The train carrying Vane toward Heavens Arena thundered across endless stretches of industrial cities and open wilderness beneath the pale light of early autumn.
Metal wheels screamed against the tracks.
Inside the narrow, crowded compartments, the air was thick with cigarette smoke, low murmurs, and the heavy scent of cheap grease from station food vendors.
Vane sat quietly by the window, his travel bag resting beside him. His calm, gray eyes watched the changing landscape with quiet fascination.
His destination was Heavens Arena. His father had made it clear: he had the theory and the physical foundation, but he lacked raw combat experience.
The tower would be his testing ground before he eventually challenged the Hunter Exam.
Occasionally, fellow passengers tried to strike up a conversation, noticing how young he was to be traveling entirely without a guardian.
Some assumed he was visiting relatives; others figured he was just another hopeful martial artist chasing a desperate dream of fame. Vane rarely corrected them. Explaining the truth felt unnecessarily complicated.
Still, one elderly passenger sitting across from him eventually spoke up.
"You're heading toward the tower too, kid?"
Vane glanced up from the world map resting across his lap. "Is it that obvious?"
The old man snorted, leaning back against his seat while lighting a cigarette. "Everyone carrying that look in their eyes ends up there eventually."
"What kind of look?" Vane asked.
"Hunger."
Vane considered the word quietly, turning it over in his analytical mind.
The old man blew a lazy stream of smoke upward, his weathered expression darkening slightly. "I fought in Heavens Arena myself forty years ago. Didn't get far, but far enough to understand the place. That tower changes people."
"How?"
The man stared out the window into the passing gloom before answering. "You climb high enough, and eventually, strength becomes an addiction."
Vane said nothing after that. Deep down, he understood the warning far better than the stranger could ever realize.
The train arrived in Heavens Arena City two days later beneath a sky crowded with enormous, flashing advertisements stretching across towering buildings.
The moment Vane stepped out of the station, a wall of pure noise swallowed him completely.
Thousands of people flooded the streets.
Huge electronic billboards displayed upcoming fight cards, profiles of famous martial artists, and commercials for combat schools spread throughout the city.
Then, Vane finally saw it.
Heavens Arena pierced the sky like a colossal pillar raised by giants rather than humans. The structure towered so impossibly high—all 251 floors of it—that its upper levels disappeared entirely into the clouds overhead.
Sunlight reflected sharply across its polished exterior, while massive digital screens wrapped around its lower sections, broadcasting live matches to the screaming crowds below.
Vane stopped walking instinctively.
Even from several kilometers away, the tower dominated the entire horizon.
"So that's Heavens Arena…" he murmured.
Compared to the ordinary buildings surrounding it, the structure resembled a mountain forged from steel and glass. The entire city existed solely to feed it.
Every street overflowed with dojos, combat gyms, and weapon instructors promising greatness.
Posters covered entire brick walls, displaying muscular champions standing triumphantly over bleeding opponents.
One enormous billboard showed a heavily scarred heavyweight fighter flexing beside the advertisement for nutritional supplements.
"THE STEEL BODY OF FLOOR 170 CHAMPION MAX!" the slogan declared. "FIGHT HARD. RECOVER STRONGER..."
For Vane, the atmosphere felt strangely perfect. This wasn't a place for soft pleasantries. It was a meat grinder built on physical efficiency.
By evening, Vane stood before the entrance to the Arena itself. Massive glass doors stretched several stories high as a constant stream of fighters moved through the lobby.
He approached the registration desk calmly, ignoring the curious glances directed at his age. The receptionist looked up from her paperwork, blinking in surprise.
"Are you here with family, kid?"
"I'm here to register," Vane replied.
Her expression shifted immediately into practiced, bored professionalism. "First-time competitor?"
"Yes."
"Name?"
Vane paused slightly, deciding to keep a low profile. "Just Vane."
The woman shrugged, sliding a stack of forms across the counter. "Basic rules are simple. Win fights and you climb floors. Lose badly enough and you go home. Do you have any martial arts experience?"
"A little."
The receptionist laughed softly, stamping his sheet. "Well, the confident ones are usually entertaining, at least."
After finishing his registration, Vane received his fighter number and a temporary room assignment for the lower levels.
He glanced toward the reward chart displayed near the elevators, his eyebrows rising slightly. The higher floors offered absurd amounts of wealth.
A single victory on the upper levels exceeded what an ordinary doctor earned over entire years.
No wonder people become obsessed, Vane thought.
His first match occurred the following morning on the 1st floor.
The arena resembled a miniature colosseum, packed with screaming spectators despite being the lowest tier.
Bright floodlights illuminated the canvas. Vane stood quietly near his corner, observing his opponent warming up across the ring.
The man looked to be in his early twenties, sporting broad shoulders and cauliflower ears that spoke to years of amateur wrestling or boxing. When the man finally noticed Vane, his jaw dropped in utter confusion.
"…You're my opponent?"
Vane nodded calmly.
The fighter barked out a loud laugh, and sections of the crowd joined in, amused that a lean teenager had been thrown into the mix. "Is this a joke?" the man asked the referee. "I'm not beating up a kid for pocket change."
Vane let out a soft, tired sigh. "Can we just start already?"
The older fighter snorted, stepping to the center of the ring carelessly. "Fine. Don't cry to your parents afterward."
DING.
The bell rang. The man lunged forward confidently, intending to end the match instantly through sheer physical size. He threw a heavy, looping right hook that cut through the air toward Vane's jaw with enough force to crack an ordinary person's skull.
Vane didn't even blink. He simply stepped sideways, a casual, microscopic evasion.
The massive fist missed completely, the momentum pulling the fighter off balance. In that split second, Vane clenched his fist and drove it directly into the man's exposed sternum.
He remembered his father's strict command: Don't use Ren against non-Nen users.
BOOM!
The impact sounded like a sledgehammer slamming into solid concrete.
The fighter's eyes widened violently, the air instantly exploding from his lungs.
His entire body left the canvas, launching backward through the air, smashing through the ring ropes, and crashing heavily into the concrete arena wall. The stone cracked beneath the impact.
Silence instantly swallowed the entire stadium.
The laughter died. The spectators froze. Then, absolute chaos erupted.
"WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!" "He sent a two-hundred-pound man flying with one hand!" "That kid is a monster!"
Vane stood completely motionless in the center of the ring, his hands hanging loosely at his sides while medics rushed toward the unconscious, twitching fighter.
The match had lasted less than five seconds.
Over the loudspeakers, the commentator finally found his voice, screaming into the microphone: "UNBELIEVABLE! THE NEWCOMER DESTROYS A FULL-GROWN COMPETITOR WITH A SINGLE STRIKE! ONE HIT KO!"
Vane turned and walked out of the arena quietly, completely ignoring the stunned, gaping expressions of the crowd surrounding the tunnel.
That five-second blitz was only the beginning.
Over the following weeks, Vane climbed through the lower floors at a terrifying, unprecedented speed.
Every opponent underestimated his lean frame, and every single one of them paid for it by waking up in the infirmary.