The morning sun felt different on King's skin. It wasn't the harsh glare that had greeted him on his first, terrified trek into Z-City, nor the weary, earned light of his grinding sessions. This was a gentle, warm light, fitting for a day of rest. For a day of friendship.
He dressed in clean, casual clothes, forgoing the mask and hat. Today, he wasn't the hunter or the legend. He was just a guy going to a friend's house to play video games. The thought was so beautifully, profoundly normal it almost made him giddy.
As he locked his apartment door and stepped out into the city, the familiar sounds of life—distant traffic, the chatter of people, the hum of a functioning society—was a symphony he appreciated more now. His path took him not towards the deserted ruins, but through the bustling streets that bordered the Z-City quarantine zone, towards Saitama's apartment.
With every step, the thought that had been simmering in the back of his mind all morning began to bubble to the surface.
I should tell him.
The idea was terrifying in its own way, a different kind of fear than facing a monster. It was the fear of vulnerability. Saitama was the only person who saw through the legend to the man underneath, and the only person whose opinion truly mattered.
He deserves to know, King thought, his eyes tracing the cracks in the sidewalk. He's saved my life more times than I can count. He's my friend... and I've been lying to him by omission.
He pictured Saitama's blank, utterly unconcerned face. Would he even care? Would he just say "okay" and go back to reading his manga? The likely mundanity of the reaction was, ironically, what gave King courage.
I don't need to make a big speech, he reasoned, navigating a crosswalk. I can just... tell him. "Hey, Saitama. You know how I'm supposedly the strongest? Well, I wasn't. But I'm getting stronger now, for real."
The words sounded simple in his head. The reality felt like trying to lift a mountain.
His internal monologue continued, a quiet stream beneath the city's noise. It's not about bragging. It's about... being honest. I want him to know that I'm trying. That I don't want to just be the lucky coward who leeches off his strength anymore. I want to be someone... worthy of being his friend. For real.
He glanced towards the skeletal skyline of the ruined zone, visible over the tops of the intact buildings. In there, he had shattered monsters with a golden fist and crushed their minds with his heartbeat. Out here, he was just a large, nervous man trying to find the right words.
A small, wry smile touched his lips. It's funny. Fighting a Tiger-level monster is easier than this.
He arrived at the familiar, slightly dilapidated apartment building. He stood before the door, taking a deep, steadying breath. The King Engine gave a single, soft thump, not of fear, but of resolve.
He wouldn't blurt it out the moment the door opened. He'd wait for a natural pause in their gaming. Maybe between matches. A lull in the conversation.
I'll figure it out, he promised himself. I have to.
He raised his hand and knocked on the door, the sound firm and decisive. The path ahead was clear. First, video games. Then, the hardest battle he'd faced yet: the truth.
-
The door swung open to reveal Saitama, dressed in a simple, cheap tracksuit, his expression as placid as ever. "Oh. King. Hey."
"Hello, Saitama," King said, his voice a low rumble that was, for once, not amplified by terror. He stepped inside the familiar, sparsely decorated apartment, the scent of cheap floor cleaner and instant noodles a comforting constant.
"Genos isn't here," Saitama said, as if reading his mind. He shuffled towards the small living area, dropping onto the floor with a familiar lack of ceremony. "Said something about a monster downtown. Or maybe he's just getting groceries. He writes it down on the fridge calendar, but I never check."
"I see," King replied, setting his bag of games down carefully. He was grateful for the cyborg's absence. This conversation, if it happened, would be difficult enough with just Saitama. "I brought a few new titles I thought you might like."
"Cool," Saitama said, his eyes already lighting up with a bit more interest as he picked up a controller. "The last one you brought was pretty good. The one where you punch the giants."
As they booted up the console, King's earlier resolve began to waver. The atmosphere was so… normal. So peaceful. The weight of his secret felt like an anvil in this context. How do you casually drop "I have a system that turns belief into superpowers" between rounds of a fighting game?
He decided to start small. To feel out the waters.
"You know, Saitama," King began, his eyes fixed on the screen as the game's menu music started, "I've been… thinking lately. About being a hero."
Saitama mashed a button to skip the intro cutscene. "Yeah? What about it?"
"About… what it means to be strong. Truly strong." King chose his words carefully, his thumb hovering over the controller. "Not just having power, but… deserving it."
Saitama selected his character—a straightforward brawler. "Huh. Deep." He didn't sound sarcastic, just… observational. "I just fight 'cause it's the only thing that's even a little interesting. And 'cause people would get hurt if I didn't, I guess."
King selected his own character, a complex technical fighter. That was Saitama in a nutshell. No grand philosophy, no obsession with strength or legacy. Just simple, unvarnished truth.
That's it, King realized. That's how I tell him. Not with a grand speech, but with simple truth. Just like he does.
He took a breath, the words forming on his tongue. 'Saitama, I'm not actually strong. But I'm learning to be.'
But just as he opened his mouth, Saitama leaned forward, his focus entirely on the screen. "Oh, this guy has a new ultimate move. Alright, no holding back, King. Prepare to lose."
The moment passed. The tension bled out of King's shoulders, replaced by a fond exasperation. The truth could wait. For now, there were digital battles to be won and lost.
A genuine, relaxed smile spread across King's face. "You're on," he said, his voice steady, the King Engine silent for the first time in what felt like forever.
The truth was a heavy crown, but for this afternoon, he was happy to just be a player.
The next hour was a masterclass in digital annihilation. King, in his element, was untouchable. His fingers danced across the controller with a speed and precision that mirrored his new superhuman reflexes, but were honed by a lifetime of experience. He explained the mechanics to Saitama in his low, rumbling voice, pointing out frame data, combo starters, and punish opportunities.
"See, if you block that overhead, you have a twelve-frame window to punish with your low starter," King said, effortlessly executing a 80-hit combo that evaporated Saitama's health bar.
Saitama, for his part, listened with a surprising amount of focus, his brow furrowed in concentration. He was a quick learner in terms of strategy, but his hands couldn't keep up with the execution demands. He'd grasp the concept of a "whiff punish" but then press the buttons too late, or input the command for a dragon punch and get a clumsy jump instead.
"Tch. Again," Saitama would say, every time his character was knocked down. The losses were piling up. Fast.
Round after round, it was the same story. King, a paragon of pixel-perfect play, and Saitama, the embodiment of overwhelming power in the real world, rendered into a fumbling novice. The bald hero's usual placid expression began to tighten. A tiny, almost imperceptible twitch appeared near his eye.
"It's about the timing," King offered gently, after landing yet another perfect parry. "You have to feel the rhythm of the opponent's attacks."
"I'm trying to feel it," Saitama grumbled, his character getting cornered. "It just feels... cheap."
The final straw was a particularly brutal match. King, using a tricky, zoning character, kept Saitama at bay with projectiles before teleporting behind him for a flashy, fight-ending combo. The "K.O." banner flashed on the screen for the tenth time in a row.
There was a moment of silence. Then, a sharp CRUNCH.
Saitama looked down at his hands. The game controller was now a tragic collection of plastic shards and circuitry, crushed into a tiny, compact cube in his grip. He hadn't even seemed to realize he was doing it.
He blinked, looking from the destroyed controller to King's face, his own expression returning to its default blank state. "...Oops. Sorry, King. Got a little... into it."
King simply stared at the remains of the controller for a second, then let out a soft sigh that was more fond than exasperated. He had, after all, factored this possibility into his planning.
"It's alright, Saitama," he said, his voice calm. He reached into his bag and pulled out a brand new, still-in-its-plastic-wrap controller. "I... came prepared. I have more."
Saitama took the new controller, a faint hint of relief on his face. "Oh. Cool."
But as Saitama began tearing the packaging open, King placed his own controller down on the floor. The game was paused, the characters frozen in mid-action. The room was quiet, save for the rustle of plastic.
This was the lull he'd been waiting for.
"Saitama," King began, his voice a little heavier than before. The King Engine, which had been silent throughout the gaming session, gave a single, low, preparatory thump. "Before we start again... there's actually something I've been meaning to tell you."
He met his friend's curious, utterly guileless gaze. The moment of truth had finally arrived.
King took a deep breath, the air in the small apartment suddenly feeling thick. The King Engine, which had been silent, began a low, steady thrum, not of fear, but of immense, focused power.
"Saitama," he began, his voice deeper and more resonant than usual. "I haven't been entirely honest. The strength everyone talks about... it wasn't real. I was a fraud." He held up a hand to forestall any interruption, his expression deadly serious. "But something happened. I gained a... system. It turns people's belief in me into real power."
As he spoke, he decided showing was better than telling. He focused, and with a soft hum, the King's Armor flickered to life. A shimmering, translucent gold gauntlet of energy encased his right hand and forearm, its light casting dancing reflections on the walls. The air around it wavered with heatless power.
"And this is the King's Armor," he continued, his voice echoing slightly with the energy he was channeling. "It makes me stronger, more durable." He let it fade, then his eyes began to glow with a faint, golden light. "And these are the King's Eyes. They let me see attacks before they happen."
Finally, he unleashed the full force of his King's Aura - Lv. 3. He didn't direct it at Saitama, but let it flood the room. The apartment walls trembled. A fine dust sifted down from the ceiling. The loose pages of a manga on the floor fluttered. The very air grew heavy, charged with an intimidating pressure that would have sent any Tiger-level monster fleeing in blind terror. The teacups on the low table rattled in their saucers.
"It's all real now," King finished, his voice barely a whisper yet cutting cleanly through the psychic pressure. "I'm training every day. I'm getting stronger, for real this time. I just... I wanted you to know. You're my friend, and you deserved the truth."
He let the aura dissipate. The room fell silent, the only sound the fading hum of energy and the frantic rattling of a single, final teacup before it, too, stilled.
Saitama had watched the entire display without blinking. He hadn't flinched at the trembling walls or the glowing eyes. He simply stared, his face its usual blank canvas. There was a long pause.
Then, he scratched his bald head. "So... you got a power-up menu from people thinking you're cool, and now you have a gold glove and fancy eyes that make the room shake."
King blinked, the grand weight of his confession momentarily deflated. "Well... yes. Essentially."
Saitama held up a hand. "Resume it. Twenty words or less."
King was taken aback. Twenty words? He fumbled for a moment, his mind scrambling to condense his life-altering transformation into a soundbite. "I... I have a system. It makes me strong from belief. No more fraud. I'm training to be a real hero."
Saitama counted on his fingers silently, his lips moving. He nodded. "Cool."
That was it. Cool. The single, normal word hung in the air, utterly dismantling the monumental tension King had built.
"Maybe if you get strong enough," Saitama continued, picking up his new controller as if they'd just been discussing the weather, "we could even fight sometime." He said it with the same tone someone might use to suggest trying a new brand of instant noodles. "I'll wait for you to get strong. Now," he said, his focus returning to the paused game screen, "stop stalling. This time, I'm gonna win."
King stared at his friend. There was no shock, no disbelief, no awe. Just simple, straightforward acceptance. It was the most Saitama reaction possible. The fear, the anxiety, the weight of his secret—it all evaporated under the sheer, mundane force of Saitama's personality.
A slow, genuine smile spread across King's face, wider and more relaxed than any he'd had in days. It wasn't a smile of triumph, but of profound relief.
"Don't count on it," King replied, his voice light for the first time all afternoon, as he picked up his own controller. "My win streak stays intact."
He settled back onto the floor, the ghost of his golden armor and the memory of his trembling aura now just that—a memory. The truth was out. His friend knew. And the world hadn't ended. In fact, the only thing that mattered now was the pixelated battle about to unfold on the screen. The path ahead was still long, but for the first time, King felt he wasn't walking it alone.
The blue glow of the television screen was the only light in Saitama's apartment as the final round of their gaming marathon concluded. With a final, flawless combo, King's character landed the winning blow.
"Game," King said, the word carrying a note of finality and satisfaction.
Saitama let out a long, drawn-out sigh, slumping backward onto the floor. "You're impossible at these things." There was no real heat in his words, just a weary acknowledgment of defeat.
A comfortable silence settled between them, broken only by the cheerful, looping music of the game's victory screen. King looked at the time on the console; hours had slipped away unnoticed. The sky outside the window was a deep, velvety indigo, punctuated by the first few brave stars and the distant, hazy glow of the city's lights.
"It's getting late," King rumbled, setting his controller down with a soft click.
"Yeah," Saitama agreed, sitting up. "Guess so."
They stood, and Saitama saw him to the door. There were no grand farewells, no reaffirmations of their earlier conversation. It was all refreshingly normal.
"See you, King."
"Goodnight, Saitama."
With a final wave, King stepped out into the cool night air, pulling the door shut behind him. The hallway was quiet. He walked down the stairs and out onto the street, the transition from the cramped apartment to the vastness of the night sky feeling like a physical exhale.
As he walked, the events of the day replayed in his mind. The intense gaming, the shattered controller, the moment he'd summoned his power and laid his soul bare... and Saitama's utterly simple, world-defyingly casual acceptance.
He really didn't care, King thought, a disbelieving chuckle escaping his lips. Not about the system, not about the armor... he just accepted it and moved on.
There was no weight. No judgment. The colossal secret that had been crushing him for days had been lifted and discarded by his friend with the same effort one might use to toss a piece of trash. The relief was so profound it felt like a physical thing, a lightness in his step he hadn't felt in years.
He looked up at the night sky as he walked, his path taking him along the border between the safe, lit streets and the dark silhouette of Z-City's ruins. The same ruins where he had fought, bled, and forged his new strength. But tonight, they didn't look like a hunting ground. They were just a part of the scenery.
The King Engine was silent. Not the focused silence of combat, nor the anxious silence of hiding, but a true, deep peace. His heart beat a steady, calm rhythm, a drum for no one but himself.
He reached his apartment building, the familiar facade a welcome sight. Unlocking the door, he stepped inside into the welcoming darkness. He didn't bother with the main lights, simply toeing off his shoes and heading straight for his bedroom.
As he lay in the dark, the faint sounds of the city a distant lullaby, a single, simple thought echoed in the quiet of his mind, a perfect summary of the day's monumental shift.
It was a nice day.