The rhythm of the past few days had been predictable, almost meditative. A steady patrol, a flicker of malevolent presence on his King's Eyes, a swift intervention, the chime of BP, and the swelling tide of public belief. It was a perfect, sustainable system. But today, the rhythm was broken.
King had been patrolling for hours, his senses stretched to their limit, and found nothing. Not a single Wolf-level pest, not a hint of Tiger-level aggression. The city was unnaturally, unsettlingly clean of the usual festering monstrosities. It was as if the vermin had been scared away, or... called to order. A faint prickle of unease, the same one that had guided him against the Jumping Spider, ran down his spine. This silence wasn't peaceful; it was the quiet of a drawn breath before a scream.
He was on the verge of concluding his patrol, the strange emptiness nagging at him, when the world shattered.
It didn't start in one place. It was a symphony of chaos erupting across the entire city district at once. The shriek of twisting metal from the east. The deep crump of an explosion to the south. The high-frequency glassy tinkle of shattering windows from the west, all underscored by the unifying, terrified chorus of thousands of human screams.
His King's Eyes flared to life, and his system map, which had been blank, was suddenly inundated. Red blips—dozens of them—materialized all across his mental overlay. Not just Wolf or Tiger. He saw clusters of Wolf-level signals swarming like insects, multiple Tiger-level presences pulsing with aggressive energy, and among them... two, no, three larger, denser signals that made his instincts scream Demon-level.
This wasn't random. This was an invasion.
His phone vibrated with a frantic, priority override ringtone. He snatched it, his voice a gravelly bark. "King."
"King! Emergency broadcast!" The dispatcher's voice was stripped of all its former awe, raw with panic. "We have simultaneous, coordinated monster attacks in City Q, City D, City M, and your location! Multiple Demon-level threats confirmed! We're dispatching all available S-Class and A-Class heroes, but we're stretched thin! Your orders?!"
The scale of it was staggering. Multiple cities. Multiple Demons. This was the "threat" he had so casually invented. The lie had become a devastating reality.
His mind, sharpened by High Combat Instincts, analyzed the battlefield in a microsecond. He was one man. He couldn't be everywhere. But he was here.
"I will handle the situation in my sector," King commanded, his voice dropping into the low, earth-shaking register he used for his most absolute pronouncements. The King Engine, reacting to the crisis, ignited not with fear, but with a roaring, thunderous intensity that vibrated through the phone line. "Focus your resources elsewhere. This city is under my protection."
He didn't wait for a response. He ended the call and stuffed the phone into his pocket.
His gaze swept over the rising plumes of smoke, the distant, monstrous silhouettes now visible over the skyline. The time for patrols was over. The time for decisive, overwhelming force had begun.
"Royal Acceleration."
The world compressed into a tunnel of streaking color and sound. He was no longer a man but a projectile, a golden comet of retribution aimed at the heart of the nearest crisis. The freedom he had felt before was gone, replaced by a grim, focused purpose. Civilians on the street below saw only a golden afterimage and a sudden, concussive boom of displaced air as he broke the sound barrier, the wind of his passage tearing signs from their moorings.
He didn't need to think. His body and his abilities were one. The first target was a Tiger-level monstrosity that resembled a giant, acidic amoeba, oozing through the street and dissolving cars and pavement. King didn't slow down. As he blitzed past, he flicked his wrist.
FWOOM! FWOOM! FWOOM!
A volley of Kinetic Blasts, no larger than bullets, pierced the creature's core in a perfect line. It shuddered, its form destabilizing, and then burst into a harmless, sizzling puddle.
The system chimed, the sound almost lost in the roar of the city and his own heartbeat. He didn't acknowledge it. He was already changing course, his King's Eyes locking onto the next target—a pack of wolf-level flyers harrying a fleeing crowd.
He was a force of nature, a scalpel cutting out the cancer of this invasion one tumor at a time. But as he moved, a cold, strategic part of his mind understood the truth. This was not a mindless rampage. This was a plan. A coordinated, multi-city attack designed to stretch the Hero Association to its breaking point.
And he, the legendary King, was now a primary component of their defense.
The world became a blur of calculated motion and overwhelming force. King moved through the chaos like a god of war, his every action a testament to the power he had grinded so long to achieve. His King's Eyes tracked a dozen threats at once, prioritizing, calculating. A Kinetic Blast from his fingertip snipped the wing off a flying Tiger-level beast, sending it crashing into a horde of Wolf-level spiderlings. A controlled Seismic Clap pulverized a charging, rhino-like monster into dust, while the concussive wave threw back a dozen smaller foes.
He was a whirlwind. When a swarm of insectoid monsters descended, he didn't bother with precise shots. He simply let the King Engine roar at its maximum, deafening intensity. The sheer, psychic pressure of his unleashed legend was too much for their simple minds; they seized up and dropped from the sky like stones, their internal organs ruptured. It was brutally efficient. The BP counter in his vision was a frantic, scrolling ticker he no longer had time to read.
After what felt like both an eternity and a single, frenetic minute, the tide in his immediate area began to ebb. The screams were replaced by the wail of sirens and the stunned sobs of relief. King stood amidst the wreckage, his golden armor flickering as he deactivated it, his chest heaving slightly. The sheer scale of the coordinated attack was staggering.
It was then his King's Eyes noted something strange. The trail of destruction didn't just lead to him. Another path of annihilated monsters wove through the city, a path of far more… absolute carnage. He followed it with his gaze, his enhanced perception taking in the details. There were Demon-level signatures he had detected earlier, now completely extinguished. But the remains weren't charred from his blasts or crushed by his fists. They were just… gone. Pulverized into fine mist or neatly split into sections.
A cold knot of understanding formed in his gut. There was only one person who cleaned up with such casual, incomprehensible finality.
He followed the trail, stepping over the dissolving remains of a monster that had been punched into a perfect, donut-like shape. He turned a corner into a completely leveled city block, and there he was.
Saitama. He wasn't in his hero suit. He was wearing a cheap, slightly torn tracksuit, and his head was… covered by a lopsided, terrible-looking black wig. He was poking at the remains of a multi-armed Demon-level horror with his foot, looking bored.
"Saitama," King rumbled, the King Engine settling into a slower, more relieved rhythm.
Saitama looked up, his expression blank as ever. "Oh. King. Hey." He gestured vaguely at the wig. "Don't ask. It's a long story. There was a tournament. Charanko stuff. Heard all the noise and figured I'd see what was up." He looked around at the apocalyptic scenery. "Messy."
King felt a wave of profound relief. With Saitama here, the "situation in his sector" was more than handled. "Your timing is… appreciated."
"Yeah, well. You seemed to have things pretty handled yourself," Saitama remarked, noting the trail of King's own destruction. "Got all glowy and fast."
The two most powerful beings in the sector, stood amidst the ruins of the Monster's vanguard force. It was an absurdly peaceful moment at the eye of the storm.
They began to walk together, a silent agreement passing between them that the immediate threat was over. The silence was comfortable, a stark contrast to the recent cacophony.
"It appears the threat I… sensed… has manifested," King said, the lie now tasting like ash and truth.
"Guess so," Saitama shrugged. "Monsters are getting organized. It's kinda annoying."
They walked a few more steps. It was then that a new presence registered on King's King's Eyes—a fast-moving, human-shaped blip radiating a cocktail of pain, fury, and immense, untamed power. It was coming right for them.
From a side alley, a figure lunged. He was battered and bloody, his white hair matted with grime, his costume torn, but his eyes burned with a feral, world-rending hatred. It was Garou, the Hero Hunter. He moved with a predator's grace, his body coiling to strike at the legendary heart of the hero world standing before him: King.
"KING!" Garou snarled, his voice a guttural promise of violence.
King's body reacted instantly. His King's Armor flashed to life around his torso, his King's Eyes dilated, calculating Garou's trajectory, his muscles tensed to activate Royal Acceleration. This was it. The fight he had been warned about.
He never got the chance.
Saitama, who had been walking slightly ahead and to the side, didn't even turn. He simply lifted his right leg in a lazy, almost dismissive, backward kick.
It connected with Garou's torso with a sound like a wet sack of flour hitting a wall at mach speed.
THWUMP.
Garou's charge stopped dead. His eyes bulged, all the air and ambition forced from his lungs in a single, pained gasp. He was launched backward like a discarded toy, smashing through a brick wall with a sickening crunch, leaving a perfect, human-shaped hole in the masonry. A cloud of dust billowed out, and then there was silence.
Saitama lowered his leg. "Huh. That guy again." He glanced back at King. "You okay?"
King stared at the Garou-shaped hole in the wall, then at Saitama's completely unconcerned back. The King Engine, which had spiked for a single, preparatory beat, settled back into a slow, bewildered rhythm.
"...I am fine," King managed, his voice a low rumble.
"Cool. Let's go.
And just like that, the confrontation with the hero hunter was over. King gave the wall one last, lingering look, then fell into step beside his friend, the two of them walking away from the chaos as if they'd just taken a casual stroll through a slightly troublesome park. The grind continued, but some problems, it seemed, had solutions he couldn't have grinded for in a thousand years.
The bizarre normalcy of his walk with Saitama, punctuated by the jarringly casual neutralization of Garou, eventually came to an end. They parted ways with a simple nod, two forces of nature returning to their respective orbits. For Saitama, it was likely the pursuit of a sale on groceries. For King, the work was not yet done.
He returned to the shattered streets, the King Engine now a low, purposeful hum as he conducted a final, sweeping patrol. His King's Eyes scanned every alley and crater, but the malevolent red blips were gone. The only remnants of the invasion were the dissolving carcasses of monsters, the stunned silence of the civilians, and the frantic work of emergency services. He helped where he could—using his armored strength to lift a collapsed beam for trapped survivors, his imposing presence creating a safe perimeter for paramedics to work. With each small act, the trickle of BP continued, a final, satisfying coda to the day's symphony of violence.
As he finally turned towards home, the adrenaline receded, leaving behind a profound weariness and the stark, numerical summary of his efforts.
[Total BP: 92,250]
The number was staggering. Nearly a hundred thousand Belief Points, earned in a single, brutal day. It was a king's ransom, a testament to the sheer scale of the carnage he had inflicted and the countless lives his presence had saved. He had transcended the grind; he had become a genuine, city-wide calamity for his enemies. Yet, looking at the number, he felt no triumph, only a cold, heavy certainty. This was not a bounty; it was a war chest.
---
The following morning, the true scale of the previous day's events was unveiled not on the streets, but on the screen. King sat in his quiet apartment, a cup of tea growing cold in his hands as he watched the news. The footage was chaotic and terrifying, a mirror of what he had experienced, but playing out across multiple cities.
"...confirmed simultaneous attacks in Cities Q, D, M, and J," a grim-faced news anchor reported, the screen splitting to show devastation from each location. "The Hero Association has confirmed the deployment of multiple S-Class heroes to contain the threats."
The report cut to shaky footage of Pig God consuming a monstrous serpent whole. It showed Drive Knight in a sleek, transforming vehicle, systematically dismantling a crystalline beast. Then came the more staggering reports.
"In City Z, witnesses report the appearance of the legendary monster, Elder Centipede, a catastrophe designated as Dragon-level."
King's blood ran cold. Dragon-level. A threat endangering multiple cities. The footage showed the colossal, segmented horror dwarfing skyscrapers before the screen cut to the aftermath—a tunnel bored straight through the urban landscape, the monster gone.
The Hero Association has released a statement..."
But King was only half-listening. The pieces were snapping together with terrifying clarity. The coordinated attacks. The multiple Demon-level threats. A Dragon-level monster making a calculated appearance. This was not a random uprising. This was a declaration of war.
The news anchor's voice grew even more solemn. "The most alarming development came not from the battles themselves, but from their aftermath. The Hero Association has confirmed that during the chaos, a coordinated kidnapping took place. Waganma, the son of Hero Association executive Narinki, was abducted from a secure location."
A photo of a young, well-dressed boy flashed on the screen.
"The perpetrators have been identified," the anchor declared, the words landing with the weight of a final judgment. "A previously unknown organization calling itself the Monster Association has claimed responsibility for yesterday's attacks and the abduction. They have issued a direct challenge to the Hero Association."
The screen filled with the official Hero Association seal. A spokesperson appeared, face etched with gravity. "Let there be no mistake. This is an act of war. We will not negotiate with monsters. We will retrieve the child and we will eradicate this so-called Monster Association from the face of the earth. All available S-Class heroes are to prepare for a full-scale, assault operation. The location of their headquarters is our top priority."
King reached out and turned the television off. The silence in his apartment was absolute, broken only by the slow, heavy, and now deeply ominous DOOM... DOOM... DOOM... of the King Engine.
He sat there for a long time, the cold tea forgotten. His convenient lie, his flimsy excuse for patrolling, had been a prophecy after all. A war between the heroes and monsters was no longer a possibility; it was an inevitability. And he, the "Strongest Man on Earth," would be on the front lines.
His gaze turned inward, to the system interface and the immense sum of 92,250 BP. This was no longer about incremental growth or quality-of-life upgrades. This was about survival in the most literal sense. The Monster Association had demonstrated they could deploy Dragon-level threats. He had faced a single Demon-level monster and nearly died. The thought of walking into their lair, a confined space likely filled with multiple Demon-levels and who knew what else, sent a primal jolt of fear through him.
But beneath the fear, a steely resolve hardened. He had chosen this path. He had decided to become the legend. That meant bearing its weight.
"He was just a pretext," King rumbled to the silent room, thinking of the kidnapped boy, Waganma. "A symbol to draw us out. To make us fight on their terms."
He stood up, his massive frame casting a long shadow in the room. The time for saving up was over. The time for preparation was now. He needed to analyze his abilities, the shop, and find the key—the one purchase that would give him not just an edge, but a chance at victory in the coming hell.
The board was set. The pieces were moving. And King, for the first time, was stepping onto it, as a player who understood the stakes.