The day of the match arrived, heavy with anticipation and tension. Jon, for once, decided to sit down and actually study his opponent. Cirio—the so-called "Flame Elf"—had a dangerous reputation, and watching his previous matches only confirmed it.
Cirio's combat style was direct and devastating. His primary method of attack involved unleashing torrents of fire through his palms. In the worst instance caught on tape, he had transformed the entire arena into a roaring inferno, engulfing the field in a sea of flames that left his opponent hospitalized with third-degree burns. It was more than intimidation—it was a message. He didn't just win. He incinerated.
In the world of Hunters, underestimating unknown Nen users wasn't just unwise—it was suicidal. Nen techniques could be cryptic, specialized, and full of dirty tricks. Factor in personalized terrain control or an unusual Hatsu condition, and things could spiral into chaos fast.
Cirio might call himself the Flame Elf, but Jon knew better than to take a nickname at face value. Who knew what hidden abilities the man had? He could have a secondary power, a conditional trigger, or some transformation lurking behind his calm expression. After all, wasn't that how it always went in this world? Just when you think you've seen the ace, there's a Joker waiting in the shadows.
Jon thought back to Meruem—the terrifying Chimera Ant King. Even someone that godlike, that absurdly powerful, had underestimated Isaac Netero. Meruem thought Netero's final move was the Zero Hand. But then came the Poor Man's Rose, a dirty little government trick that turned the tide. Lesson? Always expect a backup plan. Always.
With fire on the mind, Jon decided to prepare the old-fashioned way. He scoured the net for protective gear, eventually buying a set of "fireproof" clothes from a suspiciously cheap website. But when he tested the fabric with a lighter...
WHOOSH.
The entire thing went up in flames in seconds. It didn't even resist—it embraced combustion like an old friend. Jon stared at the smoldering remains in disbelief.
"Dogshit," he muttered, typing furiously. 'One star. Fireproof clothing spontaneously combusted. What a joke. Ban this seller.'
With no other choice, he grudgingly ordered a proper fire-resistant outfit from an official certified supplier. The price tag hurt—but better broke than broiled.
And so, the final preparations were made.
When the day of the battle truly arrived, Jon wasn't in the best of moods. He had checked the betting odds beforehand, and while Cirio wasn't a heavy favorite, Jon's own odds were dismally low. There wasn't even enough payoff to justify placing a bet on himself. Too little reward, too much risk. Jon yawned and dismissed it. He'd fight for pride, not profit today.
The arena was packed.
From the stands came waves of noise, surging with excitement. Fans roared for both combatants, the crowd a boiling cauldron of anticipation. This was no longer a quiet underground match—this was prime time on the 200th floor of Heavens Arena.
Before the fighters entered, a booming voice filled the coliseum as the announcer took center stage.
"Tonight's challenger—Cirio, the Flame Elf! With three victories and zero defeats under his belt, Cirio has left a trail of scorched arenas and hospitalized fighters in his wake. A promising talent many believe could become the next Floor Master!"
The crowd erupted.
From the darkened tunnel, Cirio emerged slowly. He was lean, likely in his early twenties, with jagged black tattoos streaking across his face. His dark clothing was simple yet ominous, and his long hair was tied back using what looked like metal wires and small blades. His eyes were calm. No joy. No anger. Just intent.
Then, the announcement came for the other side.
"And now… please welcome… JON!"
Jon stepped from the opposite tunnel.
The audience gasped—then laughed, then cheered.
Compared to Cirio's shadowy, stoic appearance, Jon looked like he had just stepped off the set of a firefighter-themed anime. He wore a sleek, custom-tailored fireproof isolation suit, shining white with reinforced padding. A thick hood draped over his head, its edges lined with fire-resistant insulation. A sturdy red fireman's helmet completed the ensemble, but the pièce de résistance? Two heavy red fire extinguishers strapped to his back like oxygen tanks.
He didn't just look prepared—he looked over-prepared.
Cirio's eyelid twitched at the absurd sight. He didn't speak, but the clenched jaw and narrowed eyes said enough. What kind of cosplay freak was this guy? He could almost feel the curse words bubbling in his throat.
Jon casually lowered the brim of his helmet, muttering beneath his breath. The helmet wasn't for aesthetics—it was to hide the grotesque green visage of Epitaph, the predictive ability tied to King Crimson. Frankly, he didn't understand how Diavolo from Part 5 had managed to walk around without a hat. That forehead-face thing was nightmarish.
The referee gave a short pre-fight instruction, then without further delay, signaled for the match to begin.
And immediately bolted off the stage. No sane referee wanted to be caught between a Flame Elf and a Human Fire Extinguisher.
The two fighters stood still at first, their auras expanding. Jon and Cirio locked eyes, studying one another in silence. Neither rushed in. The crowd leaned forward.
Suddenly, Cirio raised his arms—and a blazing jet of fire surged from his palms.
The fire hissed as it cut through the air, wave after wave of searing heat aiming to swallow Jon whole.
Jon, prepared for this moment, narrowly dodged to the side. He hadn't just reacted—he had seen the move coming ahead of time thanks to Epitaph.
But this wasn't over. Not by a long shot.
Cirio's flames weren't natural. They didn't flicker and fade like a normal blaze. These flames were powered by Nen. That meant they didn't just go out on their own—they could keep burning indefinitely, fueled by the user's will and aura.
And Cirio was smart. Each flame spray served a dual purpose: hit the target, or shape the battlefield. Missed attacks were still useful—they created walls of fire, cut off routes, and cornered opponents.
As the battle raged on, the arena began to resemble a living volcano. The air shimmered with heat, and the remaining safe zones shrank by the second.
Even in his fireproof jacket, Jon began to sweat profusely. The hot air seeped in, and with every breath, his lungs burned. He was weakening fast.
But then Jon reached for the real tools of war.
His fire extinguishers.
With a quick twist of the nozzle, Jon unleashed a white cloud of suppressant foam. Like a miracle, the roaring flames recoiled and began to die. The audience gasped as plumes of chemical vapor washed over the arena, snuffing out great patches of flame.
The enchanted fire might have been powered by Nen—but it still obeyed physical laws thankfully. Fire needed oxygen. And Jon had cut off its supply.
The arena cleared. Cirio's carefully sculpted inferno was reduced to steaming puddles and smoldering embers.
Cirio glared, annoyed. Not only had his plan to control the terrain failed, but he'd wasted precious aura in the process.
Jon smiled.
"Your flame's hot," he muttered, "but not hotter than science."
With the path cleared, Jon charged.
The fireproof jacket still held strong, and the fire extinguishers—now empty—were tossed aside. He moved fast, closing the distance with a burst of speed.
The crowd roared.
Now in range, Jon activated Stone Free.
His Stand unraveled into threads, wrapping around his arms and fists. Then came the flurry.
"ORAORAORAORAORAORAORA!"
A devastating barrage erupted toward Cirio. Jon wasn't aiming for style. He wanted a clean, effective takedown. The 'Ora' barrage was merciless. Direct. Overwhelming.
Because at the end of the day, nobody can resist an Ora.
If they can? Well, then they just haven't been hit with enough of them yet.
But Cirio wasn't some rookie punching bag either—he was merely testing the waters, launching disruptive, probing attacks to gauge Jon's reactions.
Jon wasn't naïve. He knew full well that in his previous match against Sadaso, he had revealed too much about his Stand, Stone Free. The footage was out there, and Cirio had no doubt dissected every second, searching for flaws, for gaps, for tells. Charging in recklessly now might be walking right into a trap.
But there was no other option.
Jon's fire extinguishers were spent. The battlefield had already become a smoldering trap waiting to reignite at any moment. All he could do now was place his faith in Stone Free and his own battle instincts. This wasn't just a gamble—it was a declaration of confidence in his Stand's precision and power.
Cirio noticed Jon approaching step by step and curved his lips into a delighted grin.
"All according to keikaku," he muttered with a smug glint in his eye.
Cirio had prepared for this exact situation. He had predicted that if his long-range flames proved ineffective, Jon would try to get up close and personal. He had already accounted for this scenario before the match had even started.
Suddenly, Cirio clasped his hands together, closed his eyes, and stood there motionless—an open invitation.
Jon's danger senses screamed.
Epitaph.He activated the ability without hesitation.
In the vision granted by Epitaph, fire bloomed—no, erupted—behind Cirio. Layers of flame twisted and surged upward, coalescing into a swirling inferno that looked almost holy, a false halo of light behind a devil. The sparks condensed and wrapped around Cirio's frame, like a fiery chrysalis.
A flaming armor.
Jon moved fast—he couldn't let that transformation complete. With a burst of speed, he launched a powerful front kick to Cirio's stomach. The impact rang out across the arena as Cirio flew backward, coughing and gagging in midair.
There was no time to follow up with a classic Ora Ora barrage. Jon had chosen to strike with his foot for a reason: it had greater reach and packed more power per strike than his fist. When time and distance were limited, using his legs was simply more efficient.
However, that didn't mean Cirio would take it lying down.
Even as he reeled from the blow, Cirio's combat instincts kicked in. He twisted his body, minimizing the damage, and managed to clutch Stone Free's leg mid-fall. A pulse of intense heat surged through Jon's calf.
Jon winced. Searing pain bloomed where Cirio's hand had touched him. Burn marks instantly appeared, and he reflexively withdrew Stone Free before the damage escalated further.
Jon's face darkened. This guy... he wasn't just flashy. He was dangerous.
By now, Cirio's transformation was complete. His body was fully engulfed in flaming armor—like a burning hedgehog, radiant and deadly. The constant ripple of heat distorted the air around him.
"Hahaha... you're strong, kid," Cirio admitted, his tone laced with manic pride. "I didn't think you'd push me this far."
He pointed at Jon. "I was saving this move for a Floor Master… but hey, you should feel honored. You get to see it early!"
He raised both hands triumphantly, as if presenting a grand treasure. "I call it... Blazing Fire Armor!"
The declaration echoed across the arena.
And as it often did before his so-called "finale," Cirio's composure began to slip. He gestured wildly, his voice erratic and triumphant, a stark contrast to the stoic demeanor he had at the beginning of the fight. Victory was in sight—he could feel it.
Jon, unfazed, made a small motion with his fingers.
A cherry tomato appeared in his palm.
Yes. A cherry tomato.
Without fanfare, Jon tossed it into his mouth.
Nobody saw exactly what went in. But the effect was instant.
Tears welled in his eyes, his muscles twitched, and his body shuddered. The charred skin on his leg sloughed off like dead bark, and fresh, healthy flesh regenerated underneath.
"What… the hell did you just eat?" Cirio stammered in disbelief.
Even Wilhelm, who had been watching from the sidelines, was wide-eyed. The healing was borderline miraculous. That leg had been nearly cooked—and now, it was as if it had never been touched.
Jon gave no answer.
Cirio felt like a complete idiot. His expression soured as he scratched his neck in agitation. "It's healed already?! How are you going to block this then?!"
Fueled by frustration, Cirio launched a new barrage—dense fireballs shaped like birds, each one propelled by his Nen. They weren't just projectiles now—they were homing constructs.
The flaming birds circled in the air, surrounding Jon like hawks ready to dive.
"This is why they call me the Flame Elf and not the Arsonist!" Cirio boasted. "Elemental shaping, baby! Try hiding behind that fireproof jacket of yours now—bet it doesn't protect your face! Bastard!"
The firebirds darted and weaved through the air, boxing Jon in from all directions.
This wasn't looking good.
Jon started sweating. If this hits... I might be done.He had to act—now.
But first, he calmed himself.
"2, 3, 5, 7, 11, 13, 17, 19…" Jon quietly chanted prime numbers, just like Father Pucci used to do. It grounded him. Focused him.
The firebirds converged. The flames were seconds away from hitting. The heat was unbearable.
Still, Jon didn't flinch.
He stood tall. Calm. Confident.
He slowly opened his arms, like he was welcoming the end.
"Giving up already?" Cirio sneered. "Coward."
But Jon only smiled.
The flames reached his position—and then…
Snap.
With a flick of his fingers, Jon executed something strange—and every firebird vanished.
Just like that.
The stadium went dead silent. The commentator's voice cut off mid-sentence. The crowd, who seconds ago were cheering, now stared in stunned silence.
"Wh-what?! No, no, no! That's impossible!" Cirio shouted, stumbling backward.
"What just happened?" the commentator lady cried out, mirroring the audience's disbelief.
Cirio's voice cracked. "How did you do that?! That was my strongest move! What did you do!?"
Jon chuckled.
"A magician never reveals his secrets," he said with a wink.
Cirio's fists clenched. His face flushed red, but he forced himself to stay calm. I can't waste more energy until I figure out what trick he pulled…
Still, he thought his flaming armor made him invincible. What could Jon possibly do to breach it?
Little did Cirio know…
Jon had fought someone with a so-called "invincible defense" before. And if there was one thing Jon specialized in, it was breaking through those very defenses.
There was no lake here, so he couldn't recreate the strategy he once used. But Cirio's firebird maneuver had given him inspiration. A new method formed in Jon's mind.
Speaking of JoJo's Bizarre Adventure, besides Yellow Temperance, there is also a person who claims to have invincible defense.
One ice, one fire, interesting.
That's right, it's Guido Mista from Vento Aureo, who often encounters people who claim to have invincible defense. Whether it's White Album or Crafts Work, they are all very durable Stands.
Cirio's ability is different from White Album. Cirio does not have White Album's powerful physical defense of ice armor, but has the high-temperature counter-armor brought by flames. Of course, it is also different from Crafts Work's pure defense. Cirio's flame attack power is much stronger.
He opened his card system, sliding Stands into place.
Current Stand Deck: [Stone Free], [King Crimson], [Man in the Mirror], [Emperor], [Sex Pistols].
"Let's begin."
With a flourish, Jon drew a pistol from his coat.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
A volley of shots rang out. The bullets zipped through the air toward Cirio.
Cirio smirked. His flame armor reacted automatically, bending and thickening to block the incoming rounds.
"Bullets? That's all?" he scoffed. "They'll melt before they even touch me!"
Indeed, his flame armor behaved like Gaara's sand, automatically shielding its user in his Vital spots.
But Jon just smiled.
"Which means…" he muttered, "there are thinner parts."
He took a flamboyant pose, pointing both thumbs at himself.
"The successor of Giorno Giovanna, kono Jon da~!"Then he struck another—Dio's iconic pose.
"You are already dead."
Suddenly, the bullets curved midair—all of them. Thanks to Sex Pistols, they altered trajectory in an instant, surrounding Cirio from every angle.
"Let's see you block this, Ciii-riii-o! Wryyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!"
Explosions bloomed.
Cirio screamed.
When the smoke cleared, Cirio was on the ground, bleeding and scorched—but alive. Jon had kindly directed the bullets away from fatal points. He wasn't interested in killing. Just winning.
"Cirio can't continue! The match goes to Jon!" the referee declared.
The crowd erupted into cheers so loud it shook the very foundations of the arena.
Jon simply raised his hand, the faintest smile curling at the corners of his mouth.
Victory.