One Punch Man in Baki's World

Highway 2: Continued

The air grew colder the deeper into the freight zones he went.

Shipping cranes gave way to rusted warehouses. The scent of the city changed—from the fumes of convenience stores and ramen stalls… to metal, to mold, to salt.

The trail was leading somewhere dead.

And in his gut, Baki felt it.

This wasn't just a kidnapping.

It was a message.

From someone who believed he could break him by touching the one thing he truly loved.

He reached a locked gate and leapt over it in a single bound.

The alley ahead had faint tire scuffs… but more importantly, a chain dragged near a wall.

And on the corner of that wall—taped with deliberate cruelty—was a photo.

Kozue.

Blindfolded.

Still alive.

But behind her… a sigil painted in crimson. A crude spiral. Almost like a whirlpool.

Kurozuchi's mark.

Baki's fists clenched until his knuckles went white.

He crushed the photo in his palm.

And whispered,

"You want to play with monsters? You forgot who raised me."

He stepped forward into the shadowed alley, his breath calm now—controlled.

Not a boy.

Not a teenager.

But the son of Yujiro Hanma.

And tonight, the streets would remember.

Tokyo Freight Canal – Late Afternoon

The canal district wasn't meant for visitors.

It was a graveyard of metal and rust, where the smell of saltwater mingled with old diesel fumes, and the only witnesses were the cranes, birds, and broken boats tied to crumbling piers.

But today, it had guests.

One of them rumbled in on a custom-made Kawasaki bike, roaring through the puddles like a dragon chewing through thunder.

Doppo Orochi.

The Tiger Slayer.

His single eye gleamed behind a pair of cracked aviator glasses. His gi was slung loose over his muscular torso, scars dancing across his body like calligraphy carved by time.

He skidded the bike to a halt and exhaled hard.

Then he heard it.

The low, rhythmic hum of footsteps.

Coming from the opposite end of the dockyard—boots heavy enough to make the ground vibrate.

And then he saw him.

Mr. Oliva.

The Unchained.

He walked with no rush, a half-eaten protein bar in one hand, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder like it weighed nothing.

His frame was as absurd as ever—shoulders the width of a compact car, arms like stacked granite, his torso so thick even the shadows bent awkwardly around him.

"You're late," Doppo said.

"I brought a grill," Oliva replied.

He dropped the duffel bag, and from it rolled out several ribeyes vacuum-sealed in packs.

Doppo raised an eyebrow.

"We're not camping," he grumbled.

"We might be," Oliva said. "Depending on how long this goose chase goes."

Doppo glanced around. "You smell that?"

Oliva sniffed. "Iron. Salt. Blood… faint."

Doppo crouched and ran his fingers along the edge of a tire mark near the warehouse siding. He pulled up black soot between his fingertips.

"Military-grade rubber. Jack's trail came this way."

Oliva walked over and knelt beside him.

His fingers tapped the ground gently. Then stopped.

"Indentations here… four men carried something. Heavy. Dragged it. Probably her."

"Kozue," Doppo muttered. "They're baiting Baki."

Oliva stood, his expression darker than usual. "That's not just bait. That's cruelty. Yujiro would've killed everyone involved already."

Doppo stood beside him. "That's why we're here. To get to them before Baki becomes Yujiro."

A sudden rustle echoed from the roof above.

Both men looked up simultaneously. Oliva's hand went to his belt. Doppo's to his sandal.

A blur shot across the rooftop. Black cloak. Thin frame.

Kurozuchi?

No. Smaller.

A scout.

Without a word, Oliva launched a metal pipe from the ground like a javelin.

It pierced the rooftop with a thunderclap. A shriek followed. The figure vanished.

Doppo didn't smile. He stepped closer to Oliva and said quietly, "We're in the nest now. He wants us here."

"I know," Oliva said. "But that doesn't mean he wins."

A new sound echoed behind them.

A soft laugh.

Not mocking. Not nervous.

Almost… amused.

From a crack in the warehouse, a figure stepped out. Long coat. Bald. Bored expression. A bag of green onions in one hand.

Saitama.

"Hey," he said. "I went to the dojo to get some spare change for the potatoes on sale but Katsumi told me that I'd have to ask you first."

Doppo blinked.

Oliva grinned. "You're late."

Saitama scratched his head. "I ran into a traffic jam. Took the ceiling route."

Doppo stepped forward. "Didn't he tell you that you're not supposed to be here?"

"Yeah," Saitama replied. "But I got curious."

Suddenly, a roar echoed from the distance—Baki's voice. Furious. Raw.

And beyond that…

Screams.

The trap was springing.

And now, the hunters had arrived.

Abandoned Warehouse Complex – Dusk

The sun had dipped below the edge of the skyline, casting the old shipping complex into layers of orange and shadow.

The warehouse loomed ahead, silent but alive with malice. Graffiti peeled off the walls like shed skin, and rusted chains swayed gently, despite the stillness of the air.

Baki walked in alone.

No backup. No hesitation.

His footsteps echoed through the darkened corridors, past cracked crates and scattered gear. But with each step, the space felt… wrong.

Too quiet.

Too empty.

Then—click.

Lights flared. Not overhead, but from the walls.

Screens. Dozens of them. Each playing different footage. Baki stopped.

He saw himself.

Fighting Sikorsky. Screaming at his father. Bleeding in the underground arena.

He saw Kozue.

Sleeping. Laughing. Crying. Tied to a chair.

Baki's fists clenched. "What is this?"

A voice answered from all around.

Low. Measured.

"Kurozuchi's art. You see, pain is a message… but suffering, that's a song. And I compose symphonies."

A panel slid open in the wall, revealing a narrow corridor with flickering lights.

Baki didn't hesitate.

He walked.

As he did, the floor seemed to twist under him—not physically, but emotionally.

The screens followed. Now he saw Hanayama, lying bloody after his fight with Renga. Jack, eyes wild and laughing in agony. Yujiro, standing atop a mountain of bodies.

And always—Kozue, chained in some unknown room, breathing but silent.

Then, footsteps ahead.

A figure emerged from the fog of the hallway.

Tall. Masked. Covered in ragged black.

Not Kurozuchi.

A disciple.

The mask resembled a laughing demon. His arms were wrapped in barbed tape, and chains dangled from his back like puppeteer strings.

Without warning, he charged.

Baki slid into a low stance, calm and coiled.

The first strike came fast, a downward elbow crackling with chi, but Baki parried and launched a gut punch that knocked the air from the masked man.

Still, the figure didn't falter. He spun, his barbed arms slicing the air. Baki ducked, but one strand slashed his shoulder.

Blood sprayed. Pain flared.

But Baki smiled.

"You're not the worst I've faced."

He retaliated with a full-body takedown, slamming the man through the nearby screen. Sparks burst. The room hissed.

Silence.

The masked man tried to rise.

Baki planted a foot on his chest. "Where is she?"

The man wheezed through bloodied teeth. "You're… already too late."

CRASH.

A wall to Baki's right exploded inward.

Jack Hanma burst through, dragging a semi-conscious fighter behind him.

"Had a little rat tailing me," Jack growled. "Followed him here."

Baki turned, heart pounding. "You came?"

Jack dropped the body. "You're my brother. I may be angry, but I'm not blind. Besides, these people have angered me more than anyone else."

Another voice echoed from the walls. This time higher. Laced with joy.

"Ahh, now the Hanma bloodlines begin to mingle. A shame you're both still playing checkers."

Baki shouted, "Kurozuchi!"

The lights cut off.

Darkness swallowed them whole.

And somewhere, above them, behind them, Kozue screamed.

TO BE CONTINUED...