The reason Shintaro hadn't let the Black Sperm pour out into the dining room was straightforward.
Jotaro had made it explicitly clear they were not welcome in the house. That alone would have been enough of a deterrent — but there was a second, more practical concern. These Black Sperm were born directly from Shintaro's own spirit. Theoretically, they inherited fragments of the memories and instincts of a Dragon-level executive. If they started speaking freely around people they didn't yet understand, there would be no controlling what they said.
Better to keep them contained. For now.
Shintaro exhaled slowly and let out a deeply satisfied burp. The gnawing, hollow hunger that had been clawing at him finally receded, replaced by a rising sense of fullness and something harder to name — a dense, quiet kind of power settling into his body like ballast.
He pressed his palm against his abdomen and closed his eyes, carefully feeling the changes within.
In the pitch-black space of his mind, voices stirred.
"Boss, what are you just sitting there staring at?" "More. Give us more." "It's been forever since we've had protein this rich."
The Black Sperm spoke upward toward him from the darkness, and he could feel them just as clearly as they could feel him — a two-way awareness, like nerve endings at both ends of the same wire.
And they were multiplying.
Ten. A hundred. Five hundred. The splitting surged and didn't stop until a long, violent wave finally broke.
Shintaro opened his eyes and did a rough count.
About five thousand.
Still worlds away from anything resembling the Platinum-class upper ceiling. The fusion form — that absurd, muscular golden mass — remained completely beyond his reach. But he was no longer the pitiful person who had nearly been roasted alive by a stray fireball. If all five thousand swarmed together in a single push, even Jotaro would probably develop an opinion about it.
"Oh my," Holly said cheerfully, stacking the last of the empty plates, "I really didn't expect you to have such a hearty appetite, Shintaro. You're so thin, too." She tilted her head, genuinely puzzled by the math. "I'll need to buy more meat the next time I go shopping."
"I'm really sorry for the trouble," Shintaro said, getting to his feet. "Aunt Holly — let me wash the dishes."
"Eh? No, no, absolutely not." Holly waved her hands in something approaching alarm. "You're a guest! And you have amnesia! How could I let you do chores?"
"Please," Shintaro insisted, already reaching for the tray. "After eating that much, I'd feel terrible just sitting there. And besides..." He hesitated, then added more quietly, "I want a little time alone to organize my thoughts."
He needed privacy. He needed to test his Stand properly — away from eyes that could draw awkward conclusions.
Holly wavered, clearly conflicted between hospitality instincts and the look of genuine sincerity on Shintaro's face.
Before she could decide either way, Joseph laughed from the side and tossed a cookie into his mouth.
"Hahahaha! Holly, if the kid's that determined, just let him do it!" He leaned back, squinting at Shintaro with playful curiosity. "Besides, I'm personally interested to see whether a Stand that's absorbed that much energy washes plates better than my face did when I was young."
"Father, really..." Holly sighed helplessly. Then she nodded at Shintaro with a gentle expression. "Alright. I'll leave it to you. The dish soap is to the left of the sink."
"Leave it to me," Shintaro said earnestly.
He picked up the considerable mountain of plates and carried it into the kitchen.
Once inside, he turned on the faucet. The steady rush of water filled the room, thick enough to swallow any sound that might escape past the door.
He stared at the sink.
It was very full.
If I wash all of this by hand, he thought grimly, I'll still be here at midnight.
But he wasn't alone.
"Come out," Shintaro said quietly. "Time to work."
Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop.
Soft, rapid sounds scattered across the kitchen floor, the counter, and even the faucet itself. A hundred palm-sized black figures crawled out of Shintaro's shadow in seconds, filling the available surfaces with their small, smug, deeply punchable faces.
One hopped directly onto the dish soap bottle and began examining it with proprietary interest. Another climbed the faucet upside-down like a gargoyle. A small cluster immediately began spinning plates across the counter like frisbees.
"Listen up," Shintaro whispered, pointing at the sink. "Your task is simple. Wash the plates. Dry them. Stack them neatly. No breaking anything. No excessive noise. If the people outside hear you —"
He didn't need to finish the sentence.
For exactly one second, the kitchen was silent.
Then outrage detonated.
One Black Sperm slammed a rag onto the floor with the fury of a man wrongly convicted, its punchable face twisted in absolute disbelief.
"Hah?! Are you joking?!"
Its voice was shrill and indignant, carrying every ounce of wounded dignity a palm-sized creature could project.
"This granddaddy is an executive of the Monster Association! A Dragon-level Monster!"
It launched itself upward, jamming a tiny finger toward Shintaro's nose from approximately thirty centimeters below it.
"And you're making us — a group of proud warriors — wash dishes?! Has your brain been kicked by a horse? We exist for destruction! For slaughter! For making the world scream! Not for lemon-scented soap bubbles and plate-drying!"
The others immediately joined in with equal passion.
"Exactly!" "The grease on these is disgusting, boss — how much did you even eat?!" "I'm going on strike! I'm splitting! I'll tear this house down!" "Where is our dignity?!"
Shintaro did not react.
He calmly reached out and pinched the loudest one by the head. Just slightly. Just enough.
"Giee —?!"
"Listen carefully," Shintaro said, his voice going very quiet and very cold. "In this world, your life energy comes from me. If I don't eat, you starve. If you don't behave — I pull you back, starve you for three days, or let that large purple gentleman outside —" he pointed toward the kitchen door "— turn you into paste."
He smiled pleasantly.
"So. Shut up. And wash the dishes."
Silence.
The Black Sperm exchanged looks.
The sound of many small creatures swallowing simultaneously rose and fell across the kitchen.
"Tch... fine." "Why so violent?" "A truly great monster knows when to adapt." "Hey — move over, that sponge is mine!"
Grumbling with tremendous feeling, they sprang into action.
What followed was genuinely surreal.
An assembly line formed in seconds. Some rinsed. Some scrubbed. Some dried. Some stacked. Their combined efficiency was frankly horrifying to witness — the kitchen had the focused, chaotic energy of a very small, very opinionated factory.
"There's still grease here! Are you blind?!" "I just cleaned that — don't step on it with your filthy feet!" "That sponge was mine — get off!"
Shintaro leaned against the refrigerator, arms folded, watching his Dragon-level labor force tear into the task with the same furious energy they would presumably bring to tearing apart a city block.
He nodded slowly in quiet satisfaction.
Honestly, he thought, supervising a hundred of them is harder than just doing it myself.
But the real discovery was more interesting than the spectacle.
Even after releasing a hundred Black Sperm at once, Shintaro noticed no drop in his mental strength. No headache forming at the edges. No dizziness, no creeping fatigue.
Which meant his stamina wasn't directly proportional to how many he released.
Which meant — as long as he could eat — he could split continuously.
The only limit seemed to be how many he could generate in a single recovery surge, and that number would grow with every meal.
That was the real trump card. Not raw power. Not resilience. Just food, and time.
Version T0: Hungry Shintaro, he thought dryly. Deployed.
Just then — the kitchen door shifted slightly.
"Shintaro?" Holly's gentle voice drifted through the gap. "Do you need any help? I thought I heard... quite a lot of little voices in there..."
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