The City Z Stadium was usually reserved for monster truck rallies and the occasional discount pop concert. Today, it was packed to the rafters. Not a single empty seat. The air smelled of popcorn, sweat, and the distinct, electric tension of forty thousand people waiting to see a fight.
Neon banners draped the stands, flashing the Neo Heroes logo—a stylized, sharp "N" that looked more like a weapon than a letter.
In the center of the arena, standing on a floating platform, was the announcer. "Ladies and Gentlemen! Welcome to the dawn of a new era! The collision of the old guard and the new wave! The Exhibition Match of the Century!"
The crowd roared.
In the prep room—which was actually just a converted janitor's closet because the Neo Heroes had booked the luxury suites for themselves—Saitama sat on a folding chair, tying his boots.
"Hey, Fubuki," he said, tugging on a lace. "You sure about the prize money? It's a cashier's check, right? Not, like, store credit or something?"
Fubuki paced the small room, her heels clicking nervously on the linoleum. She was checking her phone every three seconds. "Yes, Saitama. Five million yen. Cashable immediately. Assuming you don't disqualify yourself by accidentally vaporizing the opponent or the audience."
"Five million," Saitama whispered reverently. He did the math. That was… a lot of cabbage. He could buy the premium beef. He could fix the AC. He could maybe even buy a wig.
"Do not worry, Sensei," Genos said from the corner, where he was recalibrating his sensors. "I have scanned the stadium infrastructure. The structural integrity is sufficient to withstand 0.004% of your serious output. Please restrict your movements accordingly."
"Just don't kill him," Fubuki hissed. "And don't look stupid. The cameras are everywhere."
Out in the arena, the lights dimmed. Spotlights converged on the north tunnel.
"Introducing first!" the announcer screamed. "The Rhythm of Justice! The Beat of the Future! The Neo Heroes' Shining Star… FORTE!"
Techno music blasted from speakers so loud they rattled the fillings of everyone in the front row. Fireworks exploded. Forte levitated out of the tunnel—literally levitated, his boots emitting focused jets of compressed air.
He looked impressive. His new suit was a marvel of engineering. Sleek, black carbon-fiber plating interlocked over a crimson undersuit that pulsed with light. A visor covered his eyes, displaying a constant stream of tactical data. He landed in the center of the ring, striking a pose that screamed 'action figure.'
"And his opponent!" The music cut out abruptly. The spotlights swung to the south tunnel. "The… uh… Hero Association's S-Class Rank 18… The Final Fortress… SAITAMA!"
Saitama walked out. No jets. No fireworks. He waved awkwardly at the crowd, his yellow jumpsuit looking vivid and ridiculous under the high-definition stadium lights. His cape fluttered sadly in the draft from the AC.
"Booooo!" a section of the crowd yelled. "Go home, Baldy!"
"Neo Heroes forever!"
"Where's King? We wanted King!"
Saitama stopped and cupped his ear. "Are they booing me?"
"They are merely intimidated by your aura, Sensei," Genos's voice came over his earpiece. "Fear often manifests as vocal aggression."
Saitama reached the center of the ring. He looked at Forte. The A-Class hero was vibrating. Literally. The suit was humming.
"Saitama," Forte said, his voice amplified by the suit's speakers. "I've waited for this. The world thinks you're a god. But I know the truth. You're just a brute. A relic." He tapped the headphones built into his helmet. "This suit? It's synchronized to the rhythm of combat. It analyzes your movements, predicts your tempo, and counters before you even twitch. I'm fighting to the beat of the universe, old man. And your song is over."
Saitama stared at him. "You listen to music while you fight? Isn't that dangerous? What if you can't hear a car coming?"
"There are no cars in a wrestling ring!" Forte yelled. "Prepare yourself!"
GONG.
Forte moved.
To the audience, he simply vanished. The suit's bio-enhancers flooded his system with adrenaline and synthetic stimulants. His muscles contracted with hydraulic force. He appeared instantly behind Saitama, a high-frequency vibro-blade extending from his gauntlet.
"Tempo One: Allegro!" Forte shouted.
He slashed. The blade, vibrating at a frequency that could cut diamond, aimed for the back of Saitama's neck.
Clang.
The blade shattered.
Forte stared. His blade hadn't hit armor. It had hit skin. Saitama hadn't even turned around. He was scratching his neck.
"Mosquito," Saitama mumbled, looking at his glove. "Thought I felt one."
Forte blinked behind his visor. Impossible. The suit calculated the impact force at sixty tons per square inch. His skin should have parted like water.
"Don't underestimate me!" Forte screamed. The suit's lights turned from red to orange. "Tempo Two: Presto Vivace!"
He unleashed a flurry of kicks and punches. Each strike was accompanied by a blast of sonic energy from the suit's speakers. Boom-boom-boom-boom. It was a rhythm of destruction, a perfectly choreographed dance of violence. The floor of the arena cracked and shattered under the assault. Dust billowed up, obscuring everything.
The crowd went wild. "Look at that speed!" "He's destroying him!"
In the luxury box, the Neo Hero executive watched calmly, sipping champagne. Next to him, a technician monitored a laptop.
"Data collection at 40%," the technician said. "The suit is performing above expectations. But… the target's vitals are unchanged."
"Push it," the executive said coldly. "Override the safety limiters."
"But sir, Forte's body can't handle—"
"I said push it."
In the arena, the dust settled.
Saitama was standing in exactly the same spot. He was holding his cape over his nose to block the dust.
"Are you done dancing?" he asked. "It's kinda loud."
Forte panted, his breath fogging his visor. He had hit him four hundred times in six seconds. He had poured enough kinetic energy into the bald man to derail a bullet train. And Saitama looked… bored.
"Why…" Forte gasped. "Why won't you fall?"
Suddenly, a text alert flashed across Forte's visor. ADMINISTRATIVE OVERRIDE. PROTOCOL: CRESCENDO. LIMITERS DISENGAGED.
"What?" Forte panicked. "No! I didn't authorize—"
SCREEEEEEE.
The suit seized up. Then, it clamped down. Needles shot from the lining into Forte's spine, injecting a glowing green serum directly into his nervous system.
Forte screamed. It wasn't a battle cry. It was a sound of pure agony. His muscles bulged, tearing his own skin. The suit's lights turned a blinding, angry violet.
"Run..." Forte choked out, his voice distorted. "Run... I can't... stop it..."
His body moved on its own. The suit had taken over. It was no longer an armor; it was a pilot, and Forte was just the fuel.
"Threat level rising," Genos warned in Saitama's ear. "Sensei, the suit is consuming his life force to generate output. If he continues for more than sixty seconds, his heart will explode."
Saitama's expression shifted. The boredom vanished.
"Hey," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "That's not part of the exhibition."
The puppet-Forte lunged. This time, it wasn't a martial arts move. It was a feral, supersonic tackle. The ground beneath them liquified. The shockwave blew the first three rows of spectators out of their seats.
Saitama caught Forte's fist.
The impact created a vacuum in the stadium. Silence reigned for a split second before the air rushed back in with a thunderclap.
Saitama held the fist effortlessly. The suit's servos whined and screeched, trying to push forward, but they couldn't move Saitama a millimeter.
"Let him go," Saitama said to the suit.
The suit responded by deploying every weapon it had. Lasers, micro-missiles, sonic cannons—all point-blank range. An explosion enveloped them both.
Fubuki stood up in her box, her hands gripping the railing. "Saitama!"
High above, in the nosebleed section, a small figure in a black dress watched with glowing green eyes. Tatsumaki hovered cross-legged in mid-air, ignored by the panicking crowd around her.
"Disgusting," she spat. "Using a human as a battery. Those Neo Hero amateurs have no class."
She raised a finger. She could crush the suit remotely. She could twist it into a pretzel and save the idiot inside. It would be easy. It would prove she was superior.
But she hesitated. She watched the smoke clearing in the ring.
Show me, she thought, her gaze fixed on the bald man. Show me what you do when you can't just punch it away.
The smoke cleared. Saitama was still holding the fist. His costume was a little singed, but he was fine.
Forte, however, was dying. Blood leaked from his nose and ears inside the helmet. The suit was glowing white-hot, preparing for a final, suicidal energy discharge.
"I'm sorry..." Forte wept, his mind drowning in the pain. "I just... wanted to show them..."
Saitama looked at him. He didn't see a rival. He didn't see an enemy. He saw a guy who tried too hard and got tricked by a bad deal.
"You talk too much," Saitama said gently.
He released Forte's hand. The suit, sensing freedom, wound up for a death blow.
Saitama didn't punch Forte. He stepped into Forte's guard. He moved faster than the suit's sensors could register—faster than light, faster than data.
He placed both hands on the chest piece of the armor.
Serious Series: Serious Disassembly.
It wasn't a strike. It was a vibration. A precise, targeted shake that traveled through the armor plating, bypassing the flesh underneath.
CRACK-SNAP-PING.
In a fraction of a second, every bolt, screw, weld, and circuit in the Neo Hero suit failed simultaneously.
The armor didn't explode. It simply fell apart.
The sleek, black killing machine disintegrated into a pile of scrap metal. The helmet split in two and clattered to the floor. The gauntlets slid off. The chest piece crumbled into dust.
Forte stood there, wearing nothing but his tattered spandex undersuit, shivering, bruised, but alive. The needles had retracted. The pain was gone.
He blinked, looking down at his own hands, then at the pile of billion-yen technology at his feet.
The crowd was silent. They didn't understand what had happened. One second, a blinding light show of death; the next, a bald man standing next to a guy in his underwear surrounded by junk.
Saitama dusted off his hands. "That suit was cheap junk. You should get a refund."
Forte fell to his knees. He looked up at Saitama, tears streaming down his face. He realized, with terrifying clarity, that Saitama could have turned him into red mist at any moment. Instead, he had performed surgery with a sledgehammer.
"I..." Forte stammered.
Saitama turned to the announcer's booth. "Hey! I win, right? By equipment failure?"
The announcer stammered. "Uh... yes! The winner is... SAITAMA!"
In the luxury box, the Neo Hero executive slammed his laptop shut. "Cut the feed. Wipe the drives."
"Sir?" the technician asked. "We lost the asset."
"We didn't lose," the executive said, a cold smile returning. "Did you see the readings right before the suit failed? For one nanosecond, the suit tried to calculate the force needed to oppose him."
"And?"
"And it returned an error code," the executive said. "Error: Infinity. We have confirmation. He is the Singularity."
Saitama walked back to the tunnel, waving to the confused crowd. Fubuki met him halfway, looking relieved and slightly pale.
"You... you dismantled it," she whispered. "Without scratching him."
"Yeah," Saitama said. "But look at my cape." He held up the fabric, which had a new burn hole in it. "This is gonna cost money to fix. I hope that check clears fast."
As they walked into the darkness of the tunnel, Saitama paused. He looked up toward the high stands, directly at the spot where Tatsumaki was hovering.
She was looking down at him. Their eyes met.
She didn't glare. She didn't sneer. She gave him a single, sharp nod. Acknowledgment.
Then, she vanished.
Saitama scratched his head. "Man, everyone in this city is weird."
"Saitama!" Fubuki grabbed his arm. "The press is waiting! Smile! Try to look like a 'Fortress'!"
"I'm hungry," he complained. "Can we get udon?"
"After the interview!"
Saitama sighed. Being S-Class was exhausting. But as he felt the check in his pocket, he figured he could endure a few questions. After all, cabbage was on sale tomorrow.