Saitama x Baki

The gunshot cracked like thunder and made its way to Saitama's head but crumbled to pieces on impact.

Spec's body sagged, collapsing fully onto the shattered pavement, and for a moment, there was only silence.

Saitama raised an eyebrow. "Weird place to hide a gun."

But then Spec's body twitched again.

Unbelievably, his muscle squirmed beneath his skin, pulling itself into place. Within seconds, the gaping wound had vanished completely, leaving only the faintest scar as a mark of his madness.

Spec sat up slowly, blood smeared across his face, grinning like a demon.

"Heh... still breathing," he coughed. "I learned a few tricks in prison... ways to... control the body. To stop death itself."

He staggered to his feet, shoulders heaving with the effort.

"Pain is nothin'. Death... is nothin'! I am the only man who can kill himself and keep fightin'!"

From somewhere deep in his clothing, he produced another weapon—a small, modified revolver with an elongated barrel.

With a wild laugh, he pressed it under his chin and pulled the trigger.

BANG!

Another bloody eruption, another instant collapse. Another few seconds—and another miraculous recovery.

Saitama watched, his face unreadable. He scratched the side of his head, looking more confused than concerned.

Spec wiped the blood from his eyes, grinning like a madman. "You get it now? I can die as many times as it takes... but you? You only gotta slip once."

He sprinted forward, firing the revolver mid-charge, bullets whistling through the air toward Saitama's face.

The shots were fast—inhumanly fast—but to Saitama, they moved slower than snails.

He tilted his head lazily, letting the bullets pass by harmlessly.

Spec closed the distance and was almost on him now, gun discarded, fists flying in a berserk fury.

His attacks were sloppier now, fueled by pain and adrenaline rather than precision. But there was a desperation behind them, a manic edge like a dying beast lashing out with its final breath.

Saitama caught one wild punch in his palm.

The force of the strike sent another shockwave through the ground—but Saitama's hand didn't budge.

"You should give up," he said plainly. "You're gonna hurt yourself."

Spec screamed in rage, pulling a hidden knife from his boot and plunging it toward Saitama's chest.

The blade bent against his suit, snapping in half from the force of its own momentum.

Spec froze, staring at the broken weapon in his trembling hand.

Saitama sighed. "I warned you."

He flicked Spec in the forehead with a single finger.

The sound was soft, but the effect wasn't.

Spec was launched backward like a missile, spinning through the air uncontrollably before crashing into a distant skyscraper, punching a hole straight through the concrete before vanishing into the darkness beyond.

The building groaned ominously from the impact, glass windows shattering in cascading explosions of light and sound.

Far off, in the silence that followed, came a muffled crash—Spec hitting the ground at last.

Saitama stood there, dust swirling lazily around him, looking bored.

"Jeez," he muttered. "Is everyone in this place insane?"

He turned away, already thinking about how long it would take to find Genos—or a grocery store with a discount on potatoes.

But as he started to walk, Saitama felt it again. Another presence of a maniac. And it was getting closer.

The pavement under his boots trembled faintly as if the ground itself recognized the weight of the man approaching.

"Oho," Saitama exclaimed. "Earthquake."

From the smoke and ruin, a massive shape emerged. It was a man with slicked-back hair and the cold, heavy aura of a Yakuza boss.

He was a mountain of muscle wrapped in a sharp black suit, a personality quite famously known as Hanayama Kaoru.

He said nothing at first. Just stared at the bald man standing amidst a ruined city block, buildings half-collapsed around him like fallen dominoes.

Saitama turned and blinked. "You lost or something?"

Hanayama stopped five feet away. "You hit him hard," Hanayama's eyes narrowed. "Spec."

Saitama shrugged. "He was the one who started it."

Hanayama looked at the skyscraper in the distance, a jagged hole carved through its center.

"He was mine to handle."

"Oh," Saitama muttered. "I'm sorry."

Hanayama cracked his knuckles. "You're not from here. And you're not ordinary. Beating the hell out of Spec like that and looking as if nothing happened? That means... you're strong. And in this city—"

He removed his jacket and gently placed it on a bent traffic sign.

"—we respect strength."

Without another word, Hanayama lunged. Despite his size, he moved like a bullet train.

BOOM!

His fist slammed into Saitama's chest with the weight of a truck. The road beneath them fractured instantly, spiderweb cracks racing out in every direction.

Saitama blinked and then looked down at his chest. "Hmm."

Hanayama didn't stop. He followed up with a left hook—an attack that once cracked a man's skull through a steel helmet.

Saitama caught the punch mid-air with one hand. "Careful," he said flatly.

He flung Hanayama across the street. But Hanayama twisted in mid-air, landed on his feet with a deep quake, and charged again.

This time, he threw a shoulder tackle, smashing into Saitama with the force of a cannonball.

This hit actually pushed Saitama back a few inches.

"Woah," Saitama muttered. "You're stronger than that elbow joint panic guy with the ninja stars and bombs."

Hanayama wrapped both arms around Saitama's waist and lifted him clean off the ground. Then came the slam.

Saitama was driven into the concrete with a full-body suplex, a shockwave erupting from the impact that shook the city block.

"Hmm," Saitama muttered from the crater.

He stood up, brushing dust off his shoulder.

Hanayama watched him, breathing slightly heavier now, but his eyes never wavered.

"Can I go now?" Saitama asked.

Hanayama charged once more. This time, Saitama met him halfway—and their fists collided.

CRACK.

The entire street collapsed beneath them, opening into a subway tunnel below. Both men fell through the dust and steel, slamming onto train tracks in a tangle of fists and momentum.

BOOM.

The tunnel lit up like a thunderstorm.

Hanayama reeled back, blood running down the corner of his mouth while Saitama looked slightly annoyed. "Look what you've done. Make sure to pay the repair charges."

Hanayama adjusted his stance, sighing. "You're more than strong. You're unreal."

And then, it happened.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Saitama's eyes shifted. So did Hanayama's.

From the rubble above, a twisted, laughing silhouette limped into view.

Spec.

His face was torn, his arms half-useless—but his grin burned brighter than ever. Strapped to his chest was a crude, cobbled-together bomb vest, its timer blinking down.

"Ahaha... Allow me to spice things up."

Hanayama's eyes widened. "SPEC—!"

BOOM.

The explosion tore through the tunnel like the roar of a demon. Light engulfed everything and concrete melted.

The explosion ripped through the tunnel like a wild beast.

A blast of light, then steel screamed as it bent inward. Concrete buckled, and metal melted. For a second, it felt like the world had cracked.

Then came the silence.

Hanayama stumbled out first. Blood poured from his face—no, from what was left of it.

The entire left side was gone.

Burnt muscle, exposed bone, one eye completely ruined. His lips were split to the cheek, teeth showing through the wound. But he didn't make a sound. Just stood there, one arm hanging useless, the other clenched into a fist.

Saitama walked out next.

Untouched.

He stopped a few feet away and looked around the wrecked tunnel. "Man... this place is falling apart."

Then something shifted under a pile of burning rubble.

Spec.

Half his body was gone. One leg missing. Jaw shattered. His chest barely rose. A hole burned through the center of it where the bomb had gone off. But he moved.

Barely.

He dragged himself forward an inch, maybe two. Bloody smears followed behind him.

He looked up—one good eye still open, twitching.

He smiled.

It was small. Weak. But it was there.

Hanayama looked down at him. His face was unreadable, half because of the damage, half because he didn't have anything to say. He just breathed. Hard. Slow. Controlled.

Spec coughed, something dark spilling from his mouth.

"Still... fightin'..." he whispered, almost proud.

Then he stopped.

No sound. No twitch. No breath.

He was dead.

Saitama walked up beside Hanayama and looked down at the body.

"He really didn't know when to quit, huh?"

Hanayama didn't answer. He leaned against the tunnel wall, blood dripping from his chin.

Saitama pointed at him. "That looks bad. You should get that checked."

Hanayama nodded slowly.

Then dropped to one knee.

The fight was over.

TO BE CONTINUED...