Jon had won.
Cirio lay unconscious in a pool of his own blood, the smoldering remnants of his once-proud Flame Armor flickering and fading into the air like dying embers. The crowd inside the Heavens Arena erupted into thunderous applause, their cheers echoing off the vast coliseum walls like a tidal wave of sound.
The audience above the 200th floor was different from the rabid fans below. Composed of elites, tycoons, collectors of power, and thrill-seekers, they were well-mannered and emotionally detached. Even those who had placed hefty bets on Cirio—only to see their fortunes go up in metaphorical smoke—did not hurl insults or storm out in frustration. Instead, they clapped with composed enthusiasm, acknowledging the rise of a new star.
For them, money was no longer a means of survival—it was entertainment. Supporting a fighter was like purchasing a bouquet for a host at a luxury host club: a gesture of appreciation, not an expectation of return. Whether they gained or lost millions, it was all part of the thrill.
Far away, in the bustling heart of Yorknew City, a group of individuals gathered in a sleek private lounge. Robson, surrounded by several sharp-eyed men, was watching the live broadcast from the Sky Arena. The glow of the screen reflected off his glass of wine.
"Hah. The kid did it," Robson muttered, a smirk playing on his lips.
Back in the arena, Jon didn't stick around to bask in the glory. He left the stage the moment the referee raised his hand in victory. As he returned to his room, hunger gnawed at him like a beast. He grabbed a pre-prepared meal and began wolfing it down without hesitation.
Pearl Jam, one of the recent stands he drew, had served him well in the battle—but using it without supplemental food had severely drained his stamina. The miraculous recovery it had granted came at a cost, and Jon needed calories to pay the bill.
He had only just begun to eat when someone knocked briskly at his door.
It was Wilhelm.
The floor master strolled in, wearing a grin that could cut glass. Wilhelm had placed a considerable sum on Jon's victory. The odds hadn't been fantastic, but a win was a win—and he'd made a tidy profit.
Jon, mid-chew, looked up and finally understood why the odds for his match had been so suspiciously low.
"You're really something, kid," Wilhelm said, leaning against the doorframe. "I was sweating bullets when that punk activated his Flame Armor."
Jon rolled his eyes. "You were probably sweating over your wallet, not me."
Wilhelm burst out laughing, totally unfazed by the accusation. "Guilty as charged."
He tilted his head curiously. "So... that magic trick you pulled. The one where all those firebirds vanished like a magician's dream? What the hell was that?"
Jon wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and smiled faintly.
"Let's just say… it's part of my Nen ability."
Wilhelm's interest flickered for a second—but he didn't pry further. That was one of the sacred, unspoken rules of Nen users: don't push for secrets. In this world, knowledge was power—literal, deadly power. You either had an ability like Netero's that everyone recognized on sight, or you kept your tricks hidden like Hisoka, shrouded in mystery.
The less your enemies knew, the longer you lived.
In truth, Jon's Nen ability wasn't as fantastical as the crowd imagined. The dazzling vanishing act he'd performed mid-battle had been a clever combo involving Mirror Man—his Stand—and King Crimson's time manipulation.
The day before, Jon had experimented with Mirror Man's range and limitations. That morning, while checking his gear, he'd discovered a pocket-sized mirror tucked away in his jacket. It gave him an idea.
During the match, he had discreetly thrown the mirror on the ground. Then, using King Crimson, he erased a few seconds from everyone's memory, plunging the timeline into selective amnesia. Within those missing seconds, Jon had slipped into the Mirror World, waiting for Cirio's flame birds to reach their peak.
The moment they collided, Jon used Mirror Man to pull the fire into the mirror realm, banishing it from the battlefield. By the time he emerged, the audience's memories had been clipped clean, and the firebirds were gone—seemingly by magic.
It was a flawless illusion. A well-rehearsed performance executed under pressure.
Jon smiled as he remembered it.
Training continued steadily after that match. Cirio had been a wake-up call, a reminder that even native fighters in the Hunter World could carry lethal trump cards. Jon had narrowly won by using both cunning and power—and even then, had things gone slightly differently, he might have lost unless he truly used king crimson.
The next few matches came quickly.
His opponents were primarily Enhancers and Conjurers, brute-force fighters who relied on physical might or material creations. Manipulators were rare on the upper floors, perhaps due to their specialization and difficulty in direct combat.
Jon, wielding Stone Free, found these matches far more manageable. With that Stand alone, he could go toe-to-toe with Wilhelm in brief sparring bouts, though Wilhelm still held the upper hand. Against these simpler foes, Jon outpaced them with relative ease.
Still, not every fight was smooth sailing.
In one particular match, a cunning Manipulator almost caught Jon off guard, nearly landing a fatal blow. But at the last moment, Epitaph—his foresight ability—flared to life, saving him from disaster.
It was a reminder: Overconfidence is the enemy of growth.
And then, just like that—six months had passed.
Half a year in the Sky Arena. Jon had climbed through the ranks, honed his Nen abilities, tested his Stand combinations, and sparred with some of the best. Under Wilhelm's guidance, he had learned nearly everything he needed to survive in this world.
Of course, he wasn't on the level of Gon or Killua in terms of Nen Mastery, who had endured Biscuit's torturous training on Greed Island, but Jon had made his own path—one forged through wit, strategy, and relentless effort.
And who's to say he wouldn't step into Greed Island himself someday?
The morning after his final match, Jon stood alone on the empty 200th-floor observation deck, the same place he had first arrived when he'd been barely able to use Ten without his nose bleeding.
Now, he stood tall, arms crossed behind his back, overlooking the cityscape below. The air was still, crisp with altitude. The clouds below him drifted like lazy dreams.
A familiar voice broke his thoughts.
"Staring off into the sky like some tragic anime protagonist? You gonna start narrating your trauma too?" Wilhelm's boots echoed across the deck.
Jon smirked without turning around. "Already did. Internally. You're just late."
Wilhelm stood beside him, arms folded. "So, what's next? You planning to go sightseeing?"
"I'm heading to Yorknew," Jon replied with a smirk. "The auction's coming up. Lots of rare artifacts and interesting people there. Might be a fun trip for me y'know."
"Ah, the good ol' underground auction. A cesspool wrapped in gold. You'll love it."
Jon finished his drink and crushed the can with a squeeze of his Nen-infused hand. "Before I leave, there's something I wanted to ask."
Wilhelm raised a brow.
Jon turned to him fully. "You once said you trained under Chairman Netero, right?"
Wilhelm's usually casual expression hardened, just a bit. "I did. A long time ago. He was... unlike anyone else."
Jon nodded slowly. "Do you think I could've impressed him?"
Wilhelm looked Jon up and down. Then he chuckled and gave him a sharp pat on the back.
"You'd have driven him absolutely insane," he said with a grin. "Which means, yeah—he would've loved you."
They both laughed, and for a moment, Jon felt something unfamiliar: warmth. Not the fiery kind Cirio tried to burn him with—but something rarer. Respect. Camaraderie. Closure.
As they returned indoors, Wilhelm paused. "Before you go... there's one last tradition."
Jon raised an eyebrow. "Is this going to involve pain?"
"Emotionally, yes." Wilhelm pulled something from his coat and tossed it.
Jon caught it. It was a patch—a simple fabric square with the symbol of the Heavens Arena floor masters: a coiling serpent over a circular tower.
"Floor Masters usually only give this to successors," Wilhelm said. "You're not mine. But you might be the closest I've had."
Jon turned the patch over in his hand, silent.
Wilhelm grinned and turned away. "Now get lost before I start crying. You know how bad it looks for guys like me to cry in public."
Jon didn't say anything. He just slipped the patch into his coat pocket and walked off, head held high.
As Jon packed his things, he felt no particular sentimentality. The Heavens Arena had been his crucible—but now it was time to seek new challenges. Wilhelm had taught him what he could. The rest... would come from experience, danger, and self-discovery.
With his coat slung over his shoulder and determination in his eyes, Jon stepped out of the Arena one final time.
Next stop: Yorknew City.