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### Chapter 3

“Winner: Illumi!”

“Congratulations to Illumi for conquering every challenge and ascending to the 150th floor! What electrifying matches await us next? Stay tuned and find out!”

The crowd in the stands exploded into thunderous applause. Fans jumped up, cheering wildly for the black-haired teen standing center stage, chanting his name. A few even sparked lively arguments over just how young he really looked.

It had been two months since Illumi arrived at Heaven’s Arena.

A month ago, once his little brother Milluki hit three and started his own training regimen, Silva had shipped Illumi off here for some independent growth. Word was, hitting the 200th floor netted a cool 200 million Jenny. The early levels were child’s play—after dozens of successful missions under his belt, Illumi blasted straight to the 100th floor in three days flat. But his debut in a private room match? Total wipeout. The opponent was a hulking beast, bigger than his dad, who snapped Illumi’s arm like a twig. When the giant went for a leg next, Illumi tapped out—hobbling around on one good leg wasn’t an option. Sure, he could’ve turned the tables with some Zoldyck tricks like joint manipulation, but that would’ve screamed trouble, maybe even an accidental kill. Way too much heat.

He blew off the doc’s advice for a full month’s downtime, though. After a mere week of patching up, with his prize money burning up on lodging and grub, he dipped back to the 90th floor and jumped into the fray again.

Those 100th-floor lifers pinned him down for a solid two weeks. Their wild, no-holds-barred tactics left him floundering, making him question if he’d leaned too hard on weapons all these years.

Assassination and straight-up brawling? Night and day. Below 200, no tools allowed—that clipped his wings big time. Most fighters here were all about raw power; after the arm break, he’d dealt with cracked ribs, a busted sternum, popped shoulders, you name it. One scrap nearly ended him—he almost ate a skull-crusher after thinking the guy was out cold. Good thing Zoldyck training turned him into a tank; a blow that’d mash a normal person just left him with a nasty concussion and three snapped ribs. No blackout, even. But the smug disappointment on that jerk’s face, plus the pounding headache, lit a fire in Illumi. Once the spins cleared, he baited the guy outside the arena, ended him quick, chucked the head in a dumpster, and dumped the rest curbside.

Cost him a bunch of bouts and bonus cash, though. If he could rewind, he’d have just thrown in the towel.

The 150th floor wasn’t much of a step up from 100—the layouts and room vibes felt homey enough. For Illumi, it was downright cozy. He’d crashed in way sketchier spots on jobs: tight, grimy holes, sometimes pulling all-nighters for a week. Eventually, he figured sleeping with eyes open would be a game-changer and started drilling it himself. So far, only nailed it sitting up. One day, standing—practical and foolproof.

After logging in at registration and snagging his key, Illumi paused outside his door, key in hand.

He’d clocked the stare tailing him since the elevator dinged. Eyes on him were par for the course here—screens blasted fighter highlights everywhere, and fans hollered encouragement his way (which he tuned out). But this one drilled into his back like a spike, no subtlety at all, making the source easy to peg.

That set off alarms.

“Yo.”

A shape peeled from the corner shadows. Illumi pivoted to size up this shady character.

“Relax, Illu. Just here for a little friendly banter.”

The guy had a couple inches on him, same ballpark age-wise, but that peach-pink hair? Total spotlight thief, like some over-the-top TV clown. Illumi would’ve remembered a getup like that—he filed away anything offbeat.

“Don’t know you.” Illumi cocked his head, playing puzzled. Family only called him “Illu,” and no murder vibes pinged, but that creepy stare and fake grin rubbed him wrong. No point playing nice.

“Oof, harsh. You skip TV or something?” Hisoka jabbed a thumb at the empty ceiling.

For real, a comedian? Illumi just stared.

“Guess not.” Hisoka shrugged, palm out. “Hisoka.”

“Could care less.” This had to be some nutjob—lousy timing. “If that’s it, I’m crashing.”

“Huh? You look fine to me,” Hisoka pushed, closing in and planting a hand on the keyed door. “Rest’s overrated. Spar with me instead?”

Illumi yanked the handle hard the other way; door stayed put. He cranked up the pull. It cracked open a hair—then Hisoka’s smirk grew as he shoved it sealed. Illumi doubled down.

Back-and-forth they went, escalating to full bore, veins popping. Hisoka grinned on; Illumi’s poker face held. The door groaned louder, begging for mercy.

The vibe around them turned stifling, like the air got sucked out or they were bubble-wrapped from reality—either way, it choked Illumi. Enough was enough; one more second, and he might snap and end this clown. Last idiot to test him like this got pieced out.

“Hey, Illu, ever hear…” Hisoka leaned close, eyeing his own reflection in those blacks, then eased his free hand toward him. “…that your hair’s stunning?”

“Crunch—Boom!”

Illumi wrenched the handle clean off as Hisoka’s grip split the door down the middle. Dust choked the hall, the racket pulling neighbors out.

A staffer hustled over, plastering on a grin about 5,000 Jenny for fixes—her tone would’ve sold it better without the shake, her brow less knotted for pro vibes.

Hisoka nodded like a kid caught with cookies, but he brushed off plaster dust to mask his quivering hands—pure adrenaline.

While the staffer lectured on no off-site beef, Hisoka draped an arm over Illumi’s shoulder. Illumi went rigid, holding back, drawing a quiet laugh from Hisoka.

Illumi mentally marked that arm for chopping—and torch the shirt while at it. Spotting the other hand inches from his hair: bundle deal, both gone.

Staff and gawkers scattered. Boom—Illumi hurled Hisoka with everything, sending him sailing into the far wall, lodged like some twisted family portrait back home.

“No brawls outside the ring!” The staffer whipped back, grin gone, face twisted in fury.

“Ah, my bad.” Illumi didn’t elaborate, zero regret vibes.

Banged up but graceful, Hisoka strolled over, winking through that grating smile. “Just fooling around—no real scrap, right, Illu?”

Staffer scanned them dubiously, huffed. “Alright, kid discount. But final warning! Wall fix on top!”

“Sure thing.”

Hisoka motioned “ladies first,” and the staffer bounced, peeking back like she smelled BS. Against that winning smile and doll face? Powerless. Kids these days were pros—but hey, normals didn’t roll here.

“Gonna invite me in? We’re buds now, yeah?”

“Cut the chill, Illu. Same age bracket—we’d vibe.”

“Illu, heading in~?”

“…Step closer, window exit for you.” Illumi hit his limit.

“Whoa, fiery.” Hisoka hovered at the edge, beaming.

Hisoka lit up at the weirdest stuff. Illumi tilted his head, sizing him up for real to crack his game. Hisoka shot back a sunny stare.

Hair aside, the rest rang bells—like brushing off wounds as no biggie. Illumi bet he’d busted some ribs, but nada showed; lean on the frame looked comfy, no awkward bends. Maybe zero damage.

Birds of a feather flock away. Bingo: Hisoka screamed assassin energy, hence the unease—like facing Dad or Gramps. Salt in the wound? Illumi felt like the mark this time, locked in Hisoka’s sights. That out-of-control spin bugged him bad.

“Illu, that stare… might push my buttons~.”

Illumi copied the squint. “Foot the bill for door and wall.”

“Gladly. That all?”

Illumi looked away. “You want a piece, but nah.” Waste of sweat, soft target.

Hisoka quaked with laughs—Illu nailed it, tougher and more magnetic after two years. Worth every second of waiting.

Post-Illumi encounter, Hisoka parked at the Arena, hooked on fight cash. Two years in, that crisp kill scene looped in his head—pro moves, no copycat vibes. He ditched emulation, fixating on bar waltzes nearby: graceful, eye-candy flows. Nail that in scraps? Bliss.

He caught Illumi’s first bout on a whim—back from errands, TV glance snagged the one-punch promo to 50. Took Herculean will not to bolt ringside. Holed up in his 200th-floor penthouse, he marathoned Illumi’s matches—till a three-month cap booted him to 190.

Spot-on for Illumi’s 150 jump; he followed suit.

“Pay you to throw down?” Hisoka floated.

Illumi locked eyes. Mid-sentence, those golds gleamed under the fluorescents; grin faded, lips tight, air heavy. Same chill pose, arms folded—but Illumi knew predator mode, like a guard dog spotting a trespasser.

Illumi exhaled. “Pass.”

“Aw, figured hitmen bit for big bucks.”

“Ah, caught.” Illumi didn’t hush, smacking his forehead dramatically. “Not an assassin—wrong dude.”

“Heh,” Hisoka cracked up at the straight face. “We’re kinda kin, Illumi Zoldyck.”

Back to slit-eyes grinning, but Illumi felt the air press harder—amped up.

Illumi first wrote it off as a gag; even in their door war, noses nearly touching, no intent flared. But no rose-tinting now. Hisoka’s “happy” was kid-with-toy glee—like Milluki eyeing treats, drool and all.

“Half-colleague” rang true too; if Hisoka spun some secret clan yarn, Illumi’d buy it—mostly, since he screamed head-on fighter. Otherwise, this past month? Prime windows to shank an injured Illumi, all missed.

Tricky bastard. Illumi’s gaze dimmed, fog rolling over midnight blacks, dousing the spark—hitman switch: icy puppet stare clashing with those glowing golds.

Standoff dragged minutes, air turning thick as syrup, gumming breaths, stuffing chests. No quarter. Any bystander? Drenched in sweat, knees knocking—bail odds iffy.

Synced like clockwork, Hisoka pulled his edge as Illumi shifted forward. “Whoa, Illu—mind changed.” Palms skyward, playing victim. “Scrapping now? Shame. Pals instead?”

“Ah, sweet—no rumble.” Illumi deflated fast, dusting hands and fluffing the bed, “pals” on mute.

Hisoka brushed the frost, tacking on, “Arena stuff’s snooze-fest, eh?”

Illumi gave a neutral shrug. He’d planned to grind for direct combat chops; now? Dreamed of jetting to 200, pocketing the haul, back to gigs—win Dad’s nod for real challenges.

“So, buddies, Illu?”

“Nope. Later.”

Illumi hefted the lone table vertical, jamming it as a sight-blocker against Hisoka.

Door duty for tonight.