No. 1666.
That was Sylvar Crowe's contestant number in the Sky Arena.
While waiting for his number to be called, Sylvar stood quietly at the edge of the waiting area, reviewing his approach to combat. Using chains directly would almost certainly be judged as weapon use. According to the rules, weapons were forbidden below the 200th floor.
So he adjusted his strategy.
Instead of chains, he would rely solely on ice magic. Pure, direct ice manipulation. Freeze the opponent on contact, finish the match in a single exchange. No weapons, no visible martial arts techniques—just raw magic reinforced by his body.
That way, no one would realize that "Master" Sylvar Crowe had never formally trained in hand-to-hand combat.
The first match began.
Across from him stood a heavily built man, muscles bulging, veins thick and pronounced. Sylvar glanced down at his own body. Slim. Lean. No clear muscle definition at all.
He fell silent for a brief moment.
Cheat now.
This was the first match. There was no reason to hold back.
At the referee's signal, Sylvar stepped forward and roared, "Freezing Fist!"
His punch collided head-on with the opponent's fist.
The next instant, the man froze solid—encased in ice from head to toe like a grotesque sculpture.
Sylvar felt a dull ache in his knuckles. Ice or not, bone still struck bone.
After confirming the opponent's condition, the referee raised his hand and shouted, "Match decided! Winner—Contestant No. 1666!"
Sylvar advanced directly to the 50th floor.
Once the decision was announced, he withdrew the freezing magic. The defeated fighter collapsed to the ground, staring at Sylvar in terror, clearly convinced he had been moments away from death.
Sylvar returned to the waiting room and listened absentmindedly to the broadcast announcements.
Only fighters who reached the 100th floor were given private rooms. Until then, the waiting area was loud, crowded, and chaotic.
That night, his match on the 50th floor began.
The opponent rushed him head-on.
One punch.
Frozen.
Only after the referee declared his promotion to the 100th floor did Sylvar release the ice.
A staff member escorted him to his private room. Using the Jenny he had obtained earlier, Sylvar ordered a lavish meal—the kind he hadn't tasted in years.
Day 2, 8:00 a.m.
The opponent on the 100th floor had clearly done his homework. After watching Sylvar's previous matches, he knew one thing for certain: direct contact was suicide.
So he stayed mobile, maintaining distance, and attacked using a bow and arrows.
Sylvar frowned.
"Weren't weapons banned below the 200th floor? How did he even get that onto the ring?"
Complaining didn't stop him from reacting.
"Freezing Fist."
He punched the ground.
Ice exploded outward, spikes spreading across the arena like a crystalline forest. The opponent panicked and leapt backward—straight off the ring.
"The match is decided! Contestant No. 1666 advances to the 150th floor!"
Sylvar waved his hand, dispersing the ice, and exited the ring without another glance.
The 150th floor was no different.
A wide-area attack. Force the opponent off the stage.
No hesitation.
The referee advanced him directly to the 200th floor.
And there, for the first time, Sylvar noticed them.
Three crippled fighters.
They stared at him with undisguised hostility as he registered for his match.
Sylvar ignored them completely and filled out his registration form.
Behind him, the three whispered among themselves.
"Strange," said the man in the wheelchair. "He doesn't have Nen. How did he reach this level?"
The one-legged man with crutches frowned. "No Ten, no Ren. Martial arts alone shouldn't be enough. And we've never heard of him."
The faceless man leaning against the wall narrowed his eyes. "That means he used something else. From the first floor to the 200th in under three days."
"In that case, don't register," the wheelchair man said. "Leave him to me."
"Not a chance," the other two replied in unison.
No matter how Sylvar reached the 200th floor, without Nen mastery, he was doomed.
That was their conclusion.
They had already used Gyo—Nen focused into the eyes. No aura. No flow.
Still, despite their doubts, all three signed up.
That night, Sylvar watched the broadcast in his room.
His opponent was announced.
A man in a red cloak, standing on one leg with a cane.
Gido
The match would begin at 8:00 a.m.
Day 3.
Sylvar arrived on time.
Gido was already waiting.
"Are you ready to be baptized, newcomer?" Gido sneered.
Sylvar smiled. "I'm ready. Or rather—I'm thirsty for it."
"…Huh?"
The referee confirmed both fighters' presence.
The match began.
Gido released countless spinning tops, sending them ricocheting wildly across the arena. He himself spun continuously, laughing maniacally.
"No matter how you crawled your way to the 200th floor, this is where you fall! Absolute defense! Absolute offense!"
Sylvar watched calmly.
Full of openings.
Wouldn't he get dizzy spinning like that?
Villains usually had at least a little intelligence. This one seemed damaged in both body and mind.
Sylvar waited.
He needed one hit.
Finally, a spinning top struck him squarely in the abdomen.
Pain exploded through his body. His torso bent sharply, like a shrimp folding in on itself.
So painful.
But with the pain came something else.
He felt it.
Life energy.
Flowing outward.
Within two seconds, using fifteen years of refined magic control, Sylvar seized that flow.
Nen.
He mastered it instantly.
For several seconds after, none of the spinning tops struck him—not by intention, but because Gido's attacks relied purely on probability.
Sylvar stood.
Forced the blood down his throat.
And punched.
The commentator shouted, "It's his signature move! Freezing Fist! Gido is airborne—no, he's spinning across the ice!"
Gido laughed. "You can't touch me! Unless you get close, you can't freeze me!"
"Tch. You're annoying," Sylvar muttered.
The magic book floated beside him.
Gido's expression changed.
No Nen—but a flying object?
Impossible.
Sylvar didn't give him time.
Chains erupted across the arena, weaving together midair.
"Doflamingo," Sylvar murmured, "I'll borrow your technique."
"Birdcage."
The chains closed in.
"Now," Sylvar said coldly, "where will you run?"
Gido panicked. He begged. He surrendered.
Sylvar ignored him.
The cage shrank.
Five meters high.
Ten meters wide.
Ice spikes erupted.
Gido collapsed, gravely injured.
"That's the price of a foul mouth."
The referee declared the result.
Sylvar received 100 million Jenny.
His goal complete, he left the Sky Arena.
At the hospital, an X-ray showed a broken rib.
Sylvar refused metal pins. The bone would be set manually.
Money solved the rest.
After discharge, one healing potion accelerated recovery.
Not perfect—but enough.
That night, he stayed in a presidential suite costing one million Jenny per day.
On the fourth morning, he conducted a Nen test.
Water divination.
A miniature magic book appeared.
Then vanished.
The water turned gelatinous.
Dual affinity.
Materialization—and Specialization.
His ability revealed itself.
A seal.
A seal of all things.
Universal Seal.
By sealing the cup, the magic book gained a storage function.
Living beings would be different.
The Chimera Ant King crossed his mind.
He immediately dismissed it.
Suicide.
By the fifth day, he prepared supplies.
Books.
Food.
Clothes.
Beds.
For the children of Hage Church.
And three special items.
A laughing mask.
A supreme laxative.
And a computer—loaded with movies and anime.
With generators.
And a projector.
Magna would handle power later.
As Sylvar walked through the mall, spending Jenny without restraint, his behavior perfectly embodied a newly rich traveler—lavish, unapologetic, and utterly unconcerned with restrain
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Author's Notes:
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