.

"Are you here to kill me?"

"It would be such a waste to kill you."

Hisoka walked up to him, his fingertips brushing over the black threads lingering on Salas's fingers.

"Teach me that move you used just now, the one that turned yourself into air."

"In exchange, I'll fight you. A battle with no rules, no audience, fought only for art."

Salas looked at him for a long time.

Then he smiled.

"Fine."

The two walked down from the ring side by side.

The instant they entered the passageway.

Hisoka's steps stopped for half a second.

From the darkest corner of the stands came the faintest rustle of cloth.

It was so quick it seemed like an illusion.

He did not turn around.

The playing card at his fingertips silently slipped into his sleeve.

Saitama watched their departing backs and tilted his head.

He did not understand.

He only felt that he could finally go back to sleep.

He put the barbecue sauce bottle back into the plastic bag and carefully checked the corner of the bag.

It was intact.

It could still be used.

A cold system notification exploded in his mind.

Its tone was lower than ever before, carrying a barely perceptible tremor.

[Warning: Host has completed the 110th-floor battle.]

[Opponent Salas Veyel has surrendered.]

[Reward obtained: 50 million Jenny.]

[The 120th-floor opponent has been automatically matched.]

[Estimated combat power level: Beyond God-class.]

[Danger level: World-destroying.]

[Preparation countdown: 12 hours.]

[Host, please make every possible preparation.]

Saitama tied the plastic bag shut again.

"The 120th floor... I'll deal with it tomorrow. I'm sleepy."

He turned and headed for the elevator.

"Master!"

Genos finally broke free from the restrictions of his seat and vaulted out from the front row of the stands.

The mechanical thrusters on his shoulder blades spat out two deep-blue flames, and he landed steadily beside Saitama.

He knelt on one knee and accepted the barbecue sauce bottle Saitama handed him with both hands.

As though receiving some sacred relic, he carefully held it against his chest.

"Master! Are you all right? Were you injured? Do you need me to perform a full-body scan immediately? Did the recoil from that punch injure your wrist joints? Your T-shirt has dust on it—should I activate cleaning mode?"

Saitama glanced at him and yawned.

"I'm fine. Just a little tired."

At that moment.

The temperature of the entire Heaven's Arena dropped to freezing in an instant.

A thin layer of white frost formed on the metal railings in the stands.

The tea in the cup Netero held instantly froze solid.

Killua's nails unconsciously dug into his palm, drawing bright red blood.

Gon's Nen leaked out uncontrollably. His whole body trembled, and his teeth chattered.

Even the ordinary spectators in the front rows found it difficult to breathe. Some rolled their eyes back and fainted on the spot.

No one screamed.

No one spoke.

The entire arena was left with only ragged breathing.

Saitama stopped walking.

Instinctively, he raised his head and looked toward the highest row.

There.

A figure stood up.

Boros.

His single eye glowed fiercely in the darkness, like a burning star.

Countless galaxies being born and dying were reflected within his pupil.

That aura of a conqueror who had crossed countless galaxies and traveled through countless light-years.

It pressed down on everyone's hearts like a towering mountain.

It was not Nen.

It was something more primal, more powerful, more fundamental.

He did not come down.

Nor did he speak.

He simply stood there.

And met Saitama's gaze for a moment.

Then he gave a slight nod.

The stardust clinging to his shoulder armor shimmered with a faint golden glow at that moment.

There were no unnecessary movements.

No unnecessary words.

That single nod.

Was a promise spanning twenty years.

Saitama looked at him for a long time.

Then he rubbed his chin in sudden realization.

"Oh! It's you! That alien!"

He nodded at Boros as well.

"Sure. But let's start early—I still need to go to the supermarket this afternoon to buy discounted eggs."

With that, he turned and entered the elevator.

The elevator doors slowly closed.

In the highest row.

Boros sat back down.

He closed his eyes.

He felt the unprecedented power the system had bestowed upon him.

His body began to grow faintly hot.

Twenty years of waiting.

Twelve hours remained.