The morning after his confession to Saitama, King awoke feeling a serenity that was entirely new. The world seemed brighter, the colors more vivid. For the first time in a long time, there was no urgent pull toward Z-City, no pressing need to farm BP. His foundation was built. He had earned a day off.
"Today," he announced to his quiet apartment, "is for me."
He envisioned a perfect, lazy day: a generous breakfast, no rushed meals, and hours of immersive, glorious gaming. No monsters, no systems, just the pure, unadulterated joy of his first true passion. He decided to start with a classic, the comfort-food of his gaming library: Galaxy Conquest, a sprawling sci-fi RPG with a save file boasting over 300 hours of meticulous progress.
A content smile on his face, he walked over to the specific shelf where he kept his most prized physical games. His eyes scanned the neatly organized cases. His hand reached for the spot where Galaxy Conquest should be.
It was empty.
A flicker of confusion. He must have misplaced it. He checked the adjacent slots. Then the entire shelf. His smile faded, replaced by a growing, low-grade panic. He began a methodical search of the apartment—the drawers, the cabinet by the TV, even the unlikely space under his couch. Nothing.
The serene atmosphere of the morning began to curdle into a familiar, nagging anxiety. That save file... it was a record of a quieter, simpler time. The thought of it being gone was a uniquely personal kind of terror.
"Where is it?" he muttered, his King Engine giving a single, nervous thump. "I never lose my games."
(Meanwhile)
in Saitama's apartment, the bald hero was sprawled on his floor, staring blankly at the television screen. After King had left, he'd noticed the game case sitting by the console. Bored, he'd popped it in.
He'd spent the last hour wandering through the lush, alien landscapes of Galaxy Conquest, utterly bewildered by the complex menu systems, the branching dialogue trees, and the sheer amount of running back and forth. "What's the point if you can't just punch the problem?" he'd grumbled to himself.
In a moment of frustration, trying to figure out how to equip a new "Plasma Saber," he'd mashed a series of buttons. A prompt he didn't bother to read appeared on the screen:
Delete Save File? [Confirm] / [Cancel]
Saitama, assuming it was just another pointless menu, pressed [Confirm].
The screen went black for a second, then reset to the game's title screen, the grand orchestral music swelling as if nothing had happened.
"Oh," Saitama said, blinking. "It broke." With a shrug, he ejected the game disc, placed it back in its case, and set it aside. He then picked up a manga and promptly forgot about the entire incident.
Back in his apartment, King had turned the place upside down. The calm of the morning was a distant memory. This was a crisis.
He stood in the center of his living room, breathing heavily, his mind racing. Think. When was the last time you played it? You were in the middle of the "Nebula of Lost Souls" questline... before the system... before everything.
Then, it hit him. The last time he'd had a truly long, uninterrupted gaming session was... at Saitama's place. Over a week ago. He'd brought a bunch of games, wanting to show off the new Fist of the Fury title, but he'd definitely brought his entire case.
A cold dread washed over him. Saitama. The man who could crush a controller without a thought. The man who viewed the intricate worlds of video games with a kind of benign, confused indifference.
"He... he wouldn't have," King whispered to the empty room, but the seed of suspicion was planted. It made a horrifying amount of sense. He must have left it there, and Saitama, in his boredom, must have found it.
The urge to farm BP, to lose himself in the straightforward violence of monster hunting, suddenly felt very appealing. It was a simpler problem than this. But this was a different kind of mission now, a personal one.
He looked toward the door, a new, determined glint in his eyes. The day off was canceled. There was a new, non-negotiable objective.
---
King's walk back to Saitama's apartment was far less serene than his journey home the night before. The relief had been replaced by a gnawing, specific anxiety. His 300-hour save file… the very thought of it being in the hands of someone who thought RPGs were "pointless" made his blood run cold.
As he turned the corner onto Saitama's street, the scene gave him pause. The sidewalk and street were pockmarked with what looked like foot-sized craters, as if someone had been moving at impossible speeds. A lamppost was bent at a forty-five-degree angle, and the façade of the building opposite Saitama's was lightly scorched. The air smelled faintly of ozone and burnt metal.
King's eyes scanned the damage. Another one of Saitama's fights, he thought with a familiar, detached resignation. It was just part of the neighborhood's aesthetic at this point. The fate of his game was a far more pressing concern.
He walked up the steps, sidestepping a fresh crack in the concrete, and knocked on the door.
It was opened not by Saitama, but by Genos, who was impeccably dressed and pristine, a stark contrast to the minor chaos outside. "King," Genos said, bowing his head slightly in respect. "Your timing is… notable."
King gave a curt nod, his eyes already searching the room beyond. "Genos."
His gaze landed on the scene inside. Saitama was sitting on the floor, leaning back against his wall, deeply engrossed in a weekly Shounen Jump manga. A short distance away, seated with an air of formal grace that seemed utterly alien to the cramped apartment, was the B-Class Rank 1 heroine, Fubuki, the Blizzard of Hell. She was sipping tea, her expression a mask of cool composure.
But King's attention zeroed in on one thing, and one thing only: Saitama. He completely ignored Fubuki, his imposing frame moving through the small space with a singular purpose.
"Saitama," King's voice was a low, serious rumble, the King Engine giving a single, preparatory thump.
Saitama didn't look up from his manga. "Hm? Oh, hey King." He turned a page.
Fubuki, meanwhile, had frozen, her teacup halted halfway to her lips. Her eyes widened as they darted from the destroyed street outside to the legendary S-Class hero now standing in the doorway. The sheer, concentrated presence of two S-Class heroes in this tiny, damaged apartment was overwhelming. She was used to commanding attention, but here, she felt like a piece of furniture.
"My game," King said, cutting straight to the heart of the matter. He loomed over Saitama, his scarred face a mask of stern inquiry. "Galaxy Conquest. Did you take it?"
A flicker of something—guilt?—passed over Saitama's face for a nanosecond. He still refused to make eye contact, his focus glued to the comic. "Game? What game?"
"The one I brought last time. The RPG. My 300-hour save file is on there." King's voice was relentless. "I can't find it at my place. Did you take it by mistake?"
Fubuki watched the exchange, utterly bewildered. She had come here to recruit Saitama, to face a man of immense, unverified power, and now she was witnessing the legendary King, a man rumored to have slain a Dragon-level threat just days ago, intensely interrogating his fellow hero over a misplaced video game.
Saitama finally lowered his manga a fraction of an inch, his eyes shifting nervously. "...I might have seen it."
"Where is it?" King pressed, his voice dropping an octave.
"It's… around," Saitama mumbled, looking anywhere but at King's face.
Genos, sensing the escalating tension, stepped forward. "King," he interjected, his voice calm and logical. "Perhaps this is a matter that can be resolved after our current… guest… has concluded her business." He gestured politely towards Fubuki, who was still trying to process the surrealism of the situation.
King finally acknowledged her presence with a brief, dismissive glance before returning his laser focus to Saitama. The message was clear: the business of the lost save file took precedence over everything else.
The standoff continued. Saitama, the picture of guilty evasion. King, the immovable object of gamer justice. And Fubuki, stuck in the middle, realizing that the dynamics of the S-Class were far, far stranger than she had ever imagined. The mystery of the deleted save file hung in the air, unresolved and, for King, more important than any monster at the door.
Saitama, under the unblinking, intense gaze of his friend, finally cracked. The weight of King's silent, expectant presence was more effective than any monster's roar.
"Okay, fine! Here!" Saitama blurted out, reaching behind a stack of manga and pulling out the Galaxy Conquest case. He thrust it towards King, looking like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "I was gonna give it back. I just... forgot."
King's large hand enveloped the game case. The feeling of the familiar plastic was an immense relief. But as he took it, his trained eye immediately noticed the slight warp in the case, and upon opening it, he saw the tiny, hairline fractures radiating from the center button of the disc—the unmistakable signature of Saitama's uncontrollable strength. The save file was likely obliterated, the disc itself probably damaged beyond use.
A profound sense of loss washed over him. Three hundred hours. Gone. The meticulously crafted character, the completed side quests, the hard-earned legendary gear—all of it, erased by a casual, accidental squeeze.
But then, something surprising happened. The expected surge of frustration never came. Instead, a new, calmer thought surfaced in his mind.
It's... okay.
He looked at Saitama's genuinely apologetic, if slightly annoyed, face. He thought of the system, the King's Armor, the path that now lay before him. The world of Galaxy Conquest was a fantasy he used to escape his own pathetic reality. But his reality wasn't pathetic anymore. He was building a real legend, one with tangible power and purpose. Did he really have time to sink another three hundred hours into a digital universe?
He closed the case with a definitive snap and slid it into his pocket. "It's fine, Saitama," King said, his voice returning to its normal, low timbre, all traces of the interrogator gone. "Don't worry about it."
He then seamlessly shifted the conversation, as if the entire tense confrontation had never happened. "So, what's for lunch? That new ramen place a few blocks over any good?"
Saitama, visibly relieved that the storm had passed, shrugged. "The broth is okay, but the chashu is kinda skimpy for the price."
"Typical," King rumbled in agreement.
The two of them began chatting about mundane things—the quality of discount grocery meat, the annoying frequency of TV license fee collectors, the merits of a new brand of instant noodles. It was utterly, beautifully normal.
Fubuki, forgotten on the sidelines, could only stare, her mind struggling to reconcile what she was seeing. The legendary King, a man whose name was spoken in the same breath as cataclysmic events, had just confronted another hero over a video game, received what was clearly a broken item, and then... instantly forgiven him? Now they were debating the cost-effectiveness of noodle toppings?
She watched the easy, casual dynamic between the S-Class titan and the B-Class rookie. There was no hierarchy here, no posturing. Saitama didn't treat King with awe, and King didn't dismiss Saitama for his low rank. They were just... friends.
It was a shocking, almost subversive concept in the rigidly structured world of the Hero Association. For Fubuki, who built her entire group around power, rank, and control, the sight was profoundly disorienting. The two most powerful men she had ever been in the presence of were ignoring her completely, their conversation a world away from gods and monsters, centered entirely on the mundane details of everyday life. And in that mundane exchange, she sensed a bond far stronger than any her Blizzard Group could ever hope to forge.
-
The atmosphere in Saitama's apartment returned to its default state of placid normalcy after Fubuki's departure. King finished his tea, the brief storm over his game now a forgotten squall. He placed the empty cup down with a soft clink.
"Well, I should be going," he rumbled, rising to his feet with a grace that still felt new. "Thank you for the... tea."
Saitama gave a noncommittal grunt from his spot on the floor, already flipping through another manga. Genos, ever the formalist, bowed deeply. "Farewell, King. It was an honor to witness your... discussion."
A wry smile touched King's lips. He makes everything sound so dramatic. With a final nod, he let himself out, closing the door on the quiet chaos of the apartment.
Out on the street, he checked his phone. The afternoon was still young, the sun hanging a few hours above the horizon. The encounter with Fubuki had been a bizarre diversion, but it hadn't drained him. In fact, the simple normalcy of resolving the game situation with Saitama had left him feeling oddly energized.
"The day's not over yet," he muttered to himself, his gaze drifting from the bustling main streets toward the familiar, skeletal skyline of Z-City. The pull was instinctual now. "Might as well get a few more in. Can't let the points go to waste."
His journey back into the ruins was a study in efficient motion. No longer the hesitant trespasser, he moved with the confident stride of a landowner surveying his property. The system's map glowed softly in his perception, a constellation of faint red blips guiding his path.
His hunting was methodical, almost clinical.
He found a Wolf-level sludge monster oozing from a drainpipe. A single, focused pulse of his King's Aura - Lv. 3 was enough. The creature's primitive mind short-circuited under the pressure, its form liquefying into a harmless puddle without him ever raising a hand.
[Wolf-level Threat: Corrosive Ooze - Status: Terminated]
[BP Generated: +450]
[Total BP: 3,120]
A pair of agile, cat-like monsters with blade-tipped tails attempted to ambush him from a crumbling balcony. King didn't even bother with the aura. His King's Eyes - Lv. 1 flared, the world snapping into a tapestry of trajectories. He saw their pounce before their muscles even bunched. He sidestepped the first, his King's Armor-clad forearm deflecting the second's bladed tail with a shower of sparks. A swift, superhuman backhand sent the first crashing into a wall, while a direct punch reduced the second to dissipating mist.
[Tiger-level Threat: Twin Razor-Tails - DEFEATED]
[BP Generated: +1,600]
[Total BP: 4,720]
It was routine. Efficient. The BP tally climbed at a steady, satisfying rate. He was polishing his skills, making the synergy between his body, aura, and perception as smooth as the combos in his fighting games. He was so engrossed in the rhythm of the hunt that the chime from his Hero Association-issued phone was a jarring interruption.
Frowning, he pulled it out. It wasn't a localized alert, but a general broadcast to all heroes, a BOLO (Be On the Lookout).
The screen displayed a grainy photo and a brief dossier.
SUBJECT: Garou
DESCRIPTION: White-haired male, powerful build, extreme martial arts proficiency.
STATUS: Highly dangerous. Assaulting multiple heroes. Self-proclaimed "Human Monster."
BACKGROUND: Former student of dojo of S-Class Rank 3 Hero, Silver Fang.
ADVISORY: Exercise extreme caution. Do not engage alone. Report all sightings immediately.
King stared at the text, the familiar, cold knot of anxiety tightening in his stomach, but it was different this time. It wasn't the blind panic of a coward. It was the calculated wariness of a warrior assessing a new, unpredictable variable.
"A human... hunting heroes?" he murmured, the words feeling strange on his tongue. The monsters he fought were straightforward—they were beasts, forces of nature. This was different. This was a person, with skill and intent. Someone who, according to this, could take on multiple heroes and win.
He looked around the quiet ruins, at the fading notifications of his recent, easy victories. The grind for points suddenly felt a lot simpler than whatever chaos this "Garou" was bringing.
Closing the message, he slid the phone back into his pocket. The sun was dipping lower, painting the ruins in long, ominous shadows. His farming session was over. The points, 4,720, were a decent haul. But as he turned for home, the name Garou echoed in his mind, a single, discordant note in the otherwise satisfying rhythm of his new life. The game had just gotten a lot more complicated.