Timeline: October 25–27,

  1987 Location: Heaven's Arena — Floors 1 to 80

  Age: 11 (Weeks until 12)

  The ground floor of Heaven's Arena smelled like cheap energy drinks, sweat, and nervous adrenaline.

  After handing in my registration form, a bored clerk handed me a square paper tag with the number 4055 printed on it and pointed me toward the competitor holding area. It was a massive amphitheater lined with dozens of square stone fighting rings.

  I found an empty spot on a concrete bench and sat down. My five hundred kilograms of lead weights pressed comfortably against my chest and legs beneath my cloak.

  I spent the next hour just people-watching. The room was packed with hundreds of fighters, but it didn't take long to realize that ninety percent of them were just loud tourists. Massive guys covered in tribal tattoos were flexing for their friends, practicing flashy high kicks, and trying to look as intimidating as possible. Very few of them actually knew how to stand properly. It was a meat grinder designed to separate the actual fighters from the amateurs.

  "Number 4055! Ring 14!" a voice echoed over the crackling PA system.

  Standing in the center of Ring 14 was a mountain of a man. He had to be at least six-and-a-half feet tall, with arms thicker than my torso and a shaved head covered in sweat.

  When I stepped up into the ring, he stopped cracking his knuckles. He just blinked, looking down at me like I was a lost kid. I didn't say anything. I just walked to my starting line and waited, not even bothering to drop my travel bag.

  The referee raised his hand. "Three-minute evaluation match. Begin!"

  The giant lunged forward, throwing a massive, looping right hook that was incredibly telegraphed. I didn't flare my aura, and I didn't shift my breathing. I just stepped smoothly inside his reach, letting his fist sail harmlessly over my head. Planting my lead foot, I drove my open right palm squarely into the center of his chest.

  With the solid anchor of the 500kg of lead weights under my clothes, the kinetic transfer was absolute. A sharp crack echoed across the stone ring as the air was violently forced from the giant's lungs.

  He flew backward, skidding completely out of the ring and crashing against the concrete retaining wall ten feet away. He didn't twitch.

  The referee stared at the unconscious giant, shook himself out of it, and pulled out a small ticket book. "O-Outstanding power! You advance straight to Floor 50!"

  I took the ticket, walked to the payout desk, and collected my reward for passing the first floor: exactly 152 Jenny. I pocketed the coins and headed straight for the elevators. I had a schedule to keep.

  The rules of Heaven's Arena were highly structured. Below the 100th floor, every victory advanced you by exactly ten floors. Over the next two days, I turned the lower levels into my own personal biomechanics laboratory.

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  Floor 50. Floor 60. Floor 70.

  I cleared them with minimal effort. The opponents were tougher than the ground floor, but they still relied mostly on brute force. I ended most of the matches in a single, perfectly leveraged strike, never taking off my weights or opening my Nen nodes. I just collected my steady increments of prize money and kept climbing, eager to secure the free private room that awaited fighters on Floor 100.

  It wasn't until I reached the 80th floor on my third day that the ecosystem truly changed.

  The holding room for the 80s class was quiet. The loud brawlers were gone, replaced by lean, focused individuals who sat in silence, taping their wrists or stretching.

  When my number was called, I stepped into the ring to find a much different opponent. He was a teenager, maybe sixteen or seventeen, with sharp eyes and wearing a traditional, loose-fitting white gi.

  "I'm Elian," he said, giving me a respectful, formal bow. "Don't let my age or my size fool you, little guy. I fought hard to get to the 80s. I'm not going easy."

  "Kaelo," I replied, returning a slight nod. "I'd prefer if you didn't."

  The referee signaled the start.

  Elian didn't charge like a wild animal. He closed the distance using a rapid, gliding footwork that kept his center of gravity perfectly level. When he struck, it wasn't a wild haymaker—it was a crisp, snapping jab aimed directly at my throat.

  I tilted my head to let it pass, but Elian immediately used the momentum of his missed punch to pivot his hips, dropping low and sweeping a kick toward my lead leg.

  Impressive, I thought, my analytical mind instantly breaking down his movements. A circular, momentum-based martial art. He doesn't waste kinetic energy; he recycles it into the next strike.

  Since I had spent my entire life self-teaching my body mechanics through trial and error in the Kurta forest, seeing a refined, centuries-old martial art up close was a goldmine of data. Instead of ending the fight immediately, I decided to learn.

  For the next two minutes, I went entirely on the defensive. I let Elian unleash a flurry of strikes, sweeps, and joint locks. I dodged, deflected, and stepped back, carefully watching how he planted his feet and transferred his weight from his hips to his shoulders. I memorized his kinetic chain.

  "You're just playing with me, aren't you?" Elian panted, stepping back after a missed combination, sweat beading on his forehead. "You haven't thrown a single punch."

  "I was observing your footwork," I answered honestly. "It's highly efficient."

  Elian let out a breathless laugh. "Thanks. Let's see how you handle it."

  He lunged again, stepping in for a complex throw. But this time, I had mapped his pivot points. As he shifted his weight to grab my collar, I mimicked his exact footwork. I stepped inside his center of gravity, hooked my ankle behind his, and used his own recycled momentum against him.

  With a gentle but firm shove to his sternum, I broke his balance completely. Elian stumbled backward, unable to stop his momentum, and fell flat on his back outside the ring boundary.

  "Ring out! Winner, Kaelo! Advance to Floor 90!" the referee called.

  I walked out of the ring and headed toward the waiting area for the Floor 90 elevators. A few minutes later, I heard the light, gliding footsteps behind me.

  Elian walked over, tossing me a cold bottle of water. I caught it effortlessly.

  "You completely mapped my family's style in under three minutes," Elian said, taking a seat on the bench next to me. He wasn't angry; he just looked incredibly impressed. "I thought I had you on that last throw, but you shifted your weight like a stone statue. What are you, made of lead?"

  I smiled faintly beneath my cloak, feeling the 500 kilograms pressing against my ribs. "Something like that. Your transitional balance is excellent, though. If you dropped your hips an inch lower on your sweeps, you'd generate ten percent more torque."

  Elian blinked, playing the movement out in his head. His eyes widened. "You're right. Man, who the hell taught you to fight like that?"

  "Physics," I said simply.

  Elian laughed out loud, leaning back against the wall. "Alright, Kaelo. I'm heading back to the 70s to grind back up, but let's grab some real food first. My treat."

  "I'd like that," I said. It was an unexpected development, but a welcome one. I had secured a steady path up the tower, extracted valuable martial arts data to refine my own strikes, and gained a casual friend who knew the ropes of the Arena.

  Floor 100, and the free room that came with it, was only one fight away.