Why They Came

A deathmatch on the arena means only one person can walk away alive.

Tagore had fallen, but he wasn't dead yet.

So, the match wasn't over.

The spectators who supported Tagore screamed like mad, urging him to get up and continue fighting.

They didn't care about Tagore's condition; they only cared that if he didn't get up, they would lose a lot of money.

But no matter how loud they shouted, Tagore remained on the ground, unable to stand.

Moro's decisive blow had deprived Tagore of any chance to fight back.

He lay there like a newborn foal, struggling to rise, only to collapse again, his body trembling uncontrollably.

Tap. Tap.

Moro walked toward him.

The soft sound of footsteps echoed in Tagore's ears like the deafening beat of war drums, or the roar of death approaching.

Tagore groaned and strained with all his might to rise; veins bulged from his forehead to his temples.

But then—he coughed up a mouthful of blood and collapsed again.

When a strike imbued with nen hits a weak point, it can cause devastating damage in an instant, often ending the fight altogether.

Tagore knew this all too well.

"Length of Life"—his enhancement-type ability—focused on delivering precise, devastating blows to weak points.

He understood better than anyone what it meant to be hit in a weak spot.

Still, even knowing this, he couldn't accept the outcome.

"I give up... I surrender!"

As Moro drew near, Tagore's hoarse voice rang out, trembling with fear.

Not far from the ring, the referee heard Tagore's words but remained silent.

It was a deathmatch—there was no need for a referee's judgment.

Moro stopped in front of Tagore, watching his futile struggles, seeing the fear in his eyes.

"No resolve... not even a little?"

Moro murmured softly and then reached out, swiftly severing Tagore's last breath.

The number on the Annular Tattoo on Moro's hand changed from Lv. 5 to Lv. 7.

His level had risen by two.

But Moro paid no attention to it. He straightened slowly.

Tagore lay motionless on the stage, his body rapidly losing warmth.

The spectators who had bet on Tagore erupted into despairing screams and unleashed curses at Moro.

Moro ignored the noise as he stepped down from the arena and headed toward the contestant's tunnel.

Even if someone accused him afterward of unnecessary brutality, Moro wouldn't feel anything.

He had killed Tagore deliberately.

Not because it was a deathmatch or for the sake of leveling up.

He did it because Tagore had wanted to kill him.

That reason alone was enough.

As the chaotic uproar from the arena faded behind him, Moro strode into the tunnel.

Yet countless gazes remained fixed on the tunnel's entrance.

"That rookie... he's dangerous."

One of the contestants from the 200th floor stared at the tunnel where Moro had disappeared.

He had watched the entire fight.

Although he had noticed Moro's incredible ability to grow stronger during the battle, he still felt confident that he could defeat Moro in the arena.

But deep down, his instincts warned him not to provoke Moro.

"Forget it... I'll focus on other rookies."

The 200th-floor contestant made up his mind.

He had come down to observe promising fighters like Moro and Tagore, hoping to gather intelligence and gain an edge.

Such preparation could secure the critical victory needed for survival on the 200th floor.

This strategy was not uncommon.

There had been more than 30 contestants from the 200th floor in the audience that day, all watching the match closely.

Some concluded that Moro was not someone to mess with and shifted their attention to other rising stars.

Others believed that Moro's skills were still raw and that they could take a win from him.

For the contestants on the 200th floor, there was no shame in hunting rookies.

In the ruthless world of the Sky Arena, if you didn't want to be eliminated and lose everything, you had to do whatever it took to win.

And if they were ever backed into a corner, they wouldn't hesitate to resort to underhanded tactics.

"You're not here to ask for tuition fees, are you?"

In the corridor leading to the 190th-floor waiting room, Moro looked at the long-ponytail woman in front of him and joked.

The reason for his remark—

The woman had introduced herself and mentioned she had watched the earlier fight.

Naturally, this meant she had seen Moro use the same footwork she had demonstrated before.

"No way... I wouldn't dare," the long-ponytail woman—Kalista—waved her hands in denial.

Moro chuckled, easily guessing her true thoughts.

"You're here to ask how I learned your footwork, aren't you?"

"Yes, but not entirely."

Kalista shook her head.

"After losing to you, I've watched all your matches. I've noticed that you're always learning—always absorbing something during your battles. When I saw you use the 'Antelope Step' earlier, I was shocked. But what I'm even more curious about is..."

She stared at Moro, her expression suddenly serious.

"How you can use the 'Antelope Step' so perfectly... I can feel it—you've grasped something, something I can't name but that I know exists."

"..."

Moro was surprised but nodded.

"I won't deny it."

"Then could you—"

"Is this why you're here?"

Moro interrupted Kalista mid-sentence, turning his head toward the corridor's corner.

The brief silence was broken—

A young man with silver hair and striking features emerged from the corner.

He didn't seem surprised that Moro had noticed his presence.

In his eyes, Moro's image had grown so imposing that he couldn't help but approach, no matter how much it might bruise his pride.

"Yes... I'm also curious about... that wall-like force."

The silver-haired man replied bluntly to Moro's question, his voice sincere.

"My name is Washidourou. If Moro-san could enlighten me... I'd do anything in return. Whatever you ask, I will do my best to fulfill it."

"Oh?"

Moro raised an eyebrow, surprised.

Beside him, Kalista glared at Washidourou.

I should've declared my determination earlier!

She thought, frustrated.

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Powerstones?

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