Chapter: Entry into the Heavens Arena
The Heavens Arena stood tall at 991 feet, with a staggering 251 floors, proudly hailed as the fourth tallest building of the century. Its architecture was a bizarre fusion of clean white surfaces and peculiar protrusions jutting out from odd angles. At night, the tower transformed—its façade darkened, lit only by the twinkle of countless windows, like a hive of flickering starlight.
Jon stepped inside the vast lobby and was immediately greeted by a long line of participants. Unlike the grueling, selective Hunter Exam, the Heavens Arena was open to nearly anyone with the guts to throw a punch. The lure of easy money—rewarded after every win—drew in thugs, drifters, martial artists, and dreamers from every walk of life. Naturally, the higher you climbed, the richer the payout.
Of course, weapons were prohibited below the 200th floor. Not that it mattered—Jon's Stands, King Crimson and Stone Free, made him a walking arsenal. Below floor 200, there wasn't a single soul who could pose a real threat.
Still, it took over an hour to get through registration.
"Please fill in your personal information," said the receptionist, flashing a professional, courteous smile. Despite Jon's youthful appearance, she treated him with respect—another point for Heavens Arena's legendary customer service.
A few rapid keystrokes later, she handed Jon a card. "Mr. Jon Berosevich, you are fighter number 3052. Please remember that number. Good luck!"
Jon nodded and headed into the first-floor lobby. Just like in the manga, but far more intense in person—a sea of fighting rings, dozens of them, each pulsing with the raw energy of battle. Fighters roared, the crowd chanted, and fists collided like thunder.
He couldn't help but notice the overwhelming male-to-female ratio. Not surprising—since weapons weren't allowed until much higher floors, brute strength reigned supreme, and women were rare. But that was also what made them dangerous. Any woman who chose to climb the Arena now was almost guaranteed to be a Nen user.
Jon sighed wistfully. "So much violence… and not a single dramatic outfit-tearing scene in sight."
A loudspeaker snapped him back to reality:
"Number 3052. Number 1084. Proceed to Ring F."
His turn already?
Jon hustled over to Ring F and eyed his opponent—a tall, burly man in his early thirties.
"Another kid?" the man scoffed. "This'll be easy."
Spectators jeered and heckled.
"Go home, brat!"
"Don't worry, kid. He'll only knock you out in one punch!"
Jon didn't respond. He simply cracked his knuckles.
This guy wasn't even worth summoning a Stand for.
Thanks to daily Ripple training, Jon's body was lean, fast, and deceptively powerful. He couldn't match Gon or Killua's raw physical strength yet, but he far surpassed the average adult.
The man lunged forward with a sluggish left hook—textbook bad boxing. No footwork, no intent behind the motion, just brute force.
Too slow. Too predictable.
Jon weaved around it, pivoted in, and buried a punch straight into his opponent's stomach. The impact made the man grunt and stagger.
Not done yet.
Jon followed up with a right hook, then an elbow to the jaw. The man managed to backpedal and dodge—barely—but his face contorted in pain.
"Not bad, brat," the man growled, and suddenly lunged forward, fists raised in a double phoenix stance, aimed at Jon's temple.
It was a vicious move—but also reckless. He exposed his whole lower body.
Jon caught the arm mid-swing, wrapped it with his elbow, then leapt—twisting mid-air—and slammed both feet against the man's face.
Crack.
The man's arm gave way under the force. He howled.
Jon landed, dusted himself off.
"ORAH ORAH ORAH ORAH ORAH!"
A flurry of punches sent the man crashing into the floor.
The referee didn't even blink. "Number 3052 advances to the 40th floor."
Jon stood over his opponent, unimpressed.
That… took way too much effort. Gon and Killua could've one-shot someone like this even without Nen. If he had summoned King Crimson, this fight would've ended in a single punch.
"Hey, another monster kid?"
"Must be the season. The last one put two guys in the hospital."
"Are you talking about that white-haired freak from a year ago? He's only seven! Already made it to the 130th floor."
Jon overheard the murmurs. His interest piqued.
A seven-year-old on the 130th floor? That was insane. Even for this world, that kind of talent was rare.
Still, Jon knew he was lacking. Without his Stands, his combat experience and raw power just didn't stack up. The Heavens Arena was perfect for fixing that.
In JoJo's world, the main body was usually a Stand user's greatest weakness. If your enemy got close enough, it didn't matter how powerful your Stand was—you could still die. But in the Hunter World, the physical ceiling was far higher. Jon needed to train both sides of the equation.
He clenched his fists.
I have to learn Nen.
Later, he stepped into an elevator alongside a delivery man with a bulky bag. The guy hit the button for the 130th floor.
A bag full of candy, huh?
Jon smirked.
So the white-haired monster liked sweets.
As Jon exited, he glanced up. The elevator continued to rise, the man humming a tune.
Far above, a pale-haired child sat by a window, eyes gleaming with anticipation.
"Hmm… my candy is almost here."
After ascending to the thirtieth floor, Jon received his next challenge almost immediately. There was little rest between matches on the lower levels—efficiency was everything. In truth, the battles below the fiftieth floor were more like a giant filter than a real tournament. Matches were short, brutal, and designed to weed out the weakest fighters as quickly as possible.
But the system worked.
Within just a few floors, hundreds of overconfident challengers had already dropped out, carried away on stretchers or slinking home in shame.
Jon couldn't help but feel a twinge of disappointment. Even on the thirtieth floor, the quality of opponents hadn't improved much. The fighters were still mostly brawlers—strong but clumsy, throwing punches like they were swinging baseball bats. Most of them fought on instinct, relying on muscle and bravado rather than technique.
For someone like Jon, who hadn't even received formal combat training, defeating them wasn't much of a challenge.
The only real advantage Jon had was the Ripple breathing technique he'd trained in obsessively. His muscles were tougher, his stamina longer-lasting, and his reflexes sharper than most grown men. Even without his Stands, he was above average—though he knew he wasn't yet exceptional.
Still, he was advancing. And the Arena made it easy to feel like a rising star.
With thousands of new contestants entering Heavens Arena every single day, the tower never slept. Fighters came and went like tides—some lasting a few hours, others climbing steadily for weeks. The tower constantly cycled new blood into its lower floors, ensuring it never ran out of matches or potential champions.
But things changed once he reached the fiftieth floor.
The atmosphere was different here—he could feel it the moment he stepped out of the elevator. Gone were the cocky rookies and arrogant fools. Instead, focused eyes met him from every corner. Fighters who had tasted defeat—and survived it—stood quietly in the waiting area, watching him without expression.
No one mocked him for his age anymore.No one called him a brat.No one jeered.
Here, everyone understood that appearances could be deceiving. Fighters who reached the fiftieth floor weren't random thugs—they were disciplined, sharp, and experienced. Some had made it here by crushing their earlier opponents in a single hit. The stronger contestants often skipped the first floors entirely, registering straight into the higher levels after proving themselves elsewhere.
And it wasn't just the fighters who changed. The Arena itself transformed.
Above the fiftieth floor, the seats were packed. The crowds roared with excitement, waving banners and betting slips. It felt more like a professional sports arena now—complete with sponsorships, food stalls, and screens showing live replays. The air buzzed with tension. Each match felt important.
Spectators placed bets, cheering for their favorite fighters, looking to make a fortune on a lucky guess. But most of them made the same mistake: they assumed Jon was just another child prodigy with no real bite.
They didn't expect his Ripple-forged body to casually outlast and outpace fully grown men.
Ironically, Jon had almost no formal combat skills. His actual fight count, without relying on his Stand, was laughably small. Most of the time, King Crimson or Stone Free handled things for him—quickly, cleanly, with overwhelming power.
The problem was, Jon hadn't earned that power.
Ripple required effort. Training. Discipline. He had grown with Ripple because he worked for it, suffered for it. But his Stands? They had been drawn from a card—a gift from the mysterious System. An unfathomable boon he hadn't earned, just received.
And that unsettled him.
What if the System disappears one day?What if the cards vanish… or worse, get taken away?
These questions gnawed at him.
He didn't want to become another over-reliant Stand user with no backup plan—he'd seen how many of them died in the JoJo world, their invincible powers rendered useless the moment someone reached the main body.
The Hunter x Hunter world wasn't so forgiving. Here, the ceiling for physical and Nen ability was far higher.
Jon made a decision then—one that would shape the next stage of his journey.
He placed a self-imposed restriction on himself:
Until he reached the hundredth floor, he would not use Ripple. He would not use his Stand.
No crutches. No shortcuts. Only raw strength and instinct.
And so, with nothing but his natural body and growing intuition, Jon continued his climb.
He stumbled. He struggled for a bit.
But he also improved. Day by day, his timing sharpened. His footwork became lighter. His reaction time grew faster. He began to read the battlefield—understanding how opponents moved, when to strike, when to retreat.
By the third day, Jon stood victorious on the hundredth floor.
He leaned against a wall, sweat dripping down his face, chest rising and falling with exhaustion. His muscles ached, his knuckles were bruised, but a small, satisfied smile crept across his face.
He had made it.
And more importantly, he had earned it—with his own hands, not borrowed power.