The thing about "The Strongest Hero" isn't the monsters. It's the groceries.
Saitama stood in the dairy aisle of the Super-Market (now owned by a subsidiary of the Blizzard Group, apparently). He held two cartons of milk.
"Whole or 2%?" he mumbled. "Whole is tastier, but 2% is... 2% cheaper."
"Get the whole," a voice said next to him. "You need the calcium for the bone density."
Saitama looked to his right.
Standing there was a man in casual clothes—jeans, a leather jacket, and sunglasses that looked like they had seen better decades. He had grey spiky hair and a beard that suggested he hadn't shaved since the 90s. He was holding a bag of spicy chips.
Saitama blinked. "Do I know you?"
The man lowered his sunglasses. A scar ran down his left eye. His presence was... heavy. Not crushing like King's aura, but solid. Like standing next to a mountain that decided to wear denim.
"Maybe," the man smiled. "I'm the guy who usually cleans up the messes you make in other dimensions. Name's Blast."
Saitama dropped the milk.
It didn't explode. Blast caught it mid-air before it hit the floor. Fast. Faster than sound, but casual.
"You dropped this," Blast said, handing it back.
"Oh," Saitama took the milk. "Thanks. You're the... space dad?"
"Space dad," Blast chuckled. "I suppose that fits. Blue told me about you. And the computer logs from the Moon base. You punched God into a 1D line? Impressive technique."
"It wasn't a technique," Saitama said, walking toward the checkout. "He was just blocking my view."
Blast followed him. "I like your style, Caped Baldy. Or is it Final Fortress now?"
"Just Saitama. Why are you here? Isn't there a war in the Andromeda galaxy or something?"
Blast sighed, grabbing a six-pack of soda. "There's always a war. But I saw the Curry Video. And I promised my kid I'd stop being a ghost."
The walk back to the apartment was surreal. People stared at Saitama because he was a celebrity. Nobody stared at Blast because nobody knew what the Rank 1 hero actually looked like without his battle armor.
"So," Saitama asked, biting into a melon bread. "You really travel dimensions?"
"Yeah. It's a commute," Blast said. "Lots of void, lots of monsters trying to eat your concept of self. It gets lonely."
"I get that," Saitama nodded. "Being strong is boring."
Blast stopped walking. He looked at Saitama. Two men who stood at the absolute peak of power, separated by age and hair follicles.
"It is," Blast agreed softly. "Everyone expects you to be a god. To save everything. But you can't be everywhere. You have to choose."
"I chose to save money on this bread," Saitama said.
Blast laughed. A loud, booming laugh that startled a passing cat. "You're funny. The Association terrified of you, God hates you, and you care about bread."
They reached the apartment building. The Gatling turrets swiveled to aim at Blast, scanning his unfamiliar bio-signature.
UNAUTHORIZED ENTITY DETECTED. ENGAGE.
"Oops," Saitama said. "Genos set them to 'Stranger Danger' mode."
Blast waved a hand. A small black hole opened in front of the turret barrels, swallowed the bullets, and closed.
"Neat security system," Blast noted.
Inside the apartment, chaos reigned as usual.
Fubuki was shouting into a phone about merchandise licensing rights. Blue was arguing with Genos about the ethical implications of cyborg upgrades. Tatsumaki was floating near the ceiling, reading a magazine upside down.
The door opened.
"I'm back," Saitama announced. "Brought a guest. He says he knows you guys."
Saitama stepped aside. Blast walked in, holding the bag of spicy chips.
"Hey, kiddo," Blast said to Blue.
The room went dead silent.
Fubuki dropped her phone. Genos's cooling fans stalled.
Blue turned slowly. His face went through five different emotions—shock, anger, disbelief, grief—before settling on tears.
"Dad?"
"Hey, Blue," Blast smiled awkwardly. "You got taller. The suit looks good. A bit flashy for my taste, but it works."
Blue didn't say anything. He rushed forward and tackled his father.
Blast didn't flinch. He hugged his son, patting the high-tech armor. "I'm sorry I was late. Traffic in the multiverse is killer."
From the ceiling, Tatsumaki drifted down slowly. She landed on the floor, her green eyes wide. She was shaking. This was the man who saved her. The man who told her to be strong. The ghost she had chased her entire life.
She walked up to him. She looked small next to him.
"You," Tatsumaki whispered.
Blast looked at her. "Tatsumaki. You grew up. You're strong now. I felt your power from the Oort Cloud."
Tatsumaki's lip trembled. She clenched her fists. Everyone expected a tearful reunion. Or a hug.
Whack.
She kicked him in the shin. Hard.
"OW!" Blast hopped on one foot. "What was that for?!"
"FOR LEAVING ME WITH THESE IDIOTS FOR EIGHTEEN YEARS!" she screamed, her aura flaring. The windows cracked. "You said you'd be back! You said—"
"I was busy saving reality!" Blast defended, rubbing his shin. "And that kick hurt! You really mastered psychic reinforcement!"
"You deserve it!" tears finally spilled down her cheeks. "You stupid... old... hero!"
She buried her face in his jacket, sobbing. Blast sighed, wrapping a massive arm around her, letting the strongest psychic in the world cry like a little girl.
"I know," he murmured. "I'm sorry, Tats. You did good. You protected them."
Saitama stood by the kitchen, unpacking the groceries.
"Genos," he whispered. "Is this a soap opera? Should we leave?"
"Negative, Sensei. This is high-value character development," Genos whispered back, recording everything.
Dinner was awkward. But the good kind of awkward.
They sat around the low table. Blast was surprisingly normal. He ate curry. He made bad dad jokes. He arm-wrestled Bang (and won, but barely, claiming arthritis).
"So," Fubuki asked, trying to regain her professional composure. "You're back for good?"
"Not quite," Blast wiped his mouth. "The war isn't over. God is banished, but his influence lingers. The corruption is deep. But... I'm done being a solo act."
He looked at Saitama.
"The Hero Association is organizing a gala tomorrow night. A 'Victory Celebration.' All the S-Class. The donors. The press."
"A party?" Saitama perked up. "Is there a buffet?"
"Yes. A big one," Blast grinned. "But they also want to announce the new hierarchy. They want to make you the new Rank 1."
The table went quiet.
"Me?" Saitama pointed at himself. "But you're Rank 1."
"I'm retiring," Blast leaned back. "I'm too old for rankings. Besides, I think the title belongs to the guy who punched the moon."
"Does it come with a raise?" Saitama asked.
"A massive one."
"Then I'll take it."
Blast laughed. "Good. But be warned, Saitama. The Gala isn't a battlefield of fists. It's a battlefield of politics. People will try to use you. Women will try to marry you." He winked at Fubuki and Tatsumaki, both of whom blushed violently. "Corporations will try to buy you."
Saitama shrugged. "I'm unbuyable."
"Unless they offer coupons," Genos noted.
"Unless coupons," Saitama agreed.
That night, after Blast and Blue left to "catch up" (likely destroying a mountain range in a sparring session), the apartment was quiet.
Fubuki lingered. She helped clear the table.
"Rank 1," she said softly. "The top of the world. Are you ready?"
Saitama was washing dishes. "It's just a number, Fubuki. Rank C, Rank S, Rank 1. I still have to take out the trash."
Fubuki dried a plate. She looked at his back. The sturdy, unmovable simplicity of him.
"You need a suit," she said.
"I have a suit. The yellow one."
"For the Gala, Saitama. A tuxedo."
Saitama groaned. "Rentals are expensive."
Fubuki walked up behind him. She wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her forehead on his back. It was bold. It was intimate. It was... nice.
"I'll buy it," she whispered. "My treat."
Saitama stopped scrubbing. He looked at her hands clasped on his stomach.
"Fubuki," he said slowly.
"Yes?" Her heart hammered.
"You're getting water on your silk shirt."
She pulled back, slapping his arm lightly. "You idiot! Ruin the moment, why don't you?"
But she was smiling. And for the first time, Saitama smiled back, a real, soft smile.
"Thanks," he said. "For the suit. And... the company."
The Next Day: The Grand Gala
The Hero Association Hall was transformed. Crystal chandeliers. Red carpets. Champagne fountains.
Every hero who was anyone was there. Metal Bat in a tuxedo that was too tight. King trying to hide behind the buffet. Tatsumaki in a black evening gown with a slit so high it defied physics (and telekinesis holding it in place).
And then, the doors opened for the Guest of Honor.
Saitama walked in.
He wore a midnight-blue tuxedo, tailored to perfection by Fubuki's personal stylist. He wasn't slouching. He wasn't picking his nose. He looked sharp. Intense.
The room went silent.
"He cleans up well," Atomic Samurai whistled.
Fubuki, on his arm in a matching emerald gown, beamed. "Shoulders back. Chin up. Don't look at the shrimp tower yet."
They walked down the stairs. The flashbulbs were blinding.
Saitama leaned close to her. "Are you sure this is okay? I feel like a penguin."
"You look like a king," she whispered back.
Suddenly, the crowd parted.
A woman approached. She was tall, stunning, with flowing golden hair and a dress made of literal diamonds. She was Lady Fortuna, daughter of the biggest Association donor, and the heiress to a tech empire.
She stopped in front of Saitama, blocking Fubuki.
"So this is the God Slayer," Fortuna purred, looking him up and down like he was a prime cut of meat. "I hear you're single."
Fubuki bristled, the air temperature dropping ten degrees. "Excuse me?"
Fortuna ignored her. She placed a hand on Saitama's chest. "My father wants to sponsor you. But I want to... get to know you. Privately."
Saitama looked at her hand. Then at her diamonds.
"Sorry," Saitama said. "I'm here with someone."
He gestured to Fubuki.
"And she promised me shrimp."
He gently moved Fortuna aside and walked Fubuki toward the buffet.
Fubuki stood stunned for a second, then hurried to catch up, grabbing his arm tighter than before. She glared back at the shocked heiress with a triumphant smirk.
"You picked shrimp over a billionaire?" Fubuki asked, handing him a plate.
"Priorities," Saitama said, spearing a prawn. "Besides... her diamonds were fake. Too shiny."
Fubuki laughed. She leaned against him, amidst the glitz and the glamour and the sharks in expensive suits.
The fight with God was over. But the fight for the Last Shrimp... and maybe something more... was just beginning.
And from the shadows of the balcony, Tatsumaki watched, sipping wine.
"Hmph," she muttered, but her green aura was calm. "At least he has taste."