Saitama x Baki

Doyle's eye twitched. His body was still, but his mind raced like a machine gone rogue.

Saitama stood in the glow of flickering emergency lights, shoulders relaxed, expression blank as usual.

"You came alone…" Doyle muttered. "How noble. Or how foolish."

From his forearm, twin blades snapped out, their edges superheated to a faint red.

"You won't leave here whole."

Saitama scratched his cheek. "You guys keep saying that."

With a mechanical screech, Doyle launched forward like a missile. The moment he moved, the tunnel came alive—lasers triggered, hidden turrets folded open from the walls, and drones emerged from vents, buzzing with plasma charges.

Saitama didn't move.

Doyle struck from the left, spinning into a full-body scissor slash, blades screeching. The moment they neared, Saitama ducked slightly. The blades missed. He casually swatted one of the drones out of the air—it exploded.

"I thought they only recorded videos," he muttered.

Doyle landed and instantly shot up again, throwing out a wave of micro-explosives from his wrist. The tunnel flashed orange and white.

For a second, it looked like Saitama was gone.

Then the smoke cleared.

Saitama stood, brushing dust off his shoulder. "Now my sleeve's all sooty."

With a roar, Doyle unleashed everything—shoulder cannons, missile racks, flamethrowers. He spun like a human typhoon of steel, a dozen different weapon systems unloading at once.

Concrete shattered. Metal twisted.

And yet—

Saitama walked through the onslaught like it was mist.

Then he vanished.

CRACK!

A single light punch to Doyle's stomach sent him crashing through a tunnel wall into an abandoned maintenance shaft.

Doyle coughed, sparks shooting from his ribs. He reached for a hidden injector—a combat stim.

Too late.

Saitama landed beside him, crouching slightly.

"You've had your warm-up," he said.

"No—NO!" Doyle screamed, activating one final override.

His body split—literally. Hidden compartments burst open, revealing hundreds of microblades, auto-drones, and energy mines. Everything launched at once.

The entire tunnel lit up.

But nothing reached Saitama.

His fist moved.

And everything stopped.

Doyle's remaining gear—his custom armor, the drones, the bombs—detonated outward, fried in an instant like they'd been hit by an electromagnetic god.

He fell, twitching, chest plate caved in like a soda can. His cybernetic eye cracked.

Still breathing. Barely.

Saitama stood over him.

"You lost."

And with that, he turned and walked away.

Later – Medical Quarantine Cell, JSDF Facility

Doyle lay strapped to a steel bed, wired and restrained. Scientists observed him through the glass. His systems were fried. His pride—gone.

"He saw through me," he muttered. "From the beginning. I was nothing. A mere bug."

Somewhere in Tokyo – A High-Security Holding Tank

Steel bars lay twisted like noodles. Guards unconscious. Blood? Not this time. No, this escape was... surgical.

Sikorsky stepped out of the smoke and silence, dressed in a stolen tracksuit, whistling a faint Russian lullaby. No bombs. No drama. Just clean brutality.

"I was told the others failed," he muttered in Russian. "But they were loud. I'll be quiet."

He slipped into the crowd like a shadow, smiling.

Elsewhere – A Private U.S. Base in Okinawa

A heavy hand crushed a bowling ball mid-frame.

"Doyle lost," the man said, not surprised—just annoyed. His body was a fortress of muscle, a tank in sweatpants: Mr. Biscuit Oliva, the man the U.S. government called when nukes weren't an option.

The general behind him adjusted his tie. "You're next, Oliva. The balance is broken. Japan's crawling with monsters again."

Oliva smirked and leaned back, crushing the bowling seat with his bulk. "You think I care about balance?"

"Then what do you care about?"

Oliva raised an eyebrow. "Freedom. And a good steak."

"Then make Japan quiet again. The prison row convicts and now this new mysterious bald guy's presence is messing with the order. Even Yujiro's watching."

Oliva cracked his knuckles. "Yujiro, huh… Been a while. Alright. Book me a flight. I'll handle it."

Tokyo – Night Market District

Baki stood alone, hoodie up, his eyes scanning reflections in rain puddles. The news was everywhere: Spec, Dorian, and even a third convict—defeated in moments by a man no one could quite understand.

"Saitama," he muttered. "He doesn't fight for pride. Or hate. Or training. Then why is he so strong?"

A voice broke his thoughts.

"You're looking in the wrong direction."

Baki turned. A man stood near the stalls, chewing on grilled squid, his head shaved clean and eyes unreadable.

Sikorsky.

"You're Baki Hanma. Good. I needed a warm-up."

Baki didn't speak. He was already in stance.

Sikorsky grinned. "No knives. No bombs. Just me. I want to see if muscle memory alone can kill a champion."

Meanwhile – Orochi Dojo

Saitama stared at a vending machine, debating between shrimp crackers and chocolate milk.

Behind him, Katsumi and Doppo were reviewing reports. They had just learned of Sikorsky's escape—and a new arrival landing in Narita.

Doppo frowned. "Oliva's coming. This is getting out of hand."

Katsumi looked up. "Oliva? Is he also coming here to test Saitama's strength?"

Retsu entered then, holding a kettle. "Then the world better hope Yujiro stays on his couch."

Saitama finally made his choice. Chocolate milk.

"Sirosky however," Doppo froze. "He's after Baki."

Tokyo – Back Alley, Near the Night Market

The puddles rippled.

Sikorsky's foot touched down lightly, his movement a dance of perfect coordination and intent. Across from him, Baki didn't move an inch.

"You've got a reputation," Sikorsky said, cracking his knuckles. "The son of Yujiro Hanma. But you're not him. You're smaller."

Baki's reply was calm, deliberate:

"That's all you see? Size?"

Sikorsky didn't wait.

He lunged like a coiled spring, body flipping mid-air, arm shooting out for a neck grab—no wasted motion, no theatrics.

Baki deflected, shifting his center of gravity and spinning into a crouch. Sikorsky twisted with him, throwing three punches at once—one to the ribs, one to the temple, one to the throat.

None connected.

Baki's head tilted. His elbow lashed out.

CRACK.

Sikorsky tumbled backward, wiping blood from his lip.

A grin spread.

"Yes," he muttered. "Yes. Finally."

They charged again—raw speed and surgical violence dancing under flickering neon lights.

Meanwhile – Narita Airport, Arrival Lounge

The doors slid open with a soft hiss.

Sunglasses reflected the fluorescent lights as a hulking figure stepped through, wearing a custom-made Hawaiian shirt stretched across a frame that looked carved from granite.

Mr. Oliva.

The press was there. Some tried to snap photos. One reporter asked, "Sir, is it true the U.S. military has asked you to confront the bald monster and the prison convicts?"

Oliva paused, rolled his neck, and gave a toothy grin.

"No comment. But I'm here for pleasure. And maybe… lunch."

He walked past them all like a missile built for war.

Orochi Dojo – Dojo Hall

Retsu stood still, arms folded.

Katsumi trained in silence, his strikes sharper than usual.

Doppo entered, holding a file. "The JSDF has completely secured Doyle. They've already begun experimenting with the wreckage of his body."

"Idiots," Retsu said without looking. "They'll make another monster."

"Not without someone stronger to stop him," Doppo added, then paused. "Where's the bald one?"

Katsumi pointed with a thumb. "He went out. Something about craving steamed buns."

Retsu sighed again. "He's a ghost. He appears when needed and vanishes when bored."

Back Alley, Night Market – Fight Ongoing

Sikorsky slammed into a wall, rebounded, flipped, and tried a low sweep kick followed by an upward axe strike.

Baki blocked both.

His eyes sharpened.

"You're fast. But not focused."

Sikorsky spat out a tooth and laughed. "I'm not fighting you to win. I'm fighting you to feel alive."

His next move was erratic. Wild. He went from jiu-jitsu to Greco-Roman to dirty prison techniques, even faking a fall to launch a headbutt.

Baki took it all.

Then he stepped inside Sikorsky's guard and—

WHAM.

A knee to the gut.

Sikorsky gasped, the wind gone from him.

He hit the ground hard.

Meanwhile – Across the Street

Saitama bit into a steamed bun as he passed the alley.

He heard the fight. Saw Baki. Saw Sikorsky.

And just kept walking.

"Don't they have any other work?" he muttered, cheeks full. "That kid's got decent footwork."

He disappeared into the crowd.

Back at the Dojo – Later That Night

Doppo picked up the phone. It was the Tokyo Metro Authority again.

Another subway blackout.

But this time, it wasn't Doyle.

Retsu stepped in, holding a newspaper with Oliva's picture plastered on it.

"Another one's entered the ring," he said.

Doppo stared at the image for a long second, then smiled grimly.

"Then the storm's just beginning."

TO BE CONTINUED...