At the Hero Association headquarters, in the highest-level decision-making room, the air felt heavy, like a storm was brewing.
On the massive screen, satellite footage played on a loop—the moment time seemed to freeze with a single slash, followed by a chaotic vortex that obliterated the entire area in a terrifying spectacle.
The backdrop of ruins and spatial rifts framed the final image: a bald, naked figure casually hopping back to the edge of a building.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the meeting's moderator said, voice dry as he pointed at the screen, "this is B-Class Rank 63, 'Bald Cape' Saitama, and the hero we invited from the neighboring jujutsu world, Nero, showcasing their power."
Dead silence.
Then, like a bomb going off, the room erupted into heated arguments.
"Are you kidding me?! How can a monster like that be just B-Class?!" one executive shouted, slamming the table. "What's the evaluation system even for? How did we miss this for years?!"
"Calm down!" another faction shot back. "Promote him straight to S-Class? That's admitting our hero evaluation system has been screwing up big time, for years! What about the Association's reputation?!"
"Reputation?" a supporter of promotion snapped, voice sharp. "Look at that wasteland! Look at the headquarters building that nearly collapsed! Master Bang, Child Emperor, Genos, even Sexy Prisoner—they all said after the fact that Saitama's power is way beyond S-Class! Even Tornado didn't argue! Isn't that enough?!"
"What about public approval?" an opponent sneered. "Bald Cape? Come on, that name! To the public, he's a walking punchline! Suddenly putting him in S-Class alongside Tornado and Bang? People will think the Association's a joke!"
"Strength is what matters! Did you see that final punch? That kind of power…" The executive's voice trembled. "Blast… could he stop time like that? Could he tank an attack like that without a scratch?"
That question was like pouring ice water into a boiling pot.
The arguments exploded even louder.
"Blast is a legend! His status is untouchable!"
"But Saitama's destructive power…"
"S-Class isn't just about destruction! It's about responsibility, teamwork…"
"Responsibility? Does he even care? All he worries about is his clothes and food!"
"But he single-handedly took down an alien fleet invading our world! Isn't that enough?"
"And that proves he can lead a team?!"
Papers flew, voices clashed, and spit practically sprayed across the room.
One side pushed to elevate this terrifying, newly risen sun to its rightful place, while the other hesitated, worried about the impact on the Association's order, authority, and public image.
Master Bang's support for Saitama was quoted. Child Emperor's analysis report was tossed onto the table. Genos's fiery "Sensei is the strongest" declaration was dismissed as fanboy rants. Sexy Prisoner's praise of Saitama's "majestic physique" made some executives' faces darken.
The debate was deadlocked. Was Saitama stronger than Blast? No one dared touch that explosive question directly, but the seeds of doubt were already planted.
---
Meanwhile, at the edge of Z City's no-man's-land, in Saitama's rundown little apartment, a different scene unfolded.
Gurgle… gurgle…
The rich aroma of meat filled the tiny space.
On an electric stove, a cheap pot bubbled happily with a pork bone broth base. Thinly sliced wagyu beef floated in the creamy soup, surrounded by cabbage, tofu, and enoki mushrooms.
"Phew—hot!" Saitama grabbed a steaming slice of beef, dipped it quickly in raw egg, and shoved it into his mouth, wincing from the heat but grinning with pure bliss. "So good!! Totally worth the premium wagyu!!"
On the table sat a brand-new, budget tracksuit—something a flustered Association staffer had scrambled to find after he rushed back to headquarters.
He had no clue that, right now, in the shiny top-floor boardroom of the Association, people were losing their minds over whether he belonged in S-Class, whether he could be S-Class, or whether he might even threaten Blast's status.
All he cared about was the meat simmering in the pot, the discounted tasty meatballs he'd scored, and the joy of reading cheap manga after a full meal.
"Another slice!" His eyes gleamed as he zeroed in on a perfectly marbled piece of beef, chopsticks moving with precision.
The Hero Association's chaos couldn't touch his little apartment, filled with the cozy scent of hotpot.
Saitama stuffed another piece of beef into his mouth, chopsticks waving like a pro, and called out to Gojo, "Don't hold back, man! Dig in, dig in—you brought this stuff, after all."
Gojo, a playful smirk on his lips, flicked his fingers—
Whoosh!
A slice of beef defied physics, flying out of the pot, dipping itself in egg, and landing neatly in Gojo's bowl.
"Hey!" Saitama, cheeks puffed with food, glared with wide eyes, mumbling, "Blind white-hair, what kinda move was that? Looks pretty cool!"
Gojo's fingers froze, his smirk twitching. "I'm not blind!" He yanked off his black blindfold, revealing his striking blue Six Eyes. "Get a good look—this is a fashion statement!"
Saitama stared at those starry eyes, then scratched his bald head and glanced at the couch where Gaio sat, arms crossed, silver hair falling over closed eyes, looking serene.
"Hey, Gaio," Saitama said, "are all you white-haired guys this good-looking?"
Gaio didn't even twitch an eyelid.
"Ehe~" Gojo suddenly covered his mouth, shoulders wiggling, voice turning high-pitched. "Oh, stop it~ I'm not that good-looking~"
He slithered over to Saitama's side like a snake. "But since you say so, Saitama-kun—"
Genos burst out of the kitchen, mechanical eyes flashing wildly. "Sensei! Stay away from that creep!"
Gojo instantly dropped the act, leaning back lazily. "Just messin' around~"
Saitama waved it off, mouth full of meat. "No biggie, no biggie. You brought all this premium wagyu, so we're cool."
His chopsticks didn't stop, snagging another slice of meat. Then he paused, glancing at the couch with a puzzled look. "By the way, why're you guys at my place?" He nodded toward Gaio.
Gaio stayed still, like a statue.
Gojo answered lazily, poking at the egg in his bowl. "Eh, hiding out. Those Association old-timers are such bureaucrats, nagging me with questions left and right. So annoying. Your place is way more chill, Saitama-kun."
He casually levitated a piece of tofu into his bowl with a flick.
"Oh." Saitama nodded vaguely, his attention already back on the pot. "Genos! Cabbage! We're almost out of cabbage!"
"Yes, Sensei!" Genos's crisp reply came from the kitchen, followed by the rhythmic sound of chopping.
The tiny apartment was filled with the sounds of simmering hotpot, Saitama's happy chewing, and Genos's steady knife work.
Suddenly, Gaio opened his eyes, locking onto Saitama mid-bite. His voice was low but clear: "Saitama."
Saitama, half a slice of beef dangling from his mouth, turned with a blank look. "Hm?"
A sly, almost mischievous smile curved Gaio's lips. "Wanna have some fun?"
Clack.
Gojo's chopsticks froze. His blue Six Eyes widened for a split second before a wild, knowing grin spread across his face, like he'd been waiting for this.
The chopping in the kitchen stopped dead.
Genos's head shot out, mechanical eyes locked on Gaio. "Sensei! Do not agree to any dangerous ideas!" His turbine core let out a menacing hum.
Saitama, beef still in his mouth, blinked his dead-fish eyes, processing the word "fun" and the guy who could kick planets like soccer balls.
A few seconds later, he swallowed the beef, his eyes lighting up with curiosity. "Fun? What kinda fun? Like, discount coupon kinda fun?!"
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