The Wail from the Future

He was a youth, but he was not a youth.

His hair dragged along the ground, and the muscles all over his body had swollen until they stretched his clothes into strips of rag. Dark-red Nen seeped from his pores like a bloody mist, condensing around him into a viscous, blood-scented halo. He stood in the center of the ring, his right fist frozen halfway through a punch. His pupils were scattered, as though veiled in dust, and he kept repeating two words. His voice was as low as a murmur in a dream, yet it rang clearly throughout the entire silent arena.

"Neferpitou..."

"Kite..."

The voice did not sound human. It was like bones scraping against sandpaper, carrying a weariness and despair that reached deep into the marrow.

The stands erupted in an instant. Everyone was trembling with fear at the sudden appearance of this man radiating an aura of death, and whispers spread like a rising tide.

"Who is that? His presence is terrifying!"

"That Nen Pressure just now... It's stronger than all the previous opponents put together!"

"Did Saitama-sensei finally meet a real opponent this time?"

In the front row, Gon, who had been chewing on a chocolate bar, suddenly stood up. The snack fell from his hand with a smack. He stared fixedly at the back of the figure in the center of the ring, and it felt as though all the blood in his body had frozen in an instant.

That face was seven or eight years older than his current one. Its features were sharper, and far more exhausted, with deep lines at the corners of the eyes, as though carved by countless sleepless nights. But he recognized those clothes—that was the green hooded jacket he had worn when he left Whale Island. Now,