One Punch Man in Baki's World

Orochi Dojo – Inner Chamber, Shortly After Midnight

Thunder rolled far above Mount Mitake. The dojo sat in solemn silence, its wooden frame creaking beneath the pressure of wind and time.

Inside, Doppo Orochi stood in the center of his private training hall—shirtless, wrapped in white linen pants, a single candle burning before him.

He wasn't meditating.

He was remembering.

Baki's voice earlier that evening still rang in his ears.

"They took her… I don't know why. But I'm going to find her. And if I have to kill to do it, I will."

It wasn't a threat. It wasn't bluster.

It was evolution.

Doppo looked down at his palms. The calluses were ancient now, buried beneath layers of scar tissue.

He had fought Yujiro. He had survived earthquakes of muscle and blood.

But nothing weighed heavier on him now than the realization that this generation, his disciples, were now fighting monsters with no rules, no code, no honor.

Kurozuchi.

A name like a splinter.

Once a martial prodigy, later a disgrace.

Exiled from the Chinese circuits. Denied entry to any official league. A practitioner who believed pain was not a result of combat—but its currency.

And now he returned as a phantom with an army.

Doppo sighed, walked toward the wall, and lifted a hidden panel.

Behind it was a katana.

Wrapped in silk. Blade blackened from war.

He hadn't drawn it in years. Not since the conflict in Myanmar, when he and Retsu were forced to eliminate a rogue underground tournament that fused martial arts with black-market biotech.

But now?

Now children were being used as pawns. Kozue. A civilian. Innocent.

Doppo unsheathed the blade slowly. It sang through the air like a mourning prayer.

The door behind him opened.

Katsumi entered, sweat still clinging to his shirt. "Father… I got the news that Oliva has started to move. He's going after Kurozuchi."

Doppo didn't look back. "Of course he is. He's a man who treats violence like a language. And Kurozuchi just insulted his pride."

Katsumi hesitated. "Do we follow?"

Doppo finally turned. His eyes were sharp again, not like a teacher's, but like a warrior's.

"No," he said. "We don't follow. We flank."

He walked past Katsumi, katana in hand. "Tell Retsu to gather whatever maps he can find. If Kurozuchi is building a labyrinth beneath the city, we'll enter it as ghosts."

"Is this a rescue mission?" Katsumi asked.

Doppo paused at the threshold.

"No," he said quietly. "This is war."

Outside, lightning carved the sky in two.

And Doppo Orochi, once the grandmaster of calm, stepped into the storm—one last time.

Hidden Bunker, Beneath Old Shinjuku Ruins

The air was heavy in the bunker—not just from the lack of ventilation, but from tension.

The kind of stillness found in ancient tombs, where every breath feels borrowed.

The hidden war room beneath Shinjuku's forgotten subway lines buzzed with dim light, the fluorescent tubes above flickering like dying stars.

Kurozuchi stood shirtless in the center of the chamber. His body, wiry but coiled with dense muscle, bore the marks of a hundred battles: faded scars, ceremonial burns, and kanji tattoos inked along his ribs.

A harsh clang echoed as the steel door slid open.

One of his lieutenants stepped forward—a former underground fighter with a shattered jaw wired back into shape. He bowed low before speaking.

"Hanayama has fallen silent. After the ambush by Renga, he's slipping in the shadows. There's a possibility of an attack."

Kurozuchi didn't open his eyes. "And the brute?"

"Jack Hanma defeated Shigure. She's alive, but compromised. Severe spinal trauma."

Kurozuchi opened his eyes, slowly.

The monitors shifted. Now they showed live camera feeds: Baki, shirtless and barefoot, running like a demon possessed along the highway.

Doppo Orochi, gathering equipment with a calm precision not seen since his underground tournament days.

And then another—Oliva, ripping the door off a van to interrogate a potential informant.

Kurozuchi watched it all in silence.

"Impressive," he said finally. "Like hornets disturbed from a rotten nest."

Another lieutenant approached, pulling up a still image of Kozue, shown blindfolded and seated in a dimly lit room—untouched, unbothered. A chess piece waiting to be noticed.

"They'll all converge soon," the lieutenant said. "We can collapse the maze once they're inside. Trap them. Kill them."

Kurozuchi turned to face the glowing monitors. The light danced across the wet stone of the chamber walls, casting strange reflections across his face.

"No," he said. "We don't kill them. Not yet."

He stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back.

"To kill them now would be to validate their strength. I don't want that. I want to dismantle their image. Cripple the myth of their invincibility. Piece by piece."

He tapped one of the screens—Baki's.

"Hanma is chaos incarnate. He needs someone to protect. Strip him of that, and he loses balance."

Another tap. Doppo.

"Orochi is legacy. The root of tradition. I will humiliate him in front of his disciples. Burn the dojo in their minds, not in fire."

And then Oliva.

"He's the beast that believes in dominance. Break his confidence, and he will fall apart on the inside long before muscle gives way."

He stepped back, and finally looked at the last monitor: Saitama, lounging on a rooftop, watching pigeons like a bored god in disguise.

Kurozuchi stared at the image for a long moment.

"He's different. He doesn't chase. Doesn't train. He exists beyond reason. But that doesn't make him immune."

He smiled—slowly.

"It makes him curious. And curiosity kills more than cats."

Around him, his lieutenants stood quietly, sensing the shift in tone. Kurozuchi's voice dropped into something darker.

"The Maze is ready. Deploy the markers. Let them come. Let them believe they're hunting me."

He turned toward the corridor, the tunnel lights flickering one by one as he disappeared into the deeper dark.

"And when they step into my world... they will realize they were prey the entire time."

Highway 2: Baki's Chase

The road stretched out before him like a burning nerve.

Tokyo blazed with midday heat, the asphalt rippling under the sun, and every sound seemed muffled by the rush of blood in Baki's ears.

He didn't wear a shirt. He didn't need one.

Bruises lined his torso like paint on cracked ceramic.

His muscles twitched with every step.

His eyes… were not those of a boy anymore.

Baki Hanma was running.

Not with form. Not with the grace of a martial artist.

He ran like an animal—barefoot, breathing through clenched teeth, tearing through the outer districts of Tokyo in pursuit of a van long gone.

Every piece of intel Retsu and Katsumi had given him echoed in his skull like war drums.

"They took her after the Hanayama ambush."

"We think they're heading south, through the freight tunnels beneath the Shuto Expressway."

"It's Kurozuchi. He's baiting you."

That last part—he didn't care.

He'd take the bait.

He'd take the hook, the line, the goddamn rod.

If Kozue was in that maze… he'd tear it apart with his teeth if he had to.

A traffic officer shouted at him as he leapt over a parked patrol car. Baki didn't stop. Not for lights. Not for sirens. Not for red tape or bureaucracy.

He was beyond those things now.

I should've protected her. I was right there… I should've known.

His bare feet hit concrete stairs, down into a construction site.

He ducked beneath cranes, veered through scaffolding, climbed metal piping like it was part of an obstacle course he was born to beat.

He spotted it then—a streak of rubber burned into the pavement. A tire mark.

Fresh.

A truck. Heavy. Likely modified.

Could've been armored.

Baki slowed, crouched low, and touched the mark. The scent of oil was still fresh in the air.

His mind raced with deductions—military tires. Custom axle spacing. Not a civilian van.

Whoever had Kozue was no mere thug.

"Cowards," he muttered under his breath.

"They don't deserve mercy."

From his side pouch, he pulled a flip phone—an old burner Doppo had given him.

He dialed fast.

Retsu answered on the first ring. "Where are you?"

"Highway 2, southbound slope. Just passed the concrete breaker yard."

"Confirmed," Retsu replied. "I've pinged Oliva. He's already looking near the canal side. Doppo's on a bike. We're surrounding the sector."

"I'm going in alone," Baki snapped.

"Don't be stupid—"

"I'm not letting anyone else bleed for this," Baki growled. "Tell Oliva… if he finds a warehouse or a tunnel entrance, I'll meet him there."

He hung up.

And kept running.

TO BE CONTINUED...