Saitama x Baki

A long silence followed.

You could hear a bird chirp.

Saitama looked around, rubbing the back of his head. "Also… I'm kind of lost. This place doesn't even have proper street signs."

Jack twitched. "You're saying no to all of us… for udon?"

Saitama shrugged. "Well, it's got tempura bits in it. And Genos always orders the good one with the thick broth."

Tokugawa coughed into his hand, trying to cover the awkwardness.

Yujiro's eyes narrowed, trying to read the man before him. No tension. No fear. Not even arrogance. Just pure, unshakable boredom.

"This is a waste of time," Jack growled, turning slightly, but his fists still clenched.

Doppo stepped forward, holding up both hands. "Enough. He's not refusing because he's afraid."

"Oh, I know that," Yujiro muttered.

"He doesn't see us as fights. That's the difference," Shibukawa added, eyes scanning Saitama's casual frame.

Baki took another step forward but stopped himself. His instincts screamed for a battle, but something deeper—wiser—held him back.

"You've changed everything," he said quietly to Saitama.

"Huh?"

"This world… was built on struggle. Raw, physical evolution. But you—you skipped the ladder."

Saitama blinked. "What do you mean? I'm a human."

Yujiro, though silent, studied every breath Saitama took. Not in anticipation of a punch—but to understand the creature in front of him.

"Your strength," Yujiro said, finally. "It's not something to train toward. It's inhuman. Inhuman beyond even my comprehension. It's something that is."

Saitama gave a thumbs-up. "Thanks, I guess."

Retsu finally spoke. "Perhaps tonight is not the night."

"Not yet," Yujiro said, eyes fixed on Saitama. "But someday."

Jack grunted in frustration but didn't argue.

Tokugawa nodded slowly as if this had been enough. A glimpse of truth. Proof of myth.

"If the strongest fighter here agrees, I guess it's time."

The fighters, one by one, began to withdraw. Some walked. Some glanced back. Others clenched their fists, promises of future battles burning behind their eyes.

Doppo remained at the dojo steps, watching them go. His face was calm, almost proud.

Saitama turned toward him. "So… you do have a map, right?"

Doppo chuckled. "I'll get you a bus schedule."

Saitama smiled faintly. "Okay. Do you have an extra futon?"

"Yes," Doppo replied and walked into the dojo. "I'll have a room prepared."

As the crowd faded into the night, the air lightened.

But every warrior there knew—

This was just the beginning.

Inside the Dojo – Moments Later

The night had deepened. Crickets chirped softly outside the Orochi Dojo, and a light breeze carried the scent of cooked rice and sandalwood across the quiet courtyard.

Inside, Saitama was sprawled out on a tatami mat, staring at the ceiling with a full belly.

"So, any clue where City Z might be from here?" he asked lazily.

Doppo poured himself some tea and sat beside him. "Still checking with a few contacts. The geography's... complicated."

"Figures," Saitama muttered.

Suddenly—

A sharp buzz echoed across the dojo. Not a phone. Not a bug. Something mechanical.

Doppo's head turned toward the courtyard. "Trouble."

The buzz grew louder—metal scraping against metal. A sound too unnatural for nature.

Elsewhere — A dark alley, Tokyo outskirts

A lone security guard walked his routine route, flashlight bobbing against the walls of a construction zone.

He didn't hear the man drop behind him.

He didn't feel the wire until it kissed his neck.

SHINK.

The guard's head hit the pavement a second before his body crumpled.

Doyle stood over the corpse, his expression one of fascination—childlike curiosity hiding beneath the cold stare of a murderer.

His arms, now retracted back into his coat, had morphed seconds earlier into bladed chainsaws, humming with hidden mechanisms. One finger twitch was all it took to deploy them again.

He pulled a small mirror from his pocket and adjusted his lipstick.

"Perfect symmetry," he whispered.

A second later, he vanished into the shadows again.

Morning – Outside the Orochi Dojo

Doppo's phone rang. He answered quietly, face tightening.

"Another body," he said after a pause. "No cameras. No witnesses. Head severed in a single strike."

"Sounds like a swordsman," Saitama said, yawning.

"No. Worse."

He held out a photo. The victim's neck was cauterized—burned clean like it had been sliced by fire.

"He's called Doyle," Doppo muttered. "A convict. Half man, half weapon. Escaped from the prison around the same time as Spec and Dorian."

Saitama frowned. "Geez, you guys really need better prison walls. Immovable ones."

Doppo ignored the comment. "He's unpredictable. Disguises himself in crowds. Strikes without warning. And he's not fighting to prove something like the others. He kills for the thrill."

"Hmm." Saitama stood up, cracking his neck. "So where's he heading?"

"Downtown. Central business district. Midday crowd."

"I guess I could help you out. I need to kill time anyway."

Downtown Tokyo – Noon

The city buzzed with life. Tourists and office workers moved like rivers down the streets. Children chased pigeons near the fountains.

And amidst them, he walked.

Doyle, wearing a clean white business suit, glasses, and a briefcase, looked like any other salaryman. Except for the smile. It never faded.

He passed a child with a balloon. A beggar with a cup. A food cart grilling octopus balls.

His eye twitched.

The beggar blinked. "Spare change?"

Doyle smiled wider.

SHHHNK.

The beggar's cup split in half.

Then his throat.

No scream. No time.

Doyle kept walking.

Screams erupted a few seconds later. People panicked, running in every direction as the beggar's body fell to the pavement, crimson pooling beneath.

Alarms blared.

Saitama landed in the street moments later, cape fluttering as he looked around.

People scattered past him like waves splitting on a stone.

"What now…" he muttered.

He saw the body. The blood. The chaos.

And standing calmly in the middle of it all—Doyle.

Their eyes met.

Doyle tilted his head. "You don't seem fazed by this chaos. You a fighter?"

Saitama blinked. "Maybe. And?"

Doyle removed his glasses and placed them in his pocket. His arms opened. With a sudden snap, blades erupted from beneath his sleeves—chains, spikes, rotating saws like nightmare origami.

"I want to see what you're made of," Doyle grinned.

Saitama stared. "You guys sure like announcing yourselves."

Doyle didn't wait. He lunged.

Blades flew forward—one from the right, one from below, one from behind. His body twisted midair as if possessed by a puppeteer, his spine bending at angles no human should.

CLANG!

Saitama caught one blade mid-swing.

Then a second.

Then a third.

Doyle blinked. "Impossible."

Saitama's grip crushed the spinning sawblade like it was foil. He flicked it away with a bored look.

"You're more annoying than dangerous," he said.

Doyle retracted the chains, leaping into the air. His shoes fired miniature explosives, propelling him forward with deadly momentum.

He zipped around Saitama like a pinball, arms transforming mid-attack into new weapons—a flamethrower, a taser, a spring-loaded spike.

Nothing worked.

Not one weapon left a mark.

Finally, Doyle paused midair, panting slightly.

Saitama looked up at him, unimpressed. "Are you done playing Iron Man?"

Doyle screamed and shot toward him, blades screaming.

Saitama stepped aside. One inch.

Doyle missed.

And in that same moment, flick.

Saitama's finger tapped his stomach.

BOOM.

Doyle spiraled backward through three street lamps, landed in a heap beside a taxi, and skidded across the road, carving up asphalt.

He coughed, looked down, and realized his chest armor was shattered.

He tried to move—but only sparks flew out.

Saitama walked over and crouched. "You shouldn't cause so much harm to public property."

Doyle's eyes twitched. He reached for a detonator in his sleeve.

Saitama caught his hand in mid-air.

"Yeah, no."

Suddenly, from Doyle's back, a cloud of thick white smoke exploded outward—PSSSSSH!—a last-resort smokescreen fired directly from his spinal housing.

"Ugh—" Saitama recoiled, losing his grip. "Is this how this city's cyborgs fart?"

By the time the smoke thinned out—barely a few seconds later—Doyle was gone.

Just gone.

Only a twisted piece of metal remained on the pavement, sparking weakly where his body had once laid.

"Huh," Saitama scratched his head. "Where did he go?"

From the rooftops a few blocks away, Doyle watched, one eye glowing faintly through a cracked lens. His breathing was ragged, mechanical parts clicking and groaning with every movement.

"I need upgrades," he muttered to himself, retreating further into the shadows. "And time. He's not like the others…"

Then he smiled.

"But next time—I'll be ready. Ready to destroy this baldie."

TO BE CONTINUED...