Genius Should Look Like a Genius

Saitama finished fighting his three-years-younger self, tucked away the remaining pan-fried dumplings, and slowly walked out of the elevator.

The arena corridor was empty and quiet. Only his footsteps echoed across the vacant floor.

From around the corner came the dull thuds of fists striking a sandbag.

It wasn't a formal battle but training.

It was highly rhythmic, one strike after another, like some stubborn metronome, carrying the uniquely unyielding tenacity of youth.

Saitama stopped.

The small training room at the end of the corridor had been left open, giving him a clear view of what was happening inside. Gon and Killua were sparring. Gon was still using that reckless, berserk fighting style carved into his bones—never dodging or retreating, taking the impact head-on, trading blows with brute force. Even when his arms went numb from the shock, he refused to give up so much as a single step.

Lightning danced across Killua's fingertips. Every dodge was as precise as if he had calculated the trajectory in advance, and every strike held back thirty percent of its force, afraid of actually hurting Gon. But Gon didn't care. He only charged, collided, and used his body to take the hits, push forward, and fight.

Sweat soaked through his green hoodie, trickled down his chin, and dripped onto the training room's tiled floor, leaving tiny wet marks. His breathing was as heavy as an old bellows, the knuckles of his clenched fists had gone white, and his arms trembled slightly. Yet his eyes shone frighteningly bright, like two sparks that had not yet gone out.

"Again!" he shouted hoarsely. "I'm not at my limit yet!"

Killua frowned and withdrew the lightning. "Your hands are shaking this badly. You'll get hurt if you keep training. Rest for ten minutes first."

"No need!" Gon