The United Realms of Z-Valhalla. District 1.
7:30 AM. Monday.
The sun rises. It isn't round or square anymore; it's a standard star, but it now rises through the branches of Yggdrasil, which has taken root in the ruins of the Monster Association Headquarters.
The cityscape is a fever dream of architecture.
A high-rise condo sits nestled in the crook of a Norse mountain.
The River Styx flows into the Z-City sewage treatment plant.
Valkyries fly alongside news helicopters, delivering the morning paper.
Saitama's Apartment (New).
The kitchen smells of brimstone and turmeric.
Satan, the Primordial Adversary, stands at the stove. He has shrunk to a manageable six feet. He wears a pastel pink apron over his red suit. The apron says 'Kiss the Cook' in Comic Sans (a punishment leftover from the Serious Tantrum).
"Onions," Satan hisses, dicing vegetables with a obsidian dagger forged in the deepest pit. "They make eyes weep. Why do humans consume sadness?"
"They add flavor," Saitama says. He sits at the low table, waiting with a spoon in each hand. "And keep the heat down. Last time you burned a hole in the wok."
"My heat is eternal," Satan grumbles, but he lowers the flame. He stirs the curry. The sauce bubbles, thick and dark, smelling ominously delicious.
Genos sits in the corner, polishing his new chassis. It incorporates fragments of both Adamantine and Orichalcum.
"Master," Genos reports. "I have successfully registered our new roommate with the Hero Association. He is classified as a Class-A Hero. Name: 'Mr. Red'."
"Class-A?" Satan turns, offended. His eyes glow with reduced-voltage malice. "I am the End of Times! I am the Narrative Void! I should be S-Class Rank 0!"
"Rank 0 is occupied by King," Genos states factually. "And you do not have a hero record. You must start at the bottom."
Satan growls, pouring the curry over rice with aggressive telekinesis. "Pathetic hierarchy."
The door opens.
Thor walks in.
The Thunder God wears a "World's Okayest Brother" t-shirt (a gift from Loki). He ducks to avoid hitting the doorframe. He holds a Tupperware container.
"Greetings," Thor says calmly. "Loki made stew. It is..." Thor struggles for a polite word. "...experimental. We seek trade. Is the curry ready?"
"Take a bowl, Hammer-Guy," Saitama says. "But you're washing the dishes."
The Hero Association HQ (Now Merged with Olympus).
The board meeting is in session.
Sitch sits at the head of the table, sweating through three shirts.
Across from him sits Hades, the King of the Underworld (and new CFO).
Next to him sits Hermes, the Head of HR.
"We have a budget crisis," Hades announces. His voice echoes with the stillness of the grave. "The cost of rebuilding the city infrastructure to accommodate Titan-sized citizens is astronomical. We are bleeding Yen."
"We could sell merch," Hermes suggests, pulling up a projection. "Action figures. 'The Caped Baldy Collection'. 'The King Engine playset'. 'Plushie Typhon'."
"Approved," Sitch nods rapidly. "But we have a personnel issue. The heroes... they are getting insecure."
The screen changes. It shows Tanktop Master having a bench-press contest with Hercules.
Tanktop Master is losing. Badly.
It shows Flashy Flash trying to race Hermes. Hermes is reading a magazine while winning.
It shows Darkshine comparing muscles with Zeus (Adamantium form). Darkshine is crying in the corner.
"The power gap is creating a morale vacuum," Sitch sighs. "The S-Class feels obsolete."
"Let them train," Hades says coldly. "Strife breeds strength. Or death. Both reduce overhead costs."
The Park.
The park bench is occupied by two men.
One is Mumen Rider, cleaning his bicycle goggles.
The other is Odin, feeding pigeons with pieces of divine bread.
"They took my eye," Odin says, touching his patch. "For wisdom. It seemed like a good trade at the time."
Mumen Rider nods sympathetically. "I crashed my bike into a Sea King once. Broke every bone in my body. Justice hurts, doesn't it?"
Odin looks at the cyclist in the plastic armor.
"You faced a Sea King?"
"Yeah. Well, I stood in front of him for a few seconds."
Odin chuckles. He breaks a piece of bread.
"You are a brave little mortal. Braver than half the Aesir."
Odin stands up. His aura flares, not menacing, but warm.
"Would you like to learn rune magic? It might help with the... crashing."
Mumen Rider's eyes light up behind his goggles. "Does it work on bicycle chains?"
King's Apartment.
DOOM-DOOM-DOOM.
The sound vibrates the walls.
King sits on his couch.
Sitting on the floor, crossed-legged, are Shiva and Beelzebub.
They are holding controllers.
"It's unfair!" Shiva complains, waving all four arms. "How did you block that?! I used the Ultimate Frame Trapper!"
"Input reading," Beelzebub mutters darkly. "He reads the inputs before we press them."
King's face is stoic. In reality, he is panicking because his hands are sweaty and slipping on the joystick.
"You rely too much on special moves," King lectures, voice trembling with what they interpret as authority. "Learn the neutrals."
"Teach us," Shiva begs. The Destroyer of Worlds bows his head. "Master King. Accept us as disciples."
King sighs internally.
Great. Now I have god-groupies.
Saitama's Apartment. Dinner.
The sun sets behind the massive silhouette of Yggdrasil.
The apartment is crowded.
Fubuki is there (eating tofu).
Thor is there (washing dishes).
Satan is scrubbing the stove (cursing softly).
Genos is recording data.
Bang and Bomb are arguing with Zeus about martial arts philosophy in the corner.
Saitama sits on the balcony. He holds a cup of green tea (high quality, gift from Poseidon, who is currently working as a lifeguard at the Z-City public pool).
He looks out at the merged city.
Monsters still appear.
Gods still have egos.
Rent is still due on the 1st.
But it's quiet.
For now.
"Saitama?"
King steps onto the balcony. The noise of the party behind them is loud.
"Yeah?"
"Are you... bored?"
Saitama sips the tea. He thinks about the serious tantrum. He thinks about the ball pit. He thinks about the gray world.
"A little," Saitama admits.
He looks at his fist.
"But the curry was spicy today."
He smiles. A small, genuine smile.
"That was kinda exciting."
King leans on the railing.
"The Hero Association ranked you up, by the way. You're Class-A Rank 39 now."
"Still A-Class?" Saitama groans. "I literally punched a hole in the narrative. How is that not S-Class?"
"Caped Baldy," King shrugs. "It's a bad hero name. Hard to market."
Saitama finishes his tea.
"Whatever. Tomorrow is trash day. Plastic and Divinity bottles."
"Saitama!" Satan yells from the kitchen. "We are out of dish soap! Shall I summon a cleansing hell-storm to sanitize the plates?"
"No!" Saitama yells back, walking inside. "Use the sponge! The yellow one!"
He slides the door shut.
The world continues.
Stronger.
Weirder.
And finally... seasoned with just the right amount of salt.