Zombieman's world was pain. An infinite, looping fractal of agony. His limiter, that stubborn psychic barrier, was straining but not breaking. His body was a warzone, cells dying and regenerating a billion times a second. He was a man being erased and rewritten in every instant, trapped in a hurricane of his own biology.
Dr. Genus monitored the readings, his holographic face grim. "He's stabilizing," he said, his voice a low hum of disappointment and concern. "His regenerative factor is too efficient. It's adapting to the trauma, treating the simulation as a chronic condition rather than an acute, world-ending threat. It's not enough."
He looked at the psychic resonance amplifier. "We need a new variable. Something his system isn't prepared for. An element of true chaos."
An idea sparked in the doctor's brilliant mind, a terrible, reckless idea. There was only one source of pure, unadulterated chaos he could think of. A walking paradox that had single-handedly upended his entire understanding of genetics and power.
He tapped into a secure, encrypted communication channel he had established long ago, one he had hoped never to use. A small speaker in the lab crackled to life.
"Genos," he said, his voice tinny and distant. "It is Dr. Genus. I require your assistance. It is a matter of… extreme scientific urgency. And it involves your master."
The meeting was over. The walk of shame, or triumph, depending on who you asked, was complete. Saitama, Genos, and Fubuki stood on the curb outside the towering HA headquarters.
Saitama just wanted to go home and see if there was a sale on instant noodles. Fubuki was already mentally drafting a three-year strategic plan for managing "The Saitama Brand." Genos was discreetly recording the atmospheric pressure changes caused by Fubuki's smug psychic aura.
Genos's internal communicator buzzed, a signal no one else could hear. He stiffened, his expression, which was usually somewhere between 'serious' and 'extremely serious,' shifted to 'catastrophically serious.'
"Sensei," he said, turning abruptly. "I have just received a priority-one message from my creator, Dr. Genus. He requires our presence immediately. He states it concerns the nature of your power."
Saitama groaned. "Him again? The guy with the clones? Tell him I'm busy. I have to go… pay my rent."
"He said it was an emergency, Sensei. And it is tied to the Zombieman's attempts to replicate your limiter-breaking." Genos relayed the information with perfect accuracy. "He mentioned… a new variable is needed."
Fubuki's perfectly sculpted eyebrows rose. Zombieman was trying to copy Saitama? The very idea was insane. And fascinating. "The House of Evolution doctor?" she asked, her curiosity piqued. "What could he possibly want with Saitama?"
"That information is classified," Genos stated flatly, already turning to leave. "Sensei, the doctor's new laboratory is subterranean. The fastest route is direct."
Before Saitama could protest, Genos grabbed his arm, his boosters igniting with a roar. They shot off into the sky, leaving a bewildered Fubuki standing on the sidewalk in a cloud of dust and jet fuel.
She brushed a piece of grit off her dress, her composure unruffled but her mind churning. Zombieman. Dr. Genus. A secret experiment to replicate Saitama's power. This was a thread. An important one. Sitch and the HA executives were wrestling with the political fallout of Saitama's existence. But the real game, the scientific and philosophical one, was happening in the shadows. And she had just been cut out of the loop.
"Unacceptable," she muttered. She pulled out her phone and dialed a number.
"Eyelashes? I have a new target for you," she said, her voice turning to ice. "The former headquarters of the House of Evolution. I want every bit of intel you can dig up. Schematics, power grids, seismic activity… everything. Find me a way in."
The "lab" was less a laboratory and more of a repurposed underground missile silo. Saitama and Genos landed in the center of a cavernous room filled with humming machinery and the smell of ozone. In the middle was Zombieman, still strapped to the torture device, his body convulsing in a silent, unending scream.
Saitama stared at the scene, unimpressed. "Looks like you're having a bad day."
Dr. Genus's hologram flickered to life. "Saitama! Thank you for coming. I apologize for the… theatricality of the situation." He gestured to the writhing hero. "As you can see, our experiment has hit an impasse. We are simulating a reality-ending threat, but Zombieman's psyche knows it is a simulation. The fear is not pure enough. The desperation is not absolute."
"So? What do you want me to do?" Saitama asked, scratching his side. "Punch him?"
"Yes! Exactly!" Genus exclaimed, his holographic eyes alight with manic genius. "Well, no. Not literally. That would be… counterproductive. We need a threat that Zombieman's mind will perceive as undeniably real. A threat his body knows, on a cellular level, is capable of erasing him completely. We need your power signature. We need to project the pure, undiluted intent of your killing force directly into his mind."
Genos's optical sensors widened. "Doctor! You are asking Sensei to simulate a Serious Punch! The psychic backlash could destroy this entire facility! It could shatter Zombieman's consciousness beyond repair!"
"It is a risk we have to take!" Genus argued. "I have shielded the lab to the best of my ability. Zombieman understands the stakes." He looked at Saitama, his expression pleading. "I know this is an unusual request. But you are the key. The one variable that changed everything. Will you help us unlock the next stage of human evolution?"
Saitama looked from the crazy scientist hologram to the screaming hero on the table. This was exactly the kind of over-the-top, needlessly complicated stuff he hated. It was a chore. But Zombieman… he seemed pretty determined. Saitama could respect that, in a weird way. It was the same stupid, single-minded drive he'd had when he was just a guy with hair and a dream.
"Fine," he sighed. "What do I do? Point my fist at him and think really mean thoughts?"
"Precisely!" Genus said, relieved. "The psychic amplifier will do the rest. It will read your intent, your raw power, and translate it into a purely psychic assault. No physical impact. Just… the concept of your punch."
Saitama shrugged. "Okay, whatever. Let's get this over with."
He walked over to the table and stood beside Zombieman's thrashing form. The S-Class hero's eyes were wide with a terror that wasn't entirely simulated anymore. Seeing Saitama up close, knowing what was about to happen, made it all very real.
"Do it," Zombieman managed to grind out between spasms.
Saitama raised his fist. He didn't focus on Zombieman. He focused on that familiar, empty feeling. The boredom. The frustration. The memory of every one-sided fight, every anti-climactic victory. He remembered the feeling he'd had right before he'd punched that meteor, the annoyance of having his day ruined. He remembered the rage he'd felt when the Deep Sea King killed all those people, a flicker of emotion from a time before his limiter broke. He remembered the feeling he'd had against Boros, the closest he'd ever come to something real.
He channeled all of it into one single, silent thought. He wasn't aiming to kill. He was aiming to end. To bring about a complete and total stop.
Serious Series... Serious Psychic Poke.
The psychic amplifier flared with an unholy, purple light. A beam of pure mental energy, containing the conceptual weight of Saitama's absolute power, shot out and struck Zombieman's forehead.
From the outside, nothing happened.
Inside Zombieman's mind, reality shattered.
The simulated deaths stopped. They were replaced by something infinitely worse: a single, silent, all-encompassing presence. He was no longer on a table. He was adrift in a sea of white nothing. And in front of him was a fist. A plain, simple fist in a red glove. It wasn't moving. It didn't need to. Its mere existence was a threat that dwarfed every monster, every god, every apocalypse he had ever imagined.
His regeneration stopped. His thoughts stopped. His very soul felt like it was being unwritten. The limiter wasn't just being screamed over. It was being looked at. And under that absolute, indifferent gaze, it began to crack.
Dr. Genus watched the readings spike into the red, shattering all known metrics. The power levels inside Zombieman's body were rewriting the laws of biology. "It's working! It's working!" he shrieked with manic delight.
In the shadowed underbelly of the hero world, other alliances were being forged. A lone figure moved through the sewers of City Z, his footsteps silent. It was Garou, the Hero Hunter. He was scarred, weary, but alive. He was no longer the monster he had become, nor the hero he had once wanted to be. He was something in between, a rogue element bound by his own twisted code of justice.
He was tracking something. A new breed of monster. Not the random, rage-fueled beasts he was used to. These were different. Organized. They carried strange technology, and they didn't kill their victims. They captured them. They had taken a group of down-on-their-luck heroes from the slums, men Garou had once beaten but never intended to let fall into a worse fate.
His hunt led him to an abandoned subway station. The air was thick with the smell of ozone and something metallic and unpleasant. In the center of the main platform stood a monster unlike any he had seen. It was vaguely reptilian, but its scales were a shimmering, chrome-like material, and wires snaked in and out of its flesh, pulsing with a faint blue light. A cybernetic monster.
It was flanked by two robots, sleek, silver machines with the insignia of The Organization—the same shadowy group that had sent G4 to attack King.
"He's here," the reptilian monster hissed, its voice a garbled mix of organic growling and robotic static. "Subject Garou. He has taken the bait."
From the shadows, a man in a lab coat stepped forward, holding a tablet. "Excellent. His resilience is key. Engage him. Record everything. We need to see how his adaptive evolution responds to our new upgrades."
Garou cracked his knuckles, a feral grin spreading across his face. "Finally. Something interesting."
He launched himself forward, his fist a blur. His Fist of Flowing Water, Crushing Rock was a martial art designed to dominate human opponents. He was about to find out how it fared against something that was no longer purely monster, nor purely machine.
And miles away, a secret plot was beginning to stir. Forte, the A-Class hero who had been so slighted by Saitama's promotion, stood in a darkened dojo. In front of him was a board covered in photos, data sheets, and diagrams, all centered on one man: Saitama.
The door slid open, and the unassuming man from the Neo Heroes entered.
"You have decided?" the man asked.
Forte turned, his eyes burning with a desperate, ambitious fire. "Yes. I'll join you. The Hero Association is a joke. It rewards freaks and ignores dedication. But if I'm going to be a part of your new world, I want one thing." He pointed a trembling finger at Saitama's picture. "I want to be the one to expose him. To show the world that their 'Final Fortress' is nothing but a fraud."
The Neo Hero executive smiled. "An excellent goal. And we have just the technology to help you achieve it." He placed a small, silver device on the table. It pulsed with a faint, malevolent light. "Strength isn't the only way to measure a hero, Forte. Sometimes, the right weapon is all you need to change the game completely."