The whole world knows: humanity's strongest is Netero.
He took over as Chairman of the Hunter Association, founded Shingen-ryu, gathered the Zodiac Twelve as his sparring partners—hair tied in that skyward topknot—"no kin, no quarter."
Few know that when he was young, Netero was a man of pure purpose, devoting his life to the pinnacle of martial arts.
At forty-six, feeling both body and spirit had reached the human extreme, he began training on a mountain with ten thousand straight punches a day, each one offered in gratitude for the immeasurable debt he owed his art.
Hands together in prayer—stance open—fist out…
The first ten thousand took him eighteen hours. Then sixteen, fourteen, ten, nine…
By fifty, ten thousand punches fit inside a single hour.
He descended the mountain, a monster whose fists outsped sound, and conquered a dojo master so thoroughly the man wept and knelt, offering up his signboard with both hands.
And the line—"bear boundless gratitude for the art that raised you, and repay it with all your strength"—became the core teaching passed to generation after generation of Shingen-ryu students.
Bisky remembered clearly. As a child, Netero often patted her head and taught her: when you meet something unpleasant, don't always try to solve it with violence. Feel more. Understand more. Look from another angle. You may find the "unpleasantness" was only your own immaturity at the time…
Bang bang bang…
Onstage the exchange swelled; flying aura ruffled the "girl's" fringe. Bisky stared blankly at Roy, almost forgetting her student was still fighting—those pretty eyes reflected nothing but the boy's smile.
"Who told you that line?"
"Does it matter?"
"It matters very much." Bisky leaned in, more serious than ever.
Roy, close enough to catch the scent of her bath gel, said honestly, "No one."
"Heh—" she rocked back a hair. Roy stroked the cane and said low, "I've been training the blade lately. Thirty thousand cuts a day. I just had a little insight…"
Little? Her twin tails pinged upright; she grabbed his collar, pressed her forehead to his, and barked, "What do you take Shingen-ryu for?!
"Another word and I'll flatten you!"
You asked, Roy thought, flashing a look that kept Gotoh from springing. He slouched into his chair and jerked his chin toward the ring. "Worry about your precious student first."
The clash above had hit a peak. Wing, who'd held the edge, glanced down at the commotion—and Maurice's kick got through. Luckily Wing got his forearm up; it didn't land clean.
"Kid—who are you looking down on?" Maurice drew back from the whip-kick and pressed in again—strike while the iron's weak; finish the job.
The brat's power wasn't huge, but it hurt. Maurice wouldn't give him another chance. He shot in at the waist—his arms stretched, soft as whips, coiling around Wing's middle!
"Here it is! Rubber-man Maurice's killer move—Rubber Scallion Pull!"
The emcee howled; the crowd roared. Bisky let go of Roy; both turned to the ring and slid a thin film of Nen over their eyes—Gyo.
Transmutation is famed for changing aura's nature and form—often showing "soft" and "malleable" traits.
Think Hisoka—"Bungee Gum," aura stretched like taffy.
Maurice did the same—softening his aura to mimic rubber—becoming a rubber man.
Slide—
The slick Nen-arms wrapped tight. Wing wanted to slap himself for getting distracted. He threw Ten over his waist to protect his ribs, then shot both hands out, grabbed the "arms," and heaved—locking into a contest of strength.
Enhancers don't fuss over aura's tricks; they use Nen to amplify the self—to pursue a stronger body and maximum force.
Like Uvogin—striding through gunfire, RPG on the shoulder, one Big Bang Impact cratering the earth—knowing the path of drawing all great power back to oneself.
"Now it's a trial of Ren—whoever's Ren is stronger wins…"
An old-timer sat just behind Roy and Bisky, eyes on Gyo, offering commentary. Gotoh glanced back; his eyes narrowed, and he whispered to Roy, "That's 'Gunsaint' Guy."
No one on 200F is a fool. Gathering intel ahead of time is how Nen veterans survive the Arena.
Roy nodded—got it—and slid a look at Bisky… the old woman was swinging her short legs again, not the least worried; she even had room to jeer, "Lying already, at your age? I'll tell your parents."
'Training the blade,' my foot. Almost let him trick her! No Zoldyck uses a sword… and remembering Master Netero's "little history" with the Zoldycks…
It wasn't hard to guess Zeno—or another—had slipped Roy a piece of Shingen-ryu's soul.
And really—who uses a cane as a sword?
Only this brat could snow me… She eyed the cane in his hand. Just a plain trekking stick—nothing special.
In fact, it looked a bit grandfatherly in his grip—like an old man needing a crutch to stand.
"Haah—!"
At the crux, Maurice's ambush had failed; he couldn't finish it. Against an Enhancer, the writing was on the wall. Wing drew a breath—voice and body as one—and the "rubber arms" and Maurice flew.
Boom—
The out-of-bounds cushioned area cratered. Maurice's tongue lolled; he was out cold.
Fight over. The Arena shook with the chant—tens of thousands calling "Wing."
Bisky basked, eyes shining.
Roy rose without haste and drew the cane blade; black flame motifs along the steel caught the dome lights—dazzling.
"My turn."
Bisky: "?"
~~~
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