The familiar, worn walls of his apartment were a stark contrast to the devastated city blocks he had left behind. King sat in the quiet hum of his living room, the only sound the steady, deep thrum of the King Engine—a sound that was no longer just for show, but the very rhythm of his growing power.
His hands rested on his knees, but in his mind, they were still crackling with energy. He could still feel the phantom sensation of the Seismic Clap, the raw, concussive force that erupted from a simple gesture. He replayed the memory of the Kinetic Blast, the satisfying PANG as it punched through solid iron with instantaneous, pinpoint accuracy. A slow, genuine smile spread across his face. The feeling had been… incredible. It was power, pure and undiluted. For a man who had lived his entire life in fear, the sensation of truly holding the means to obliterate threats was intoxicating.
But the pleasant memory was instantly soured by a sharper, more visceral one. A white-hot spike of pain lancing through his chest. The King Engine seizing, faltering, hurting. The stark, red warning from the system after using King's Authority.
[Severe recoil damage is probable.]
The smile vanished, replaced by a grimace. He absently rubbed his sternum, the ghost of the pain a potent reminder. He had the ultimate trump card, a power that could level city blocks, but his body was the fragile trigger. It was like wielding a divine sword that burned the hands of any but a god.
"This isn't sustainable," he murmured to the silent room.
The immediate problem wasn't just the recoil; it was the economy of his growth. He had picked Z-City clean. The steady, manageable flow of Tiger and Wolf-level threats had dried up, reduced to a trickle. The BP he needed for the next tier of abilities—not to mention the exorbitant cost of the Ultimate Hellfire Burst Wave Motion Cannon—was a mountain, and he was now digging for pebbles.
His mind, sharpened by High Combat Instincts, presented the logical, terrifying solution: he needed bigger game.
A Demon-level threat.
The very thought sent a primal jolt of fear down his spine. These were catastrophes that could destroy multiple cities. The heroes who fought them were legends among legends. To actively seek one out was madness.
But the calculus was undeniable. The BP reward from a single Demon-level threat could probably dwarf weeks, perhaps months, of scrounging for Tiger-level monsters. It would catapult him forward, funding not just new abilities, but likely the upgrades to his physical vessel and King Aura that he so desperately needed to wield his full power without self-destruction.
'I could afford to strengthen my body. I could make the recoil manageable,' he thought, the ambition a cold fire in his gut.
He stood up and walked to the window, looking out over the city's skyline. Somewhere out there, in the deeper, darker disaster zones, such monsters lurked. He had the tools now. A Seismic Clap could shatter a giant's leg. A Kinetic Blast could snipe a critical weak point from a kilometer away. And if cornered… King's Authority was a guaranteed, if costly, finisher.
But the High Combat Instincts that provided the strategy also screamed the risks. A single mistake against such a foe would be fatal. His armor might not hold. His speed might not be enough. The raw power difference was still an unknown, terrifying variable.
"No," he concluded aloud, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the windowpane. "Not yet."
He was armed, but he wasn't ready. He was a strategist, not a gambler. Charging into a Demon's lair with his current limitations was a fool's errand.
The plan, then, was refinement. He needed to master his new arsenal completely. He needed to push his King's Armor and Aura to their absolute limits against the strongest Tiger-level threats he could find, perhaps on the outskirts of other cities. He needed to understand the exact thresholds of his endurance.
The grind wasn't over; it had simply evolved. The goal was no longer just accumulating points. It was preparing for the single, high-stakes hunt that would change everything.
He turned from the window, his golden eyes gleaming with determined calculation. The King Engine's beat shifted, no longer just a marker of power, but the ticking of a clock counting down to a much greater confrontation.
"First, mastery," King vowed to the quiet of his apartment. "Then a Demon-level."
King rose from his chair, the quiet determination solidifying into a plan. Simply having the abilities wasn't enough. He needed to make them his own, to weave them into the fabric of his combat style until they were as natural as breathing. The Seismic Clap, the Kinetic Blast, the perilous King's Authority—they were powerful, but currently, they were isolated tools in a box.
His Adaptive Combat Instincts hummed in the back of his mind, already presenting possibilities, synergies he hadn't considered before.
'A Kinetic Blast to the knee to break a charge, followed by a point-blank Seismic Clap to finish it,' he thought, pacing the length of his small apartment. 'Using the shockwave from a clap to throw debris into the air, obscuring vision, then using King's Eyes to target through it with a blast...' The combinations unfolded like a tactical manual in his mind. His ability wasn't just telling him how to fight; it was teaching him how to orchestrate.
But to test these theories, to grind this new form of mastery, he needed space. A lot of it. And targets. The ruins of Z-City were picked clean, and the last thing he needed was a building collapsing on him because he misjudged the angle of a Kinetic Blast.
He needed a proper training ground. Somewhere isolated, durable, and—ideally—somewhere he wouldn't be observed.
His thoughts, as they so often did when considering the truly absurd aspects of his life, drifted to one person: Saitama.
The Caped Baldy was an enigma. Possessing incalculable power, yet living a life of mundane obscurity. More importantly, he lived in Z-City, right in the heart of the most dangerous zone. If anyone would know of a place where one could make a lot of noise and destruction without attracting attention, it would be him. Saitama seemed to have a preternatural talent for finding, or perhaps creating, deserted spaces.
"It's worth asking," King rumbled to himself, the decision made.
Grabbing his jacket, King headed for the door. The goal was clear: find Saitama, ask about a training location, and begin the next phase. This wasn't just about accumulating power anymore. It was about refinement. It was about transforming a collection of devastating techniques into a seamless, adaptive combat style worthy of the title he bore.
The King Engine beat a steady, purposeful rhythm as he stepped out into the evening, a strategist on his way to secure the proving grounds for his new arsenal.
-
Leaving his apartment, King's destination was clear. The journey back into Z-City's ruins was now a familiar commute. His King's Eyes, active out of habit, scanned the surroundings, but his mind was not on hunting. It was on synthesis. He needed a place where he could practice chaining a Kinetic Blast into a close-range Seismic Clap, or using his aura to disorient a target before unleashing the precise, piercing force of a blast. His Adaptive Combat Instincts provided the theoretical frameworks, but they needed a practical canvas.
And for that, he needed space. A lot of it.
A strategic thought, born from their unique friendship, prompted a detour. He spotted the same fortified convenience store and, without hesitation, went inside. He emerged moments later carrying a small, carefully wrapped package of premium steak. It wasn't a bribe; it was a language. For Saitama, the complexities of superhuman power systems and training regimens could be effortlessly translated through the simple, universal grammar of high-quality meat.
Bag in hand, he moved deeper. The ruins were quieter than ever, a testament to his own efficiency. He passed the colossal, grooved trench left by King's Authority, a stark reminder of both his power and its cost. Soon, the bizarrely intact apartment building came into view, a lone sentinel in a field of decay.
Climbing the stairs, the low, steady thrum of the King Engine was a comfortable presence, not a nervous one. He stood before the door and knocked.
The door opened to reveal Saitama in his standard casual wear—a simple yellow jumpsuit. His expression was its usual placid state.
"King. Hey," he said, his voice flat. His eyes, however, immediately dipped to the bag in King's hand, a flicker of interest breaking through the neutrality.
"Saitama," King replied with a nod. He lifted the bag. "I come bearing a question, and this."
Saitama's gaze lingered on the package for a second longer before he stepped back, pulling the door wide open. "Sure. Get in."
The familiar, sparse interior of Saitama's apartment was a comforting constant. King handed over the package of meat, which Saitama accepted with a nod that carried more genuine appreciation than most of his utterances.
"Thanks. I'll have this for dinner," Saitama said, placing it neatly in his small fridge before turning back to King. "So, what's up? You don't usually just drop by with fancy meat."
"You're right," King rumbled, getting straight to the point. The ease of their friendship made the request simple. "I need a place to train. Somewhere isolated, where I don't have to worry about collateral damage or... startling any civilians."
Saitama blinked, processing the question. "Train? Oh, right. With that... game menu thingy you have? The one that gives you the glowy stuff?"
"Yes. Exactly," King confirmed, relieved he didn't have to re-explain the system. "My new abilities require space to master safely. I can't practice them here."
Saitama was silent for a moment, a single finger tapping on his chin as he stared at the ceiling in thought. Then, his eyes cleared.
"Oh. Yeah. There's a place," he said, his tone as casual as if he were giving directions to a post office. "Out past the old industrial sector, deep in the quarantine zone. There's a huge, sunken valley there. Genos and I used it to spar a while back. It's pretty busted up already, so no one will care if you break it more. Lots of big rocks and ruined foundations to use as targets. No people for miles."
A wave of relief washed over King. It was perfect. A place already vetted for S-Class level activity, known to Saitama, and most importantly, deserted.
"That sounds ideal," King said, his voice filled with genuine gratitude. "Thank you, Saitama."
"No problem," Saitama shrugged, already looking towards the fridge as if mentally preparing his meal. "Just try not to level the whole valley, I guess. It's a pain to find new spots." He glanced back at King, a flicker of what might have been curiosity in his eyes. "Those new powers that strong, huh?"
King met his friend's gaze, the memory of the chest-crushing recoil fresh in his mind. "One of them is," he admitted. "That's why I need the space."
Saitama just nodded, as if King had confirmed the salt content of a new brand of chips. "Right. Well, good luck with it."
With the crucial information secured, a comfortable silence fell between them. The transaction—meat for knowledge—was complete, and the foundation for King's next great leap in power had been laid.
The conversation with Saitama had been brief and efficient, as they tended to be. After securing the vital information about the training ground, they spent a few more minutes discussing the merits of an upcoming co-operative monster-hunting game, its release date, and whether its developer had a good track record with post-launch support. It was a slice of profound normalcy that King cherished. Then, with a final nod of thanks, he took his leave, the image of the sunken valley now a bright, fixed point in his mind's eye.
His journey took him deeper into Z-City's heart than he had ever ventured before. He moved beyond the familiar ruins he had picked clean, into a landscape that felt increasingly primordial and alien. The skeletal remains of skyscrapers gave way to a vast, rust-colored industrial sector—a graveyard of factories with their roofs peeled back like tin cans and silos lying on their sides, spilling decades-old, petrified contents onto the ground. The air here tasted of old metal and alkaline dust.
Following Saitama's directions, he pushed on, until the ground itself began to change. The paved roads fractured into great tectonic plates of asphalt, and then disappeared entirely, giving way to a scarred and blasted plain. And then, he saw it.
It was less a valley and more a colossal wound in the earth, as if a god had taken a scoop out of the continent. The basin was vast, easily several kilometers across, its edges sheared and ragged. A sense of immense, silent power hung over the place, a stillness that was not peaceful, but post-cataclysmic. The very air was dead; no wind seemed to stir here, as if even the atmosphere was afraid to disturb the echoes of past violence.
King stood at the rim, his eyes wide behind their golden glow. His King's Eyes, which usually saw the shimmering auras of life, saw nothing here. This place was utterly sterile. But what they did see, written into the very landscape, was a history of unimaginable force.
The floor of the basin was a mosaic of destruction, a textbook of S-Class power. Vast, glassy swathes of earth, where sand had been fused into obsidian-like sheets, glittered under the sun. These were punctuated by long, deep furrows of blackened, vitrified rock, tracing paths of what could only have been incinerating plasma beams. Genos, King thought. The precision of the destruction, the sheer thermal overload—it was the cyborg's signature written large.
But that was merely the preamble.
His gaze was drawn to the far end of the valley. There, the geography had been rearranged with casual, absurd brutality. What had once been a single, towering mountain was now a half-collapsed ruin, its peak sheared off as if by a gargantuan knife. The rubble of its upper half was scattered across the basin in house-sized boulders. And behind it, the mountains that should have formed a serene, distant backdrop were… gone. In their place was a jagged, gap-toothed skyline. One was missing its entire central section, leaving two lonely pillars of rock at either end. Another looked as if a giant fist had punched a clean hole through its core.
A slow, cold realization settled in King's gut, a feeling that was part awe and part primal fear. The burn marks were from Genos. But this… the casual deletion of geological features… this was Saitama. This was what it looked like when his friend wasn't even trying, when a casual sparring session required him to pull a punch so as not to annihilate the planet. The sheer, mind-numbing scale of it made the power King had so painstakingly grinded for feel like a child's sparkler.
He found a path down into the basin, his boots crunching on the unique, brittle gravel of the place. Up close, the details were even more staggering. He passed a boulder the size of his apartment building that had been cleanly split in two, the inner surface smooth as polished marble. He saw footprints—not Saitama's, he was sure the man didn't leave such traces, but Genos's—that were ten-foot-wide craters of melted rock.
He had found the perfect place. There was no one to worry about because nothing could live here. He could unleash Seismic Clap with all his might and it would be a whisper compared to the cataclysms this ground had absorbed. He could fire Kinetic Blasts at the shattered cliffsides and barely add to the existing damage. And as for King's Authority… he looked at the hollowed-out mountain. The recoil might still hurt him, but the valley itself would simply shrug.
He stood in the center of the devastation, the absolute silence pressing in on him. This was the stage. Here, he would forge his disparate abilities into a single, cohesive weapon. Here, he would push his limits without restraint.
"Time to train," King whispered, his voice swallowed by the immense, hungry silence. But this time, it was different. He wasn't just accumulating power. He was learning to conduct it. And he was doing so in the shadow of the very pinnacle he one day hoped to approach.