Z-City. Saitama's Apartment. 5:15 PM.
The sun sets, painting the room in hues of orange and apocalyptic grey. The smell of cheap green tea wafts through the air, warring with the lingering scent of ozone from the recent dimensional breach.
Fubuki sits at the kotatsu. She has stopped hyperventilating, but her hands clutch the teacup with a death grip. She stares at Saitama, who is scratching his leg with his toe while watching the news.
This man, Fubuki thinks, her mind racing like a hamster on a jet turbine. He slapped a titan into orbit. He casually talks about different dimensions. His cyborg disciple just extorted a Norse God.
She looks at King. The strongest man on Earth is playing a dating sim with headphones on, muttering about "dialogue trees."
The S-Class is a lie, Fubuki realizes. The rankings are meaningless. Real power sits on this dirty floor.
"Join me," Fubuki says suddenly. Her voice is tight.
Saitama doesn't look away from the TV. "No."
"I haven't even offered the terms!" Fubuki stands up. Her dark dress flares with psychic wind. "Listen to me! The Blizzard Group manages administrative tasks! We handle PR! We have a dental plan! With your raw power and my leadership, we could transcend the Hero Association! We could rule the meta!"
Saitama picks his nose. "Does the dental plan cover root canals? I think I have a cavity."
"Yes! It covers everything!" Fubuki leans over the table. "You high-fived a monster into space. You clearly lack finesse. I can provide the strategy!"
"Genos," Saitama points to the cyborg. "She's being loud again."
Genos steps out of the kitchen. His apron—which says 'Discipline' in kanji—is spotless.
"Fubuki of Hell," Genos states coldly. "Master does not require strategy. His strategy is absolute force. Also, please do not activate telekinesis indoors. You are rattling the dishes."
"You..." Fubuki glares at the cyborg. She senses something different about him. The energy hum isn't just electricity anymore. It feels... ancient. "What did you do to your arm?"
Genos raises his right arm. The Asgardian gold plating glimmers. Rune-inscriptions pulse with green light.
"I have integrated a bio-magical alloy," Genos explains as if reading a toaster manual. "It runs on will. Currently, it is keeping the tea at a precise 85 degrees Celsius."
"You're using god-metal... as a thermos?" Fubuki drops back onto her cushion. She feels a migraine coming on. A B-Class migraine in an S-Class world.
Z-City Sewers. Sector 7.
Darkness drips. The tunnels smell of decay and forgotten runoff.
Usually, this is the domain of rats and low-level tiger threats.
But today, something foreign pulses in the water.
A single drop of Typhon's blood—black ichor spilled when Saitama high-fived him—had fallen back to Earth. It burned through the pavement, melted the pipes, and landed here.
A swarm of rats gathers around the sizzling black droplet.
One rat drinks.
Then it eats the other rats.
Then it grows.
Bones crack. Fur molts into scales.
The rat expands, jamming the tunnel. It consumes the concrete. It consumes the surrounding spectral energy left by the dimensional rift.
It isn't a monster anymore. It is a biological paradox.
Threat Level: Unregistered.
Name: Rat-Titan Beta.
"HUNGER," the monstrosity screeches. It has five heads, mimicking the entity whose blood it drank. "MORE GOD BLOOD. MORE."
It smashes upward. Through the sewer ceiling. Through the street. Through the foundation of a familiar apartment complex.
Saitama's Apartment.
CRACK.
The floorboards beneath King heave.
King screams—a high-pitched shriek that somehow sounds masculine to the listeners due to the "King Engine" (pure terror) vibrating the room.
"MY SAVE FILE!" King yells, clutching his console.
A claw erupts from the tatami mats. It is covered in fur and glowing runes.
Wood splinters. The low table flips. The tea spills.
"FOUND... THE SCENT," a voice burps from the hole.
Saitama looks at his wet socks. Tea soaks into the fabric.
"Twice," Saitama says. "In one day."
The floor explodes. The Rat-Titan rises. It fills the room, its heads scraping the ceiling, crushing the light fixture.
It smells of sewage and divinity.
"GIVE ME THE BLOOD!" the rat screams. It looks at Genos. It smells the Asgardian metal. "SHINY!"
Fubuki throws up a psychic barrier. "A monster? Here? It bypassed the sensors!"
Genos moves.
"Threat identified. Rodent-class. Enhanced by Divine Ichor. Terminating immediately."
Genos lunges. He doesn't fire a blast. He doesn't punch.
He creates a seal.
"Rune Protocol: Bind."
He touches the Rat-Titan with his golden hand.
Green light flashes. Runes—letters from a dead alphabet—crawl off Genos's arm and onto the monster's fur.
The monster freezes. The runes act as physical chains, weighing it down with the gravity of a dying star.
"SQUEAK?! The Rat-Titan tries to move. It cannot. It is paralyzed by magic math.
"Fascinating," Genos notes, his eye whirring. "The Orichalcum converts the concept of 'Stay' into physical restraint. It is like training a dog, but with physics."
"Kill it!" Fubuki yells, holding her barrier. "It's drooling on the carpet!"
"The carpet..." Saitama looks down.
The landlord had explicitly warned him. No pets. No water damage. No stains.
There is rat drool on the carpet.
And tea.
Saitama walks up to the immobilized, terrified giant rat.
He looks into its beady, cosmic-infused eyes.
"Hey," Saitama says.
"SQ-SQUEAK?" (Translation: Mercy?)
"Do you know how hard it is to get tatami stains out?"
Saitama raises his hand.
"You need club soda and vinegar. Do you have club soda?"
The rat shakes its heads 'no'.
"Then get out."
Normal Move: Housekeeping Shove.
Saitama pushes the rat.
He doesn't punch. He pushes.
Like pushing a heavy dresser.
But because his strength is infinite, the friction coefficient becomes irrelevant.
The rat—and the concept of the rat's presence in the room—is shoved.
It flies backward through the hole in the floor.
It travels down the sewer tunnel at Mach 10.
It exits the sewer system three miles away, shooting out of a drainage pipe into the ocean.
It skips across the water surface like a stone—once, twice, thrice—before sinking into the Mariana Trench.
Saitama dusts his hands.
He looks at the hole in the floor.
"Genos," Saitama sighs. "We need plywood."
"I have some in storage, Master."
Fubuki drops her barrier. She is shaking again.
"He pushed it," she whispers. "He disciplined a Dragon-level threat like it was a naughty puppy."
King, huddled in the corner, checks his game console. The screen is black. The power cord was severed.
King stands up. His face is shadowed. The engine roars.
"Saitama."
Saitama flinches. He fears no god, no monster. But he fears an angry gamer.
"Yeah, King?"
"I lost four hours of progress." King walks to the door. "I'm going home. This apartment is cursed."
He opens the door.
"Also, buy better tea. This stuff is swill."
King leaves. The heavy metal door slams shut.
Fubuki looks at the door. Then at Saitama.
"He... he scolded you. And you took it?"
"He's right," Saitama says, picking up the tea tin. "This was the discount brand. It tastes like grass."
Interdimensional Space. The Crossroads.
Far away from Z-City. Far away from Valhalla.
A man floats in a kaleidoscope of dimensions. He wears a heavy suit of armor, chunky and scarred. He wears sunglasses that reflect nebulas.
Blast. The Number One Hero.
He holds a device—a cube pulsating with black hole energy.
It is beeping.
"Readings are off the charts," Blast mutters. His voice is gravel and gravitas.
He looks at a monitor floating near his head.
It shows two spikes.
One: A signature of divine origin (Typhon's departure).
Two: A signature of... beige.
"Saitama," Blast whispers. "I thought you were just strong. But you're punching holes in the tapestry."
His radio crackles.
"Blast, come in. This is Sitch. We have weird reports from Z-City. Weather patterns matching Norse mythology. What is happening?"
Blast watches the monitor. He sees the "Scar" in reality left by the serious punch. He sees the tendrils of the Author trying to ink it over.
"It's not mythology, Sitch," Blast says, charging his gauntlets. "It's a crossover event."
He opens a portal. Not to Earth. Not yet.
To Valhalla.
"I need to have a word with Odin," Blast says. "If his pets are leaking onto my lawn, I'm going to have to file a complaint."
Zap.
Blast vanishes.
Valhalla. The Infirmary.
Zeus is eating his grapes. He feels a disturbance. A heavy, heroic disturbance.
"Hermes," Zeus calls out.
"Yes, Father?"
"Lock the doors."
Zeus pulls the blanket over his head.
"And put a 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the dimension. I think the landlords are coming."
Back at the Apartment.
Saitama and Genos are nailing plywood over the hole in the floor.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Fubuki stands by the door. She hasn't left.
"Saitama," she says softly.
"What now? Dental plan pitch?"
"No." Fubuki clutches her coat. "Just... can I come back for dinner? You promised hotpot last month."
Saitama stops hammering. He looks at Genos.
"Genos, do we have cabbage?"
"We have excess cabbage, Master. And I believe the Rat-Titan dropped a very high-quality mushrooms stash before it was evicted."
Saitama shrugs.
"Sure. But you're chopping the veggies."
Fubuki smiles. A small, genuine smile.
She sits down and picks up a knife.
For the first time in her life, she isn't trying to be the best. She's just happy to be at the table where the strongest beings in the universe worry about grocery bills.