The end of the world began on a Tuesday. Which was unfortunate, because Tuesday was double-coupon day at the supermarket.
Metal Knight's declaration of war wasn't a bluff. It wasn't a monologue. It was a mathematical execution. Across twenty-six cities, the ground rumbled simultaneously. Manholes exploded upward. Hidden silos masked as office buildings slid open.
They poured out in the thousands. Not the clunky construction drones of the past. These were the "Series 0: Eradication" units. sleek, black-chrome spheres that unfolded into terrifying, arachnid killing machines. They didn't scream. They didn't pause. They simply marched, their red optical sensors painting the streets with grid-lines of targeting lasers.
At the Hero Association HQ in City A, the sky turned black with bombers.
"Shields are holding at 40%!" an operator screamed, sparks flying from his console. "They're not using explosives! They're using dismantling lasers! They're taking the fortress apart bolt by bolt!"
Sitch stood by the window, watching the defense turrets—turrets built by Metal Knight—turn inward and open fire on the building they were meant to protect.
"He knows every code," Sitch whispered, feeling the vibration of the impacts in his teeth. "Every frequency. Every weakness. We let the wolf build the hen house."
He grabbed the emergency line. "Get me Team Saitama! Tell them the 'Final Fortress' needs to stop eating pudding and start punching robots!"
On the bridge of the captured Neo Hero flagship (now unofficially christened the S.S. Discount by Saitama), the war felt strangely distant. The ship was hovering two thousand feet above City Z, hidden in the clouds.
Saitama stood in front of a high-tech console, looking perplexed. He was holding a basket of wet laundry.
"Fubuki," he called out. "Which button is 'Spin Cycle'? All I see is 'Torimen Missile' and 'Orbital Laser.'"
Fubuki, who was currently commanding three separate resistance cells via headset, pinched the bridge of her nose. "Saitama. It's a aerial fortress. It doesn't have a spin cycle. You have to hand-wash them in the sink like everyone else."
"But this ship cost billions," Saitama complained, holding up a soggy white cape. "Taxpayer money! And they couldn't add a dryer? This is why the government fails."
"Focus!" Fubuki snapped, pointing to the main screen. "Metal Knight has besieged six cities. He's targeting power plants and communication hubs. He's turning the human race off, Saitama."
"That Bofoi guy seemed grumpy," Saitama admitted, wringing out his cape. "Why is he doing this again?"
"Data indicates a logic loop," Child Emperor said from his station. He was typing furiously, his small legs swinging from the oversized command chair. "Metal Knight concluded that 'Soft Humanity' cannot survive the coming God-Level threats. His solution is 'Hard Reset.' Eliminate civil rights, centralized government, and free will. Replace them with his absolute robotic control. He thinks he's saving the species by putting it in a cage."
"Sounds like a pain," Saitama said. He walked to the airlock.
"Where are you going?" Fubuki asked.
"To hang this up. It's windy outside. Should dry fast."
"Saitama, wait! The radar shows incoming—"
Saitama hit the airlock button. The doors hissed open.
The wind didn't rush in. A rocket did.
A black missile, painted with Metal Knight's insignia, shrieked through the open door, aimed directly at the bridge's reactor core.
Saitama didn't drop his laundry. He didn't even look up from untangling a sock. He just casually lifted his left foot.
Clank.
He kicked the missile mid-air. It flew back out the door, did a U-turn, and spiraled into the cloud bank.
BOOM.
A massive orange fireball illuminated the mist.
Saitama stepped out onto the hull. "Genos! Bring the clothespins!"
Outside, the S.S. Discount was surrounded.
A swarm of five hundred flying drones circled the ship like angry hornets. They were sleek, dagger-shaped interceptors.
Garou sat on top of the ship's main cannon, picking his teeth with a shard of metal. "Finally. I was getting rusty."
He stood up. His spine cracked. The damage from the Ninja Leader fight was gone, healed by his unnerving adaptive biology. He felt sharper. Faster.
"Let's test the upgrades," he grinned.
He leaped.
He didn't need to fly. He jumped from drone to drone, a blur of motion. Crash. Snap. Tear. He was tearing the machines apart with his bare hands, using their own momentum to launch himself to the next target. It wasn't martial arts. It was demolition.
Genos flew up to join him, moving with a jerky but precise grace—his repairs were functional but hasty, leaving him looking like a patchwork Frankenstein of mismatched parts.
"Incineration Cannon!"
A wave of fire swept the sky, clearing a path.
"Don't get cocky, tin man!" Garou shouted, ripping the wing off a drone and throwing it like a javelin through two others. "They're learning! Look at their formation!"
The drones stopped swarming individually. They clumped together, interlocking their chassis. Magnets engaged. In seconds, five hundred small drones merged into one massive, multi-headed mechanical hydra.
"TARGET: EXTERMINATE," the Hydra roared, its voice a thousand speakers in unison.
Its multiple mouths opened, charging red lasers.
Saitama walked past them, struggling with a clothespin and his cape. "Hey, you guys are blocking the sun. My cape won't dry in the shade."
The Hydra swiveled all its heads toward the bald man. "PRIORITY TARGET: SAITAMA. INITIATE—"
Saitama slapped the side of the Hydra.
It wasn't a punch. It was a swat, like you'd use on a vending machine that ate your money.
CRUNCH.
The magnetic bonds shattered. The massive machine disintegrated into five hundred pieces of scrap metal that rained down toward the city below.
"Much better," Saitama nodded, finally pinning his cape to a radar antenna.
In the secure bunker of Metal Knight's lab, Dr. Bofoi watched the feed go dead. His face, illuminated by a bank of screens, was grotesque—swollen, pale, with frantic eyes. He wasn't a monster, just a paranoid old man who had stared into the abyss for too long.
"Variables..." Bofoi muttered, chewing on his fingernail. "Infinite variables. Saitama cannot be calculated. Therefore, he cannot be part of the Equation."
He typed a command.
"If the Shield cannot be controlled, it must be distracted. Let us see how he handles the Invaders."
He activated the heavy graviton emitters located in Sector Z—the ones he had secretly installed years ago under the guise of 'reconstruction.'
On the roof of the S.S. Discount, the air began to scream.
It wasn't the sound of robots. It was the sound of reality tearing. A purple rift, jagged and violent, split the sky open right above the ship. It was ugly. It smelled of sulfur and old blood.
Fubuki ran out onto the deck. "Spatial breach! Directly overhead! Is it a monster?"
Saitama looked up. "Another portal? Can't they use the ground floor?"
From the rift, a vehicle emerged.
It wasn't a spaceship. It was a bicycle.
But not a normal bike. This one was huge, reinforced with rusted spikes and grinding gears. Exhaust pipes spewed black smoke. The wheels were wreathed in green flame.
Riding it was a figure in armored padding. He wore a helmet and goggles, but the helmet was shaped like a skull.
The biker slammed onto the deck of the ship, the spiked wheels carving deep gouges into the metal. He drifted to a stop, the bike growling like a dying beast.
He stood up. He looked exactly like Mumen Rider. The C-Class cyclist of justice.
But his armor was blood-red. His smile was missing. One of his arms was replaced by a massive, hydraulic piledriver.
"Justice..." the figure rasped. His voice sounded like it was being dragged through gravel.
Saitama blinked. "Mumen? Is that you? Did you get a makeover? It's a bit... edgy."
The figure looked at Saitama. His goggles glowed with hateful red light.
"Justice is weak," the Twisted Rider snarled. "Mercy is a disease. In my world, I learned the truth. You don't pedal toward justice."
He revved the handle of his bike. The piledriver arm locked into place.
"You run it down."
Behind him, through the rift, more figures began to emerge. Twisted, wrong versions of familiar faces. A Tanktop Master wearing the skins of monsters. A Sweet Mask whose face was literally cracked open to reveal tentacles.
The Multiverse Invasion had arrived.
Metal Knight's voice boomed over the global broadcast, coming from every drone left in the sky.
"CITIZENS. THE BARRIER IS BROKEN. THESE ARE THE 'HEROES' FROM FAILED TIMELINES. THIS IS WHAT AWAITS YOU IF YOU RELY ON FAITH. I OFFER THE ONLY SOLUTION: TOTAL SUBJUGATION."
Saitama sighed. He looked at his drying cape, then at the demonic bicyclist.
"I really just wanted to do laundry," Saitama said.
He stepped forward.
"Hey, Mumen. Or... Evil Mumen. Whatever. You're parking on the deck. That's a tow-away zone."
The Twisted Rider screamed—a war cry of pure nihilism—and charged. The hydraulic arm fired.
Justice Crash: Execution Mode.
Saitama didn't move. He stood in front of his drying laundry.
"This," Saitama muttered, "is gonna be a long day."