Saitama x Baki

The light devoured him.

Saitama barely had the time to react before the world around him twisted violently. Gravity lost meaning and direction vanished. For an instant, he existed nowhere and everywhere all at once, stretched thin across the fabric of space and time like a thread pulled tight to breaking.

And then everything abruptly reappeared.

He hit the ground hard enough to shatter a mountain, yet the earth beneath him barely cracked.

Dust exploded outward in a colossal wave, blotting out the sky, while trees buckled and snapped like twigs from the force of his arrival.

Saitama rose slowly, brushing dust from his shoulders with a casual look, ignorant of his violent landing. His eyes scanned the unfamiliar landscape—a city skyline jagged against the dimming sky, the scent of blood, sweat, and violence hanging thick in the air.

Saitama was confused, he disappeared from the void and reappeared in a city, all within a few moments.

This place was different—nothing like what he had seen earlier. It was rougher and heavier somehow.

He took a step forward, feeling the ground beneath his boots, the texture of the earth—real, solid, but buzzing faintly with something else.

There weren't the usual loudspeakers and the bustle around the town, no one looked worried about an emergency.

Soon, a low chuckle broke the silence.

Saitama's gaze snapped to the source. A figure leaning casually against the shattered remains of a nearby wall, partially obscured by the lingering dust.

The man stepped forward, into the fading light.

Older than most fighters Saitama had seen, with a face like weathered stone and muscles that bulged beneath a prison jumpsuit torn at the stitchings, he radiated danger with every lazy step he took. His smile was crooked, almost mocking, and his eyes—wild and predatory—shone with an insane glint that immediately set the atmosphere on edge.

"You ain't from around here, are ya?" the man said, voice low, dripping with menace. "Dropped straight outta the sky like some kinda angel."

Saitama blinked. "Huh? No, just... ended up here, I guess."

The old man laughed, a sharp, barking sound that didn't reach his eyes.

"The name's Spec," he said, stretching his arms lazily. "And you? Doesn't matter. You got that look. That scent of power. I can smell it. Can't let a chance like this go to waste."

Without any warning, Spec lunged. It was a sudden, vicious movement of a man who had lived his entire life drenched in violence.

Saitama barely moved as Spec's fingers, shaped like claws, slashed through the air, aimed directly at his throat.

The movement was brutal yet efficient—designed to tear through flesh and sever arteries in a blink.

Saitama leaned his head a bit to the side, and the attack missed by a breath.

Spec grinned wider, bloodlust radiating off him in waves. "Oho... reflexes, too. Good."

In an instant, the air around Saitama was filled with killing strikes—fingertips hardened like steel, aimed at pressure points, arteries, and joints. Every move carried deadly intent, and the precision behind each attack suggested a mind sharpened by decades of experience in ending lives.

Saitama blocked casually, shifting his body just enough to let the attacks graze harmlessly past him.

"You're fast, old man," Saitama said.

Spec's grin widened into something monstrous. "Huh! Fast enough to kill you."

Without pause, he pulled a small, gleaming object from his waistband—a thin, razor-sharp wire and with a flick of his wrist, sent it whipping toward Saitama's neck, intending to decapitate him before he could blink.

The wire blurred with speed invisible to normal eyes. However, Saitama raised a hand and caught it between two fingers.

Spec's eyes narrowed. "You shouldn't have done that," he hissed.

With a roar, he pulled the wire, trying to cut Saitama's fingers on the way back, but the wire snapped instead.

Spec didn't falter. He pivoted immediately, driving his knee into Saitama's ribs with enough force to shatter steel.

The blow landed and created an echo.

The ground beneath them shattered from the shockwave, dust, and stone exploding outward like cannon fire. Cars down the street were overturned by the blast, and windows shattered in nearby buildings.

But Saitama stood unmoved. Spec stumbled back, blinking in confusion.

"Was that your best attack?" Saitama asked, dusting off his pants. He sounded more annoyed than impressed.

Spec growled, his muscles bulged unnaturally as he poured every ounce of power into his next move.

A brutal, overhand blow, designed not just to strike, but to crush.

He roared as he brought it down, the force enough to split the pavement.

Saitama sighed, raising one hand lazily.

Their fists met.

The impact detonated like a bomb, a shockwave flattening the entire block around them. Streetlights bent like reeds in a hurricane. The city itself seemed to hold its breath.

Spec's body snapped backward, thrown like a ragdoll through the air. He slammed through two buildings before finally coming to a halt in the debris.

Saitama stood in the center of the devastation, scratching his head.

"I was supposed to go shopping today with Genos," he muttered. "I thought after taking care of the hero hunter, Garou, I would be free, but no."

From the rubble, Spec rose, blood trickling down the side of his face, eyes wide—not with pain, but with excitement.

He licked the blood from his lips, laughing softly to himself.

"This... This is real," he whispered. "Real strength... not those weaklings pretending to be strong."

He staggered forward and somewhere deep inside him, a part of him knew he had no chance. That this man—this strange, unimposing bald man—was not just strong, but something else entirely. A force of nature that no amount of trickery or savagery could overcome.

And yet, he couldn't stop. His soul, rotten and twisted though it was, demanded the fight.

He roared again, charging one last time, fists swinging with reckless abandon.

Saitama caught him mid-swing, pinching the older man's wrist between thumb and forefinger.

A single squeeze caused Spec's bones to crack audibly.

The man dropped to his knees with a strangled gasp, his body finally giving out under the crushing realization of his defeat.

Still, he looked up at Saitama and grinned.

"You're... a monster," he stammered.

Saitama frowned slightly. "Just a hero for fun," he replied.

Spec collapsed, the last of his strength bleeding out of him. But it wasn't over.

From the crumbled debris where he lay, Spec's fingers twitched.

His lips twisted into a grin again, even as blood poured from his mouth.

A small, almost imperceptible movement—a hand sliding under his tattered prison jumpsuit.

Before Saitama could react—or perhaps before he could be bothered to—Spec pulled a small, rusted pistol from his waistband and shot it.

TO BE CONTINUED...