The hush that fell over the arena when the first match was announced had a physical weight to it. People stopped speaking mid-sentence; chairs creaked; a gull wheeled somewhere high above and then was gone. Ethan felt the air thicken with expectation the way a sportsman feels the whole stadium hold its breath before the ball drops.
"First match: Ethan Cross vs. Pokkle," the announcer intoned, and a ripple of recognition ran through the crowd. Pokkle—tall, wiry, eyes like a hawk—stepped forward with the sort of cautious confidence that comes from knowing your own strengths. He moved like a man who had practiced his reactions for years. Ethan, by contrast, walked to the center with the sort of quiet calm that disguised a mile of thought.
Gon leaned close to Killua and mouthed, "Do you think Ethan can win?"
Killua shrugged. "He's not a joke. But Pokkle's fast."
Leorio, pale but bristling bravado, waved his arms. "Come on, Ethan! Bring home the sanity!"
Kurapika's gaze slid over both men and settled on the arena. He didn't speak; he didn't have to. Silence was its own calculation.
Netero watched from the judges' dais, hands folded, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Begin when you're ready," he said.
They bowed, and the match began.
---
Opening Exchanges
No fanfare. No tricks. The rules had been stated clearly: force your opponent to surrender, do not kill, and do not use anything outside of human skill. No Nen. No devices. Just bodies and wits.
Pokkle opened with a series of measured jabs and feints—testing Ethan's distance, gauging timing. He wasn't reckless; he was careful, probing for a weakness. Ethan answered with economy: small, compact blocks and a few counters, not powerful swings but precise redirections. What he lacked in flourish he made up for in timing.
The crowd leaned forward when Pokkle attempted a rush—fast feet and angled body, trying to pin Ethan to the center. Ethan turned slightly away and used that moment to break the line, a small footstep that shifted his weight and redirected Pokkle's momentum into empty air. It was a move as old as hand-to-hand combat: use your opponent's force against them.
Pokkle recovered, eyes narrowing. He increased distance, circling with the kind of predator's patience that made people nervous. Ethan kept his breathing steady. He could feel the slight pull in his shoulders from the tower's strength tests, the residue of practice that had made his body more efficient. He refused to push past what felt normal. That was the subtle thing he had learned: control allowed him to appear less threatening and then become dangerous when opportunity opened.
---
The Mid-Round Test of Wills
Ten minutes in, sweat starting to bead at the temples, the fight shifted from reflex to endurance. Pokkle's strikes grew faster, trying to force Ethan into making a mistake. Ethan, sensing the pattern, began a quiet, painstaking tactic: pressure without overcommitment. He stepped into the same arc twice—not to strike, but to be there long enough for Pokkle to waste energy trying to avoid contact. Small taps, blocked knees, the occasional shove. He did not try to knock Pokkle out; he tried to tilt his balance, disturb his rhythm, force the hawk-like fighter to make decisions faster than his metabolism could replenish.
The audience noticed. A murmur passed through them: this wasn't a flash match; it was a war of attrition. Gon's eyes were wide with admiration. Killua's jaw worked. Even Leorio stopped grinning and watched, breathless.
At the edge of the platform, a younger examinee whispered to his neighbor, "He's making him dance."
Pokkle's forehead creased. The small, tactical losses began to show—his shoulders rose and fell more rapidly; his footfalls lost a little of their lightness. Ethan read it and kept at it. He forced micro-decisions: move this way, move that way, react now. Each tiny demand on Pokkle's body accumulated like tax. Ethan was not flashy; he was efficient. He pressed, retreated, touched, and withdrew. Slowly, inexorably, that touch of pressure found purchase.
---
A Moment of Jolt
Pokkle tried to break the rhythm with a sudden feint to the left followed by a low sweeping leg. Many fighters relied on trickery like that; Ethan had learned in earlier fights that a clean counter to a trick was the most demoralizing answer. He stepped through the sweep and drove a short, solid palm against Pokkle's sternum—not to injure, but to take away breath and anchor him. Pokkle staggered a half-step back.
There was a flinch in the hawk's eyes—surprise, and then a flash of anger. He answered with a more committed attack, drawing a cheer from a section of the stands that preferred decisive action. This was a tester's moment: would Ethan overreact and give away position, or remain composed?
Ethan remained composed. He parried, absorbed, and then—not with a thunderclap of violence, but with a slow compression of stance—he made a decisive move. He caught Pokkle's elbow mid-arc and twisted it gently, forcing his opponent to turn and present his back for a second. That half-second was all Ethan needed. He wrapped a firm hand around Pokkle's shoulder and brought the pressure of his chest into a steadying shove, just enough to unbalance but never to strike hard.
Pokkle, breathing ragged, staggered, and for the first time in the match he slowed.
---
The Surrender
It's hard to capture the precise instant surrender happens. It is rarely dramatic; more often it is arithmetic—one more breath required than the body can offer, one more mistake committed because limbs are tired, pride wavering as the rational mind says "enough."
Ethan felt the calculation. He saw the line under Pokkle's eyes, the way his weight shifted onto his toes. He recognized that look—an athlete who had nothing more to give without risking severe harm. He applied steady, courteous pressure—not humiliating, not violent—just enough to make the correct option visible: yield.
Pokkle's jaw worked; he straightened his shoulders and deliberately released his stance. There was a beat of hush, then he reached both hands toward the referee and signaled surrender.
A ripple of applause went up. Not the roar of a knockout crowd, but the respectful clapping of people who had watched two competent fighters test each other and reach a clean, sportsmanlike conclusion.
Netero smiled—not with malice, but with quiet, beatific approval. "A proper match," he said faintly. "Well measured."
Ethan stepped back, breathing evenly. He bowed with the sort of military neatness that acknowledged the opponent's worth.
Pokkle nodded back, and the two men left the platform to side-stage, where medics checked them and staff logged results.
---
Aftermath — Quiet and Simple
Gon bounced toward Ethan with wide, hungry eyes. "That was awesome! You did it!"
Killua gave a short, approving nod. "You kept him working. Clean."
Kurapika's expression was inscrutable but the corner of his mouth hinted at approval. "You didn't overextend. That was the right call."
Leorio, still vibrating from adrenaline, hugged Ethan as if he'd known him for years. "Dude, you were incredible. I almost cried!"
Ethan smiled, and for a second the weight of the Panel under his sleeve felt like a secret friend rather than a responsibility. He didn't show any screen, didn't call a single micro-adjustment aloud. Everything he'd done—every small tactical choice—was his muscle-memory and attention, honed in the Tower and through his own careful training.
At the judges' table, Netero scribbled a note in the margins of his ledger and then looked up. His gaze flicked over Ethan in a way that carried curiosity rather than alarm. "You handled him well," he said quietly. "Be mindful of stamina; the matches will ask for more than this."
Ethan nodded. He had no intention of doing anything reckless. He had a mission, a Panel, and a long road ahead.
---
The Bracket Moves On
The bracket shifted. Winners walked on, losers took their places in lower brackets or were given time to regroup. The arena buzzed with low conversation, betting whispers, and the soft shuffle of feet. The final phase had the same measured intensity as a surgeon's operating theater—every move counted.
Ethan took a moment by the side of the arena to breathe. He checked his sleeve for the tiniest cursory glance—not to reveal, only to make sure nothing had malfunctioned. The Panel lay quiet, undetected, an obedient piece of tech pressed to his skin. He folded his hands and thought briefly about the Tower, the bargains he'd made, the small sacrifices that had gotten him here.
There would be more matches. Harder ones. Fighters with different styles. He would need to keep this balance—enough pressure to win, but never so much that he changed the path the others needed to walk.
When the next match was announced, Ethan rose with the group and stepped back into the flow. The Hunter Exam moved on—punishing, fair, and without mercy for those who lost their head.
But for now, in the quiet after Pokkle's surrender, Ethan allowed himself one small satisfaction: the match had been honest, the conclusion honorable, and the story still intact.