Saitama x Baki

Tokyo – JSDF Combat Analysis Room, Late Night

The lights buzzed softly in the sterile white room, where Doyle's restrained body floated in a cryogenic tank. Scientists and high-ranking officers whispered behind glass as readings flashed across the monitors.

But they weren't looking at Doyle anymore.

They were looking at the simulation.

A blurry, low-resolution video played on a loop: Saitama casually walking through explosions, brushing ash off his shoulder. Algorithms tried mapping his motion. Predicting his speed.

None succeeded.

"Every model breaks," one technician muttered. "He's not just faster. It's like he ignores physics entirely."

The general leaned in. "What about neurological scans? Any chance he's using a chi technique?"

Another shook their head. "He doesn't even react. His brain activity remains baseline—even during lethal engagements. No fear. No anticipation. No aggression."

They watched as Saitama vanished mid-frame in the video—only to reappear beside Doyle a frame later.

"How do you fight something that doesn't register in the rules of nature?"

No one answered.

Orochi Dojo – Meditation Hall, Morning

A breeze flowed through the open doors, carrying the scent of rain-soaked stone and cedarwood. Katsumi sat cross-legged on a mat, still bruised and bandaged from his clash with Sikorsky. His eyes were shut, breaths slow but focused.

Retsu sat across from him, arms folded.

"You moved with pure intent," Retsu said. "That's what saved you."

"I reacted without thinking," Katsumi murmured. "I've never done that before. It felt like I wasn't me."

"That's what makes a true martial artist. No form. No thought. Just response."

Katsumi's eyes opened. "Do you think I'm ready?"

Retsu considered the question. "For Sikorsky? You were. For the chaos ahead? No."

Footsteps echoed behind them.

Doppo stepped into the hall, Saitama behind him with a rice ball in hand.

"There's been a development," Doppo said. "Oliva's here."

Katsumi turned sharply. "Here? Now?"

"He just landed at Narita. His exact words were, and I quote: 'Tell the bald guy I brought steak. Hope he's ready for some action.'"

Saitama blinked. "I like steak."

Doppo sighed. "He'll come. But he's not the only one."

Retsu stood. "You mean the one beneath Tokyo?"

Unknown Underground Location – 30 Meters Beneath Shibuya Station

The room was shaped like a dome, half-devoured by rust and earth. Screens lined the wall. Old Sea King banners faded with time. And at the center, cross-legged on a steel platform, sat the man thought to be dead.

Kurozuchi.

A former prodigy of the Sea King tournament, exiled and nearly killed in a match with Retsu that no one remembers… because it never aired.

He survived.

And he had watched the world forget martial artists like him.

"They all stare at the bright stars—Yujiro, Baki, Oliva, even this new anomaly called Saitama. But they forgot the weeds below."

He stared at a flickering recording of Saitama vs Doyle.

"You," he muttered, "are the perfect storm. You'll drown them all—and I'll be the flood behind it."

A soft chime buzzed on his console. Dozens of digital profiles appeared—fighters across Japan. Dojo masters. Tournament survivors. Bodyguards.

And one target glowed red.

Kozue Matsumoto.

"If I can't beat the monsters in the ring," he whispered, "I'll crush the spirit behind them."

He stood. His lean body was wrapped in obsidian robes, and across his back was a long black staff with etched kanji: Break the Spine of Legacy

Narita International Airport – Private Lounge

Oliva lounged in a reinforced titanium chair, sipping pineapple juice like it was aged whiskey. His suitcase lay open beside him, revealing a portable grill, weight plates, and a thick leather belt with a golden eagle buckle.

"Hanayama refused to fight me," he muttered. "Said something about Saitama changing the meaning of strength."

His phone buzzed.

Text from Doppo: "The bald guy is free tomorrow. Says he likes steak."

Reply: "I'll bring prime rib."

New Text from US Department: "Maintain discretion. Do NOT provoke Hanma."

Reply: "Too late."

Oliva looked out the window at the storm clouds gathering over Tokyo.

"Let's see what the big deal is."

Orochi Dojo – Nightfall

Saitama sat alone near the pond, watching koi nibble at the surface. He poked at a pastry wrapper beside him.

"Oliva, huh?" he muttered. "Another guy with too many muscles…"

He sighed and lay back. "I should've bought more melon bread."

Footsteps approached.

It was Retsu.

"Do you fear him?" he asked.

"No," Saitama said honestly. "But I wonder if I'll get to use both fists this time."

Retsu paused. "You speak like someone who's cursed with ease."

"Not cursed," Saitama replied. "Just… disappointed."

Retsu sat beside him. "You're like a divine wind trapped in a wooden box."

They watched the fish together in silence.

Until an explosion rocked the city.

Elsewhere – Rooftop of a Hospital

Baki stood at the edge, shirtless under the moonlight. His chest rose and fell. Every breath was sharp. Controlled.

He'd seen Sikorsky crushed. Katsumi brutalized. Rumors about Oliva's arrival. And now… even Yujiro's attention seemed divided.

But what haunted him most was Saitama.

His presence.

The emptiness in his power.

"There's no technique to counter him," Baki whispered. "No strategy. He's not a mountain to climb. He's a sky you can't reach."

Behind him, Kozue arrived. She stood silently before speaking.

"I don't want you to become like them."

Baki turned. "Like who?"

"Like your father. Like that man. Hollow. Hungry for something that no one can give."

Baki didn't respond.

Midnight – Rooftops Over Tokyo

Kurozuchi stood above a radio tower, his cloak billowing.

He stared down at the city, eyes glowing with eerie serenity.

"A storm is coming. And this time... I'll be the eye."

Below, dozens of agents and rogue fighters activated across the city.

Martial arts wasn't just about strength anymore.

It was about survival.

Later in Tokyo – Narrow Backstreets, 2:34 AM

The night was quiet. Not peaceful—just quiet.

A dog barked somewhere. A neon light buzzed above a shuttered ramen stand. And then, as if the darkness itself had begun to breathe, something moved.

A figure walked barefoot down the alley. No footsteps. No rustle of clothing. Just movement. Like mist curling through gaps in the world.

Yanagi Ryukou, the master of the vacuum palm, had returned.

His eyes gleamed faintly, like glass over still water. The wind stirred slightly—then died completely. Not a single breeze passed him.

He stopped before a blackened mirror in an abandoned barber shop window. His reflection didn't smile.

"They all act like beasts… Oliva… Retsu… even Hanma Yujiro watches from above. But not me. I've always been the serpent underfoot. Venom… silent and patient."

His hand flexed, and the air warped around it. A hiss—like air escaping a grave.

"Time to hunt."

Somewhere in Yokohama – Underground Arena

Jack Hanma's fists slammed into reinforced concrete pillars, his jaw clenched in agony and glee. Sweat poured from his body like rain.

The weight of his father's legacy—and the recent storms tearing through Tokyo—drove his fists.

One after another, his opponents had fallen. Yet none of them mattered.

He wanted Baki. He wanted Yujiro. And now, somewhere in that mess…

He wanted Saitama.

But something interrupted his rhythm.

A whisper.

No sound. Just the absence of it.

He turned.

Nothing.

Then a gust—backwards.

And Jack's eyes narrowed.

A single cut had appeared on his arm.

It didn't hurt at first. But then the wound hissed, bubbled, and began to swell in seconds.

Jack ripped off part of his sleeve, clenching his teeth. Poison?

"You smell like rot," he growled.

From the shadows, a voice replied. Calm. Detached.

"You scream like meat."

Yanagi stepped into the ring. No crowd. No announcer. Just an executioner and a beast.

Jack didn't wait.

He lunged forward, throwing a hook strong enough to crater a bus.

Yanagi vanished.

Jack turned mid-swing—too late.

The vacuum palm struck his ribs.

Not hard. Not deep. But sharp. Surgical.

Jack staggered, spitting blood. The pain came from inside.

"Your organs shift when hit with no resistance," Yanagi murmured. "You never learned that."

Jack roared, launching a wild knee that cracked the floor.

It missed by an inch.

Yanagi danced around the brute like a ghost, leaving small cuts and pressure strikes behind. No emotion. No thrill.

Just technique.

Jack backed up. His vision blurred. His jaw twitched.

He hated it.

This wasn't fighting.

This was dissection.

He grabbed a steel support beam and swung it like a club.

Yanagi let it scrape past him, one foot gliding forward.

Another palm. This time, to the throat.

Jack dropped, gasping.

Yanagi stood over him. "You're no monster. Just muscle and misplaced anger."

He didn't kill him.

No.

He wanted him alive.

So the others would feel it.

TO BE CONTINUED...