One Punch Man in Baki's World

Baki's Training Spot – Downtown Tokyo

On the rooftop of an abandoned gym, Baki moved like a ghost through air. Shirtless and barefoot, his feet glided over the gravel as his hands sliced, struck, and blocked invisible opponents.

His heart still hadn't quieted since the Yanagi fight. His muscles were sore, but his focus—razor sharp.

But that wasn't what was strange today.

It was the man watching him.

Hanayama.

Standing silently, arms crossed, wearing his ceremonial black coat over a bare chest, tattoos dancing under sunlight.

"You've come early," Baki said, not breaking rhythm.

"You've changed," Hanayama replied.

Baki stopped. Turned.

"I've seen too much. I've climbed the steps of adulthood but that bald man. These assassins. The way strength is evolving."

Hanayama nodded slowly. "You're thinking about Saitama."

Baki nodded. "He's not training to fight anyone. He's just… complete."

A pause.

"I can't reach that."

Hanayama walked forward. "You don't have to."

Baki blinked. "What?"

"You are not him. You are not your father. You are Baki Hanma. That is enough."

For a moment, Baki felt it.

Stability.

Respect.

Then Hanayama's phone buzzed.

He checked it.

A message from his second-in-command:

"Unidentified fighter spotted near the shrine. Ripped through two guards. We're evacuating the compound now."

Hanayama's expression darkened.

Baki asked, "Trouble?"

Hanayama turned.

"I need to go."

"Do you want help?"

Hanayama paused, then shook his head.

"This is mine."

And like a stone being dropped into water, he left.

Hanayama Clan Shrine – Late Afternoon

Smoke lingered over the temple grounds. Fallen lanterns smoldered beside toppled stone markers. A trail of broken guards lay unconscious or writhing.

At the center of the chaos stood Renga.

Blade drawn. Shirtless. Calm.

Hanayama arrived, walking through the wreckage like a tank moving through a storm.

"You come to my home?" he asked. "To my ancestors' shrine?"

Renga remained still. "This is a test."

"Of what?"

"Of how long an unshakable man can stay standing."

Hanayama didn't hesitate. He cracked his knuckles.

"You've made a mistake."

"I was supposed to wait till night. But the smell of blood called me," Renga pointed the blade at Hanayama's chest. "Come. I'll take you on."

Without another word, Renga moved.

He closed the distance in seconds, a blur of motion. His blade came out in a sideways arc meant to slice across Hanayama's abdomen. But Hanayama didn't move. The blade struck—

CLANG.

Sparks flew. The sword bounced off Hanayama's abs like it had struck reinforced concrete.

Renga's eyes widened beneath the mask.

Hanayama stepped forward and punched.

Renga barely ducked—and the air above him exploded. The shrine gate behind him cracked from the missed impact alone.

He flipped backward, landed on his feet, and struck again—this time with open-palm chi strikes.

Left. Right. Chest. Neck. Liver.

Each hit sounded like a gunshot, but Hanayama stood firm. Blood leaked from his lips, but his feet didn't shift an inch.

Then he grabbed Renga by the shoulder.

The world tilted.

BOOM.

Renga was slammed spine-first into the shrine floor, creating a crater. Dust shot up like a shockwave. Hanayama didn't release him—he yanked him up like a ragdoll and sent him crashing into a stone pillar.

Renga gasped. Pain flared across his ribs, but he smiled beneath the mask.

"Good…"

He twisted, wrapping his legs around Hanayama's arm and flipped onto his back, dragging the giant down with a judo roll.

Hanayama landed hard—but rolled through, rising like a monster reborn. His jacket fell away, revealing the full breadth of his tattooed chest, painted with blood and ink.

Renga charged again, this time drawing his hidden dagger from behind his belt.

It shimmered with black chi—the "Fangless Fang"—a technique designed to bypass muscle and strike the nervous system directly.

He leapt.

"Silent Severance!"

The blade jabbed toward Hanayama's neck—

But the Yakuza boss caught it between his thumb and index finger.

Renga froze.

Hanayama stared into his eyes.

"You come to test me," he rumbled, "but you don't understand. I don't need to move… because I've already decided I won't fall."

Then came a punch to the head.

WHAM.

Renga was sent flying. But, he twisted mid-air and landed on the shattered debris.

He crouched low, blood dripping from his lips. His iron mask had cracked slightly, revealing part of his mouth twisted in a manic grin. His knuckles bled, but his stance didn't waver.

Hanayama, for his part, stood like a living wall. His right arm bore long slashes from the earlier clashes, and his temple was bruised—but his posture remained firm.

He didn't sway. He didn't stagger.

Renga roared and launched forward.

This time, his fists moved like lightning—twin palm strikes to Hanayama's sternum, followed by a spinning elbow aimed at his jaw.

Hanayama took the first two hits, grunting slightly, then caught the elbow with his forearm, absorbing the impact like a freight train.

The sheer sound of it cracked one of the shrine's wooden pillars nearby.

Renga didn't stop. He spun again, landing a low kick to Hanayama's knee, trying to break the base.

The giant dropped to one leg for the first time.

Renga went in for the kill—driving his knee into Hanayama's face.

THWACK.

Hanayama's head snapped back.

Dust settled.

Silence.

Renga took a breath, then another.

And then… Hanayama stood.

Blood trickled down his nose, but his eyes were glowing now. Fierce. Alive.

Without warning, Hanayama stepped forward and slammed his head into Renga's chest—a brutal, old-school Yakuza headbutt that knocked the air out of his opponent's lungs.

Before Renga could recover, Hanayama grabbed him by the waist and German suplexed him into the stone floor with enough force to crack it. The impact echoed across the hillside.

Renga coughed blood, his mask now broken clean off.

Hanayama exhaled slowly. "You came to break me?"

He lifted Renga by the hair. "Then break first."

BOOM.

Hanayama's fist buried itself into Renga's chest. The sound was like a cannon going off. Renga's body bent in half around the blow. He collapsed to his knees, gasping. Blood gurgled from his mouth.

Hanayama raised his fist again.

But before the finishing blow could land—

"Oh hey. Hope I'm not interrupting."

A familiar, disinterested voice drifted in.

Both men turned.

At the far end of the shrine path, casually holding a grocery bag and sipping on a juice box, stood Saitama.

Wearing his hoodie and slippers, a bottle of miso paste sticking out of the bag.

Hanayama blinked. "You?"

Saitama walked forward. "Retsu said that you wanted some miso. Since I have to go the other way, I figured it's best to deliver it right now."

Renga's eyes narrowed. He saw the bald man. Remembered the dossier. The footage. The myth.

The anomaly.

He stood—staggering—but alive.

"You…" he growled. "So you're the backup."

Saitama paused, blinking. "Huh?"

Renga pulled out a white pill from his pocket and ate it. All of the injuries on his body instantly disappeared.

Without wasting another moment, he screamed and leapt at Saitama, blade drawn, intent to strike with all the chi and fury he had recovered.

Hanayama opened his mouth to warn him.

Too late.

Saitama raised his hand. Flicked.

Just one finger.

It struck Renga on the forehead.

There was no shockwave. No explosion.

But Renga stopped mid-air. A loud crack emerged from his body as his joints twisted in the opposite direction.

Then he dropped to the ground.

Unconscious.

Flat. Limp. Sprawled.

Hanayama stared, mouth slightly agape.

Saitama looked at his finger. "I didn't mean to do that."

The silence was broken only by a soft breeze rolling across the broken shrine.

Hanayama stepped forward, looking down at Renga's unconscious, broken body.

Then looked at Saitama.

"You know," he said, voice almost reverent. "You're not a man."

Saitama raised a brow. "What?"

"You're a weapon," Hanayama continued. "I've heard about your praises. But today, you flicked a monster unconscious. A monster that had miraculously recovered to full health."

He looked at Renga.

"Every martial artist here has some sort of a nickname. Since you don't have one yet... we'll call you…"

He turned back to the bald man, eyes gleaming.

"One Flick Man."

Saitama sighed. "That sounds weird. But it's better than Caped Baldy."

Hanayama chuckled.

"Ah... How the world changes..."

TO BE CONTINUED...