Saitama x Baki

Sikorsky's hand was a blur—a claw strike aimed at Katsumi's face, followed by an elbow strike meant to fracture the collarbone.

Katsumi leaned back just enough.

Whish!

Air cut from the strike.

Then—counter.

He ducked low and smashed a palm into Sikorsky's gut, the impact echoing like a cannon.

Sikorsky flew back but twisted midair, landed on a wall, and leaped off it like a predator.

Katsumi barely dodged the next assault—a flurry of prison-style joint breaks, dirty, savage attacks designed to cripple rather than knock out.

Sikorsky wrapped around Katsumi's neck, arm coiling like a snake, trying to tear his windpipe out.

Crack!

Katsumi slammed him into the wall—once, twice, three times!

Sikorsky dropped.

But he was laughing.

"Good!" he shouted, face bleeding. "This is the least I can expect from a strong fighter!"

He charged again.

This time, Sikorsky went low. A spinning leg sweep came first—Katsumi blocked with his shin, only for a feint kick to follow directly into his side.

Pain exploded through Katsumi's ribs.

Before he could recover, Sikorsky was behind him—his arm slipped under Katsumi's chin, dragging him into a guillotine choke.

"Tap out, prince," Sikorsky hissed. "Let the king of escape show you his crown."

Katsumi's eyes narrowed. And then—

CRACK!

He smashed his heel down on Sikorsky's foot, then used that split-second of hesitation to grab Sikorsky's arm and dislocate the shoulder in a single twist.

Sikorsky howled—but Katsumi wasn't done.

A combo erupted: Left hook to the liver. Elbow to the chest. A brutal karate chop across the throat.

Sikorsky stumbled back, coughing blood.

"I'm not the boy you can beat so easily," Katsumi said.

"Don't be so proud! You haven't beaten me either!" Sikorsky screamed.

He charged in again—but Katsumi was calm now.

Centered.

He sidestepped the rush with perfect footwork and delivered a spinning back kick to Sikorsky's chest.

BOOM!

The convict was lifted off the ground and sent crashing into the dojo's front steps.

Blood ran down his jaw. Bones cracked in his arm.

But still—he rose.

Not with skill. But with rage.

"This isn't over," he growled. "You think you're a warrior? I fought for my life every damn day in a cage!"

He rushed forward with nothing but raw instinct, arms flailing like a beast.

Katsumi waited.

Breath slow.

And at the perfect moment—

He dropped low and launched an upward elbow strike directly under Sikorsky's chin.

The kind that rattled the brainstem.

CRACK!

Sikorsky's eyes rolled back. His knees buckled.

And finally, the Russian collapsed.

Minutes Later – Return of Saitama and Doppo

The front gate creaked open.

Doppo and Saitama walked in, Doppo grumbling about the buses.

Then they saw the crater in the steps.

And the blood trail.

And Sikorsky, unconscious, face down on the tiles.

Saitama blinked. "Another one?"

Doppo rushed forward. "Katsumi?! What happened?!"

Katsumi stepped from the shadows of the dojo interior. His body was bruised, his breath heavy, but his eyes were clear.

"He came for a fight," he said simply. "I put him down."

Retsu arrived moments later with a towel over his shoulder.

He looked at Sikorsky's twisted body. Then at Katsumi.

Then he gave a quiet nod.

"You've surpassed yourself."

Katsumi didn't smile.

He looked at Saitama.

"I want to spar again. But next time… try a little harder."

Saitama raised an eyebrow. "You sure?"

Everyone stared.

And for the first time that night, Katsumi smiled.

Minutes Later

Katsumi lay wrapped in bandages, resting on a mat. Retsu applied a cooling compress while looking at the broken remains of Sikorsky's gauntlet.

Retsu looked up. "You found a route?"

Doppo sighed. "No. We went through every bus schedule, metro map, even some old municipal records."

He turned to Saitama. "There is no City Z. It doesn't exist."

Saitama blinked. "What?"

"There's no record. Not in any government database, not on a map, nothing."

Saitama stood there for a second, holding a bag of melon bread. "Huh… Weird."

Retsu furrowed his brow. "Are you sure you didn't just mishear the name?"

Saitama shook his head. "Nope. Lived there for years. Rent's cheap."

Doppo crossed his arms. "So, where exactly is this City Z in Japan?"

"…Well, I was fighting a martial artist, Garou, and then suddenly dropped in the middle of this city."

"Garou? As far as I know, such a fighter doesn't exist!"

"But if you're mentioning him, he must be quite strong and unnoticed."

Katsumi, still groggy on the mat, mumbled, "Maybe he came from another planet."

Everyone stared at him for a beat.

Retsu finally said, "That sounds both illogical and exactly correct."

Doppo exclaimed. "That explains his extraordinary power and resilience!"

Saitama shrugged and dropped onto a spare futon. "What does that mean?"

"It means," Doppo said, pulling over a chair, "you may not be from this world at all."

Saitama frowned. "You're saying I'm an alien?"

Doppo leaned forward, his voice lower. "You mentioned a man named Garou. That's not just a name we've never heard—there's no footage, no tournament, not a single underground whisper about a fighter with that name. And in our world, fighters talk. Fighters leave scars behind."

Retsu added, "Yet you defeated three of the most dangerous men we've known, without a scratch. You have no lineage, no record, and your fighting stance… It's nonexistent."

Saitama rolled onto his side. "I don't really do stances. A punch is all it takes."

Katsumi pushed himself upright slightly. "That's the scariest part. Even Yujiro has a rhythm. You have none."

Saitama yawned. "So what now? You gonna dissect me or something?"

"No," Doppo said firmly. "But we're going to learn from you. We're going to observe. Not to prove you're from another planet…"

He stood and looked out into the dojo's yard where the wind brushed the hanging paper lamps.

"…but to know what the future of combat looks like."

Retsu nodded, contemplative. "You shattered our understanding of martial law with a single flick."

Doppo turned and spoke, more serious this time.

"Yujiro's on standby. But if he gets extra curious and comes again to fight… then the whole world is about to shift."

Saitama looked out the paper window at the moonlit courtyard.

"If he wants to talk, he knows where I am," he said, rolling back onto the futon.

A breeze moved through the dojo.

Okinawa – U.S. Military Training Grounds

The ground shook beneath Mr. Oliva's footsteps as he pressed through steel doors labeled RESTRICTED. Soldiers parted like grass before wind.

Behind him, one colonel wiped sweat from his brow.

"Is he… training already?"

Inside the reinforced gym, Oliva stood before a custom 10-ton training dummy, pounded into bent titanium. His body glistened with sweat, but his grin was wide. He casually chewed a thick piece of grilled pork between reps.

"I'm not training," he said between bites. "I'm preparing."

An officer stepped forward. "Sir, is it true? You're being sent to engage the subject classified as—Saitama?"

Oliva paused mid-chew.

Then he laughed.

"Engage? No. I just want to meet him."

He picked up a dumbbell heavier than a vending machine and began repping it like a plastic toy.

"Yujiro's twitching. That means the food chain's shaking."

The soldier frowned. "Are you saying Saitama could be—"

Oliva interrupted.

"I'm saying this guy might be fun. And I've been starving for fun."

His expression darkened just a bit. "If he's stronger than me, I want to feel it. If he's weaker... I'll end the myth."

Behind him, a monitor silently displayed a government file with Saitama's image, redacted to hell, but with one tag at the bottom:

THREAT CLASS: UNKNOWN

Oliva cracked his neck.

"Time to find out what 'unknown' really means."

TO BE CONTINUED...