The problem with living on a captured, billion-yen aerial battleship wasn't the vertigo. It wasn't the constant humming of the anti-gravity engines. It wasn't even the fact that Fubuki had claimed the captain's quarters and started redecorating it in an alarming shade of emerald green.
The problem was the toaster.
Saitama stood in the ship's massive galley, staring at a high-tech slot in the wall labeled FOOD SYNTHESIS AND THERMAL PREPARATION UNIT.
He held a plate of what used to be white bread. It was now a square of pure charcoal.
"Genos," Saitama sighed. "It happened again."
Genos appeared at his elbow, holding a fire extinguisher. "I apologize, Sensei. The Neo Heroes designed the ship's galley to reheat dehydrated combat rations at 4000 degrees. It appears to be incompatible with the concept of 'lightly toasted'."
"I just wanted breakfast," Saitama mourned, poking the black square. It crumbled into dust. "Is there any cereal?"
"Negative. King consumed the last of the Frosty Panda loops at 0300 hours while engaging in a ranked Doki Doki Sisters marathon."
Saitama dropped the charcoal into the trash. "Great. Living in the lap of luxury, and we're starving. Let's go down. I need eggs."
The city below looked different.
Since Dr. Bofoi (Metal Knight) had surrendered control of his drones, reconstruction wasn't just happening—it was being speedrun. Clouds of tiny worker-bots swarmed over the ruined districts like metallic termites.
They walked out of the teleportation pad Metal Knight had graciously installed near the crater of Saitama's old apartment building.
"Whoa," Saitama blinked.
His apartment building was back. But it wasn't the crappy, crumbling block he remembered. It was sleek. Chrome. It had huge glass windows. And, for some reason, two massive Gatling turrets mounted on the roof aimed at the street.
"Dr. Bofoi prioritized your residence," Genos explained, his sensors scanning the new structure. "He has reinforced the walls with tungsten-carbide alloy. The plumbing now runs on a closed-loop filtration system originally designed for space stations. And the toilet features a biometric heated seat."
"Turrets?" Saitama pointed up.
"Perimeter defense," Genos nodded. "To keep out sales solicitors. A feature I insisted upon."
"Nice," Saitama admitted.
They walked toward the shopping district. The streets were weirdly clean. The drones hadn't just fixed buildings; they'd fixed everything. Potholes? Gone. Graffiti? Laser-scrubbed. The leaning lamppost Saitama used to stretch his back against? Straightened and repainted.
It felt a little… sterile.
"Saitama!"
Fubuki walked toward them from a black sedan parked illegally on the brand-new sidewalk. She wasn't wearing her usual long dress. She was in a tailored white business suit that hugged her curves dangerously, with her fur coat draped over her shoulders like a mafia don.
Passersby stopped and stared. The Blizzard of Hell and the Final Fortress. They were practically royalty now.
"Nice suit," Saitama commented. "You going to a wedding?"
"It's a power suit, idiot," she snapped, though her cheeks flushed slightly. She walked up to him, invading his personal space to pick a piece of lint off his shoulder. Her perfume—something expensive and flowery—hit him. "We have a meeting with the City Council regarding zoning laws for the battleship. And you need new clothes."
She looked him up and down with critical, yet appreciative, eyes. The yellow suit was classic, sure. But there was a grease stain near the zipper from the hot pot, and the cape was singed at the edges.
"My clothes are fine," Saitama said. "I wash them."
"You kicked a missile in them yesterday," she countered. "I'm not asking. Come on."
She grabbed his wrist. Her hand was cool, her grip firm but gentle. It wasn't the commanding grip of a boss anymore. It was… different.
Saitama looked at her hand, then at the supermarket down the street.
"But... the eggs..."
"We'll buy the organic ones after," Fubuki promised.
The clothing store was one of those places where they didn't have price tags because if you had to ask, you were in the wrong zip code.
Fubuki treated the staff like her personal army.
"No, too loud," she dismissed a red jacket.
"Too formal," she tossed a tuxedo aside.
"Too... hipster," she glared at a pair of skinny jeans.
Saitama stood in the changing room in his boxers, scratching his stomach. "Can I just come out? I'm cold."
"Put this on," Fubuki shoved a hanger through the curtain.
He wrestled with the fabric. It was soft. Probably silk. Or angel wings.
He stepped out.
He was wearing a casual, charcoal-grey fitted shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and dark slacks. It was simple, but it changed his entire silhouette. He didn't look like a caped weirdo. He looked like… a man. A very fit, dangerously calm man.
The salesgirl behind the counter audibly gulped.
Fubuki froze. She had spent so much time strategizing around Saitama, thinking of him as a nuclear deterrent or a business asset, that she often forgot to actually look at him.
"Well?" Saitama asked, checking himself in the mirror. "It's tight in the shoulders. How am I supposed to punch like this?"
He threw a casual jab.
RIP.
The back of the expensive shirt split open.
"Oops," Saitama said.
Fubuki let out a long, exasperated sigh, walking over to him. She spun him around, her fingers tracing the tear, brushing against the warm skin of his back. The touch lingered a second longer than necessary for a damage assessment.
"You really are too much for this world," she murmured softly.
"Huh?" Saitama looked over his shoulder.
Their faces were inches apart. Fubuki looked up at him, her green eyes wide and unguarded. The tension in the small boutique shifted. It wasn't the tension of battle. It was the tension of a wire being pulled taut, humming with electricity.
"I said," Fubuki cleared her throat, stepping back abruptly and fixing her hair, "we'll take it. In a size up. And reinforced stitching."
"Okay," Saitama said. "But you're paying. I'm saving for a new microwave."
The tranquility of the shopping trip was interrupted by a scream. Not a terrified scream, but an annoyed one.
Outside the store, the ground rumbled. A massive, slimy tentacle burst through the newly paved street, shattering the perfect asphalt.
"Ugh!" a watery voice bellowed from the sewer. "The smell! The bleach! It burns my beautiful stench!"
A monster climbed out. It was a mass of sludge and garbage, aggregated into a vaguely humanoid shape.
Threat Level: Demon. THE GRIME REAPER.
"You cleaned too much!" the monster roared, swinging a sludge-scythe at a group of terrified construction drones. "I lived in that sewer for ten years! The ecosystem is ruined! Where is my mold? Where is my rats?"
The crowd panicked, stampeding away.
Fubuki stepped out of the store, her eyes glowing blue. "Really? On my day off?"
She raised a hand. The air twisted. Hell Storm.
Debris from the street lifted and began to orbit the monster, pelting it with rocks. The sludge splattered, but the monster just reformed.
"You can't hurt slime!" Grime Reaper laughed. "I am fluid! I am filthy!"
He lunged a massive, liquid arm at Fubuki.
She prepared a shield, bracing herself.
But the slime never hit.
Saitama walked out of the store, carrying a shopping bag in one hand and wearing his new (slightly torn) grey shirt. He saw the slime heading for Fubuki—and more importantly, near his new shoes.
"Ew," Saitama said.
He side-stepped in front of Fubuki and swatted the slime arm away with the back of his hand.
SPLAT.
The force of the slap sent a shockwave back up the monster's arm. The liquid didn't just scatter; it vaporized from the kinetic friction. The Grime Reaper looked down at his missing limb, then at the bald man in the nice shirt.
"Hey," Saitama said. "We just bought these clothes."
"S-sorry?" the monster stammered. It recognized him. Everyone recognized him now. The glare on the bald head. The dead fish eyes.
"It's the Fortress!" someone in the crowd yelled.
The Grime Reaper tried to retreat back into the sewer. "My mistake! I'll find a dirtier city! I heard City J has terrible sanitation!"
"Wait," Saitama said. He pointed to the shattered pavement. "The robots just fixed that."
"I... I can fix it back?" the monster offered weakly.
"Too late."
Saitama wound up. Not a punch. An uppercut.
Normal Series: Uppercut.
His fist connected with the monster's jaw (or where a jaw would be).
The Grime Reaper launched into the sky. It went up like a firework, higher and higher, until it was just a twinkle in the daylight. Then, pop. It dispersed into the upper atmosphere, likely to come down later as a very disgusting rain in the next prefecture.
"And stay out," Saitama grumbled. He looked at his shoe. A tiny speck of mud. "Great."
Fubuki stared at him. He had protected her without hesitation, demolished a Demon-level threat, and was now fussing over a speck of dirt.
She grabbed his arm again. "Come on. I'm buying you lunch. You earned it."
"Steak?"
"Yes, Saitama. Steak."
While Saitama was enjoying a T-Bone in City Z, a very different scene was unfolding in City Q.
The central plaza, home to the watchful guardian Watchdog Man, was usually a tourist spot. People came to take photos of the furry, dog-costumed hero sitting silently on his pedestal. Monsters entered City Q and never came out.
But today, the plaza was empty.
No tourists. No birds. Even the wind seemed afraid to blow.
Watchdog Man sat on his pedestal. He hadn't moved in forty-eight hours. His suit was usually spotless white fluff. Now, it looked grey in the shifting light.
A Threat Level: Dragon monster, Grand-Gator, crawled out of the decorative pond. It was fifty feet long, armored like a tank, with teeth the size of swords. It had come to test the legendary guardian.
"Woof?" the alligator mocked, crawling onto the plaza tiles. "Are you the doggie who guards this bone? I'm here to crunch it."
Watchdog Man slowly lifted his head.
His eyes, framed by the dog costume's mouth, were jet black. No iris. No sclera. Just voids.
"Get off..." Watchdog Man whispered. His voice wasn't his usual bored monotone. It was layered, resonant. A choir of one. "...my lawn."
He moved.
Usually, Watchdog Man fought with animalistic speed, tearing and shaking. This time, he didn't run on all fours.
He glided.
He appeared instantly in front of the Grand-Gator. He placed one paw—gentle, soft—on the monster's snout.
"Sit," the voice commanded.
Gravity in the plaza increased by a factor of ten thousand.
CRACK-BOOM.
The Grand-Gator was instantly flattened into a pancake. Its armor shattered, its bones liquefied. The tiles of the plaza sank five feet into the earth, forming a perfect crater.
The monster didn't even have time to scream. It was just pasted to reality.
Watchdog Man looked at the stain.
Watchdog Man stood up on his hind legs—something he almost never did. He looked toward the horizon. Toward the neighboring cities.
"The territory," he stated blankly. "Is too small."
He stepped off the pedestal.
This was unprecedented. Watchdog Man never left City Q. He defended his post. That was the rule.
But rules were for dogs. And whatever was inside that suit now… was no longer a dog.
He began to walk south. Toward City Z.
Back in the S-Class briefing room, an alarm blinked red on the global map.
Sitch dropped his coffee. "Movement detected in City Q."
"Another monster?" an aide asked.
"No," Sitch whispered, zooming in on the satellite feed. "It's Watchdog Man. He's... leaving his patrol zone. He just crossed the city limits."
"Is he pursuing a threat?"
"No," Sitch's face went pale. "He's wiping the map. Every monster signature in a ten-mile radius of him just vanished. And he's heading straight for the S.S. Discount."
Saitama finished his steak, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "That was good."
Fubuki smiled, swirling her iced tea. "Better than charcoal toast?"
"Way better."
Saitama looked out the window of the restaurant. The sun was setting, casting long orange shadows across the newly rebuilt streets. It was peaceful. He had a full stomach, new clothes, and his apartment had turrets. Things were looking up.
"Hey, Fubuki."
"Yes?" She leaned in slightly, hoping for something... poignant.
"Do you think Watchdog Man sheds?" Saitama asked thoughtfully. "I've been thinking about getting a pet, but I hate vacuuming."
Fubuki slumped. "I hate you sometimes."
"Why?"
"Just pay the bill," she groaned.
Outside, the first star of the evening appeared. But if you looked closely, it wasn't a star. It was an eye, watching from the darkness of space, waiting for its puppet to arrive.
The Calm Before was officially over.
The Hunt had begun.