Tonpa looked at the burly man on the arena stage, his face grave.
Kisho glanced over as well and said softly, "He doesn't look easy to deal with."
Amos rolled his eyes, then sat down on the spot, lazily resting his hands behind his head.
"Well, a match like this probably has nothing to do with me anyway."
"Let's just leave it to Mr. Tonpa," C·L said with a faint smile, then looked at Kisho. "And Kisho should be enough too, right?"
He also sat down and pulled out a book from the black backpack at his side.
Perhaps because the group had been motionless for too long, the burly man on the stone platform let out a mocking sneer.
"Hey! You over there! Are you coming or not?!"
He suddenly burst into loud laughter.
"But giving up like this isn't bad either, hahaha! Just sit there for seventy-two hours!"
"Mr. Tonpa, you might as well go up and surrender directly, then let Kisho take over."
Amos said with his eyes closed.
Tonpa: "…"
You damn brat!
Everyone has a rebellious streak. Although Tonpa had indeed planned to go up and surrender immediately, but—
Hmph! Since this kid said it first, he absolutely refused to do what the kid suggested!
He shot Amos a vicious glare.
Look down on me, Tonpa? You'll regret it!
He took off the bag slung over his shoulder and tossed it aside, then strode toward the arena stage with exaggerated confidence.
"Oh?"
The burly man on the stage fixed his gaze on Tonpa, who was walking toward him step by step.
"You still have the courage to face me. Not bad. Worthy of my personal action."
Tonpa ignored his words and responded with imposing momentum instead.
"Say it. How do you want to compete?"
The burly man said, "I suggest a death match. How about it?"
Tonpa: "…"
Where the three behind him couldn't see, cold sweat densely covered Tonpa's face.
He swallowed and gritted his teeth.
"…That's a good suggestion."
"Huh?" Kisho exclaimed in surprise.
"Oh?" Amos was surprised as well.
Only C·L showed no surprise at all, merely curling his lips slightly.
"Then…"
The burly man began cracking his knuckles, the excitement on his face bordering on madness.
"I'll be coming at—"
"But I have a better suggestion!" Tonpa shouted loudly.
His slightly cracking voice successfully halted the burly man's charging figure—and the fist that was less than a second away from smashing into Tonpa's face.
Facing the towering man at arm's length, Tonpa mustered all his courage, revealing his most sincere and friendly smile while raising three fingers.
"I'll give you thirty hours in exchange for you stepping down. This round will count as my loss, and I'll leave the stage too. How about it?"
Tonpa added,
"If I step down, our side will only have two kids and a weak college student left."
A strange emotion flickered through the burly man's eyes.
Should he reduce his sentence by thirty years in one go, or choose the easily obtainable "thrill of slaughter"?
"Bendot, agree to him."
A deep voice came from the terrace on his side.
The burly man named Bendot fell silent for a moment after hearing it, then slowly nodded. He stared at Tonpa fixedly.
"Kid, you're lucky."
He turned and walked back to the terrace.
Tonpa let out a nearly imperceptible sigh of relief and pressed the "×" button on his wristband, signaling that he relinquished the right to defend the stage.
Seeing this, Amos clicked his tongue.
Kisho turned back at the sound and smiled.
"You're not angry, are you?"
"A little," Amos nodded. "Right now I feel like grabbing his collar and throwing him off from here."
Kisho laughed.
"Don't be angry, don't be angry. Getting sick from anger won't have anyone to replace you."
"Where did you hear that weird saying?" Amos replied, then folded his arms and half-lay back down.
"But thinking about it now, whatever that guy does is within expectations. No need to get angry."
Kisho said, "It's fine. Just thirty hours. And the one causing trouble can't cause trouble anymore. Stay calm—we can win."
Amos let out an "Ah."
Tonpa also slowly walked back.
However, when he returned to the terrace, the scene he had imagined—being loudly interrogated—did not appear.
Why? He had surrendered directly, not only losing one life for their four-man team, but also wasting a full thirty hours!
Shouldn't these people be furious? Shouldn't they be flying into a rage?
He had even drafted half a speech in his head, preparing to use words to properly provoke them.
For example, "I never joined the exam to pass; I joined just to drag down and sabotage ambitious youths," or "I just love watching people's ambition and hope shatter in an instant, seeing their faces collapse in despair"…
All of it went to waste.
It was like throwing his full strength into a punch only to realize he had struck empty air. Frustration and powerlessness deeply eroded Mr. Tonpa's heart.
He stood there foolishly, looking at the three of them—one reading, one resting with eyes closed, one cracking his knuckles eagerly.
Mr. Tonpa almost wanted to howl at the sky.
Why!
Why don't my teammates follow common sense even a tiny bit?!
But no one answered him.
After warming up his body, Kisho looked toward the central stone platform.
"My turn."
As he spoke, he walked up onto the central stage.
Opposite him stood a burly man wearing yellow trousers, his upper body exposed with blue skin.
Half of his face and one eye had been modified with metal. Nineteen red hearts were tattooed across his chest. Every muscle on his body bulged as if filled with explosive strength.
"Ah." He looked down at Kisho from above and spoke disdainfully. "So it's just a brat who hasn't even grown any hair yet."
Hearing this, Amos—who had been resting with eyes closed—glanced over. After one look, he lost interest and withdrew his gaze.
As for C·L, he hadn't raised his head from start to finish.
Only Tonpa stared at the burly man, beads of cold sweat dripping from his temples one after another.
This person felt even more terrifying than the last one!
He was immensely grateful that he had gone first—and had wisely chosen to step down immediately.
On the arena stage.
Kisho stared at the burly man, showing no reaction to his provocation.
"Let me introduce myself first."
The burly man glared at Kisho, who looked completely fearless. He decided to throw out his trump card right away to give him a shock and scare the brat into kneeling and begging for mercy.
Enunciating each word viciously, he declared,
"My name is Majtani! One of the four devas of the Phantom Troupe!"
Kisho was stunned, his face revealing an expression of disbelief and horror.
"What did you say—?!"
On the terrace, Amos—who had been resting with eyes closed—suddenly raised his hand and clamped it tightly over his mouth after hearing this.
Heaven knew how hard he had to struggle not to burst out laughing—or turn around to look at the certain someone behind him who was reading.
On the central stone platform.
Majtani looked at the white-haired boy, who seemed petrified in place, as if frightened silly, and revealed a satisfied expression.
"So you'd better hurry up and surre—"
"Sorry, give me a moment."
Kisho suppressed his trembling shoulders, waved his hand, coughed lightly, then took out his phone from his pocket and pressed the recording button.
"I just heard something interesting. Let me record it and bring it back for the adults at home to listen."
He put the phone—still recording—back into his pocket, then looked sincerely at Majtani and smiled.
"Mr. Majtani, please continue your perfor—cough, I mean, you may go on."