Chapter 1: A Hero's Tedium
The afternoon sun hung lazily in the sky over City-Z, casting long shadows across the half-abandoned streets. The heat shimmered off the cracked asphalt, creating wavering mirages in the distance. In this forgotten corner of the metropolis, silence reigned supreme, interrupted only by the occasional distant siren or the rustling of trash carried by a listless breeze.
Through this urban wasteland trudged a figure that, to the uninitiated, appeared utterly unremarkable: a bald man of average height and unimpressive build, wearing a canary-yellow jumpsuit that clung to his lean frame and a flowing white cape that seemed almost comically heroic in contrast to his mundane appearance. This was Saitama, the unregistered hero who had, only hours earlier, saved the entire city—perhaps the world—with disturbing nonchalance.
"Man, it's hot today," Saitama muttered to no one, a plastic grocery bag swinging from his fingers. The contents—three packages of instant ramen, a single onion, and a two-for-one coupon that had been the highlight of his morning—rattled with each step. "Could have done without another 'ultimate monster' showing up right before lunch."
The monster in question—the self-proclaimed "Apocalypse Hydra"—had erupted from the sewers during what should have been a peaceful morning patrol. Thirty-seven writhing heads, each crowned with horns that dripped an acid capable of melting through steel, had burst through the concrete of the main thoroughfare, sending citizens fleeing in terror. Its central head had roared prophecies of humanity's extinction, elaborate threats delivered with the confidence of a being that had never encountered Saitama before.
Genos, Saitama's self-appointed cyborg disciple, had been in the middle of calibrating his newest incineration cannon—a complex targeting sequence designed to simultaneously detach multiple regenerating heads—when Saitama had simply walked up to the creature, expression as flat as his tone.
"Hey, do you mind? People are trying to shop around here."
One flick from his index finger—not even a proper punch—had connected with the central head. There had been a moment of silence, the monster's multiple eyes widening in unified disbelief, before the entire mass of writhing flesh had exploded in a shower of viscera that rained down across three city blocks.
Saitama had frowned slightly, noting a small splash of monster fluid on his glove.
"Gross."
And that had been that. Another world-ending threat neutralized with less effort than most people expend swatting a fly. The gathered crowd had cheered, of course. They always did. But Saitama had already been walking away, more concerned about whether his favorite market would still have the special on premium cup noodles by the time he arrived.
Now, hours later, with his shopping complete and the satisfaction of securing the last discounted ramen package gradually fading, Saitama found himself meandering through the back streets, taking the long way home. There was no rush, after all. No schedule to keep, no meaningful goal to pursue. Just another evening of instant food, maybe some television, then bed. Tomorrow would bring more of the same—endless repetitions in a life where challenge had become nothing more than a distant memory.
"Maybe I should start collecting something," Saitama mused aloud as he cut through an abandoned plaza. "Stamps? Nah, too boring. Action figures? Too expensive. Hmm..."
His contemplation was interrupted when his eye caught something unusual—an intricate pattern drawn across the cracked concrete of the plaza. Saitama paused, tilting his head as he studied the elaborate design. Concentric circles nested within one another, connected by precisely drawn lines and adorned with symbols that seemed vaguely familiar yet entirely foreign. The entire pattern shimmered with an iridescent purple that reminded Saitama of those fancy metallic paints available in craft stores.
"Huh. Some kid must've been screwing around with spray paint," he observed with mild interest. "Pretty detailed though. Kinda cool."
Saitama approached the pattern, grocery bag still dangling from his fingers. He crouched down, squinting at the intricate symbols. For a moment—just a fleeting instant—he felt something emanating from the design. A subtle vibration, perhaps, or a faint warmth that seemed to pulse in rhythm with... something. It was odd enough to pique his perpetually underwhelmed curiosity.
"Wonder if it's still wet," he murmured, reaching out with his free hand. With all the deep consideration one might give to testing a park bench for fresh paint, Saitama absentmindedly poked the exact center of the circle with his index finger.
The world held its breath.
Then, reality fractured.
The circle erupted in blinding light, the purple iridescence transforming into a kaleidoscope of colors that no human language had names for. The ground beneath Saitama's feet trembled, not with the familiar vibration of an earthquake, but with something more fundamental—as though the very concept of "ground" was being questioned by forces beyond comprehension.
The air warped and twisted, folding in on itself like origami crafted by insane hands. For a split second, Saitama could have sworn he heard voices—thousands of them, speaking in languages that predated human civilization, whispering secrets that would drive ordinary minds to madness.
"Aw, man," Saitama complained, his voice flat despite the cosmic upheaval surrounding him. His primary concern was for the grocery bag clutched in his hand. "My ramen's gonna get crushed."
The light intensified to a brilliance that would have seared the retinas of any normal person. Saitama squinted slightly, more out of habit than necessity. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, everything stopped.
Silence fell across the plaza, broken only by the soft patter of dust and small debris settling around him.
Saitama blinked away the afterimages dancing across his vision and found himself staring at three figures who definitely hadn't been there before. They stood in defensive postures, weapons drawn, power radiating from them in waves that distorted the very air.
His first thought, oddly enough, was relief when he glanced down and confirmed his grocery bag was intact.
His second thought, as he properly assessed the three imposing figures before him, was a mildly interested: "Huh."
The three newcomers stared at Saitama with expressions ranging from calculated assessment to open hostility. They were, without question, among the most impressive beings he had ever encountered—not that this registered to him as particularly intimidating. More like, "these people look kind of intense."
"So..." Saitama finally broke the silence, scratching his cheek idly with his free hand. "You guys lost or something?"
Chapter 2: Legends Meet Monotony
Uesugi Kenshin was the first to break the standoff, her voice cutting through the air with the precision of the finest blade. She stood tall and imposing despite her relatively modest height, her very presence seeming to command the space around her. The legendary "Goddess of War" regarded the bald man in the ridiculous yellow jumpsuit with narrowed green eyes that had once caused enemy generals to commit seppuku rather than face her on the battlefield.
"What manner of summoning is this?" she demanded, her long white-and-black hair rippling in a wind that seemed to affect only her. The sacred battle armor she wore gleamed with an inner light, each plate and scale woven from materials beyond mortal understanding. "What battlefield calls for the presence of Uesugi Kenshin? What foe threatens that requires the God of War's intervention?"
Her voice carried the weight of mountains and the sharpness of winter's first frost. It was a voice accustomed to command, to being heeded without question. Yet the strange bald man before her showed no reaction beyond mild curiosity.
Before Saitama could formulate a response to what seemed to him an unnecessarily dramatic question, Oda Nobunaga stepped forward. The concrete beneath her polished black military boots smoldered slightly, tiny cracks spreading outward with each deliberate step. The "Demon King of the Sixth Heaven" surveyed the decrepit surroundings of City-Z with obvious disdain, her crimson eyes flashing dangerously.
"Is this the future, then?" she asked, her voice carrying the weight of someone who had ordered the burning of entire provinces without remorse. She adjusted her black general's cap with an impatient gesture, her dark crimson hair catching the late afternoon sunlight. "How utterly disappointing. I expected far more impressive ruins, at the very least."
Nobunaga's gaze fixed on Saitama, assessing him with the cold calculation of a conqueror. "Who dares summon the Demon King of the Sixth Heaven? Speak quickly, strange one, for my patience is legendary only in its absence."
The threat hung in the air, almost tangible in its intensity. Yet again, the bald man seemed entirely unaffected, as though being threatened by historical titans was an everyday occurrence.
Miyamoto Musashi, unlike her companions, was less interested in questions and more focused on Saitama himself. The legendary swordsmaster circled him slightly, her twin katanas humming with energy that distorted the very fabric of reality around their edges. Her bright blue eyes were wide with an emotion that wasn't quite fear, but something closer to wonder.
Unlike the others, who projected an aura of deadly seriousness, there was something almost childlike in Musashi's intense curiosity. Her light pink hair bobbed as she tilted her head, studying Saitama from various angles as though trying to solve a particularly fascinating puzzle.
"You," she said finally, her voice softer than the others but no less intense. "You're... empty." She blinked, reconsidering. "No, that's not right. You're full. Too full. Like everything was poured into one cup until it became nothing again."
Her blades lowered slightly as she completed her circuit around him. "Who are you?" The question carried none of the imperial demand of Kenshin or the threatening undertone of Nobunaga. It was pure curiosity, the same tone one might use when encountering a new species of butterfly.
Saitama looked between the three legendary figures, his face a perfect mask of boredom. The grocery bag still dangled from his fingers, seemingly his greatest concern at the moment.
"I'm Saitama," he said simply, with all the enthusiasm of someone stating their order at a fast-food restaurant. "A hero for fun." He held up his grocery bag as if it explained everything. "And I was just heading home to make some ramen. Did you guys come out of that circle thing? Because I think I might have accidentally stepped on it or something."
The three warriors exchanged glances, a silent communication passing between them that spoke of centuries of battlefield instinct. There was power here—immense, incomprehensible power—yet it resided in what appeared to be the most unassuming vessel imaginable.
"He does not seem to understand the gravity of what he has done," Kenshin observed, her hand still resting on the hilt of her sword. Her tone was measured, analytical, the voice of a strategist assessing an unexpected development on the battlefield.
"Typical of this era, I'm sure," Nobunaga replied with a dismissive wave. The contempt in her voice was thick enough to cut. "No respect for ancient powers or proper summoning etiquette. In my time, invoking beings of our caliber would have required months of preparation, countless sacrifices, and the utmost reverence."
Musashi, however, couldn't take her eyes off Saitama. Something about him had captured her attention completely, like a puzzle box with no visible seams. "No... he knows. He just doesn't care." A hint of a smile played at her lips, transforming her intense features into something almost playful. "How fascinating."
Saitama sighed heavily, the sound of a man who had expected a quiet evening and was now faced with complications. "Look, if you guys are gonna fight me or something, can we do it tomorrow? I've already punched one world-ending monster today, and I've got a sale coupon for ramen that expires tonight."
This casual statement—dropped with such nonchalance—caused all three legends to freeze momentarily.
"You... casually speak of defeating world-ending threats?" Kenshin asked, her perfect composure slipping for just a moment. There was a subtle shift in her stance, almost imperceptible to normal eyes but speaking volumes to warriors of their caliber. She was reassessing, recalculating.
"Yeah," Saitama shrugged, the motion causing his cape to flutter slightly in the evening breeze. "It's kinda my job. Well, hobby. Well, it's complicated." He glanced at the setting sun, then back at the three otherworldly visitors. "Are you guys hungry? I've got enough ramen for everyone if you want to come over."
The sheer absurdity of the invitation—from this bald man in a jumpsuit to three of history's most legendary warriors—created a moment of perfect, stunned silence. The mundanity of it, the utter ordinariness, seemed to violate some fundamental law of dramatic narrative.
Nobunaga was the first to break it with a sharp, barking laugh. There was genuine amusement in it, though edged with something darker. "You are either the most foolish being I've ever encountered or..." She narrowed her eyes, studying him more carefully, peeling back layers with her gaze. "...something else entirely."
"He's the reason we're here," Musashi said suddenly, her expression showing dawning realization. The swordsmaster spun her blades once before sheathing them in a fluid motion that defied the eye's ability to track. "The circle doesn't summon us to a place—it summons us to a person. The greatest warrior of the era."
Saitama picked at his ear disinterestedly with his pinky finger. "So... is that a yes on the ramen or...?"
The three legends exchanged another glance, this one tinged with something new: uncertainty. They had been summoned across time and space, drawn from their own eras by forces beyond mortal comprehension, only to find... this. A bald man in a ridiculous costume offering them instant noodles.
"I accept your hospitality," Kenshin said formally, offering a slight bow. Whatever her private thoughts, her sense of propriety remained intact. "It would be beneficial to understand more about this era and the circumstances of our summoning."
"Whatever," Nobunaga said with feigned indifference, though her crimson eyes never left Saitama's face. "I suppose observing the living conditions of this time has some anthropological value."
"Ramen!" Musashi exclaimed with genuine enthusiasm, clapping her hands together. "I've heard tales of this dish from my travels across Japan! A broth of incomparable complexity, noodles crafted by master artisans—truly, a meal fit for warriors!"
Saitama scratched his cheek awkwardly. "Uh, it's the instant kind. From a package. You just add hot water."
Musashi's excitement didn't diminish in the slightest. "Even better! Food that prepares itself! What wonders this age holds!"
With that settled, Saitama turned and began walking in the direction of his apartment, not bothering to check if his otherworldly guests were following. After a moment's hesitation, they did, falling into formation around him with the unconscious precision of those accustomed to moving as a unit.
As they walked through the deserted streets of City-Z, an odd procession of history's greatest warriors following a grocery-shopping superhero, passersby might have witnessed something unique: the beginning of a legend that defied all conventional storytelling.
But there were no passersby in this forgotten corner of the city. Just empty buildings and gathering shadows as evening settled over the urban wasteland.
"It's about a fifteen-minute walk," Saitama said over his shoulder. "Hope you guys don't mind stairs. The elevator's been broken for months."
Chapter 3: Domestic Divinity
Saitama's apartment was not designed with visitors in mind, let alone visitors of legendary stature. The small, sparsely furnished one-room dwelling felt impossibly cramped as Kenshin, Nobunaga, and Musashi crowded inside, their weapons and armor making navigation of the tiny space a challenge in itself.
"Sorry it's kind of a mess," Saitama said unnecessarily as he set his grocery bag on the kitchenette counter. The comment was particularly absurd given that the apartment was immaculately clean—not through any particular dedication to cleanliness, but simply because Saitama owned so little that there wasn't enough to create disorder.
A futon rolled neatly in one corner. A small television set opposite it. A low table in the center of the room. A refrigerator that hummed softly in the kitchenette, alongside a sink and a two-burner stove. A bookshelf with a sparse collection of manga and hero periodicals. That was the extent of Saitama's worldly possessions.
Nobunaga surveyed the humble dwelling with poorly concealed disdain, running a gloved finger along the edge of the counter. "This is how the greatest warrior of the era lives? Like a peasant?"
"The apartment's cheap," Saitama replied with a shrug, filling his electric kettle with water. "And it's close to good sales."
Kenshin had moved to the window, gazing out at the cityscape with quiet contemplation. The fading light of sunset cast her profile in sharp relief, highlighting the elegant lines of her face and the pristine white of her hair. "A city of marvels," she observed softly. "Yet you choose this forgotten corner."
"It's quiet," Saitama said, setting out four plastic cups of instant ramen on the counter. "Most of the neighbors moved out after the third monster attack this year."
Musashi, meanwhile, was investigating every aspect of the small apartment with childlike curiosity. She peered into the refrigerator with wonder, flipped light switches on and off with delight, and ran her fingers over the television remote as though it were a sacred artifact.
"Amazing!" she exclaimed, having discovered the bathroom. "Indoor plumbing! Private bathing chambers! Such luxury!"
Saitama raised an eyebrow. "It's just a bathroom."
"In my era," Musashi explained excitedly, "even the greatest lords might bathe only once a week! And here you have hot water at the touch of a lever!" She demonstrated by turning the sink faucet, watching the water flow with undisguised glee.
As the kettle began to boil, Saitama gestured toward the low table. "You guys might want to sit down. And maybe put the weapons aside? It's kinda cramped in here."
There was a moment of hesitation as the three legends considered this request. For warriors of their caliber, surrendering their weapons—even temporarily—was no small matter. Each had survived countless battles through constant vigilance and readiness.
Surprisingly, it was Nobunaga who acquiesced first. With a dramatic sigh, she unbuckled her ceremonial sword and leaned it carefully against the wall. "I suppose if I needed to kill you, I could do so with my bare hands just as easily."
"Thanks...I think," Saitama replied dryly.
Kenshin followed suit, removing her sword with ritual precision and placing it parallel to Nobunaga's, though at a respectful distance—as though the weapons themselves might quarrel if placed too close together.
Musashi was the most reluctant, her hands lingering on the hilts of her twin katanas. "These blades are more than weapons," she explained with uncharacteristic seriousness. "They are extensions of my spirit, manifestations of—"
"Yeah, that's cool and all," Saitama interrupted, "but they're gonna knock over the ramen cups if you keep them on at the table."
With obvious reluctance, Musashi finally removed her swords, placing them carefully beside the others. The small collection of legendary weapons—each capable of altering the course of history in the right hands—leaned against the wall of Saitama's apartment like umbrellas in a stand.
As the heroes of legend awkwardly arranged themselves around the low table—Kenshin kneeling in perfect seiza posture, Nobunaga cross-legged with regal bearing, and Musashi sprawling comfortably—Saitama prepared their meal with practiced efficiency.
"So," he said conversationally as he poured boiling water into each cup, "you guys are like, famous warriors or something?"
The question hung in the air, its casual nature so at odds with the gravity of those being asked that for a moment, none of them seemed to know how to respond.
"Famous warriors," Nobunaga repeated finally, her tone suggesting she was testing whether the words were a joke. "Yes, one might say that. I merely unified Japan through strategic brilliance and uncompromising will, revolutionizing warfare and laying the foundation for the modern nation. 'Famous warrior' captures that adequately, I suppose."
Saitama nodded absently as he set a cup of ramen and chopsticks before each of them. "Cool. I think I might have heard of you in history class. The name sounds familiar, anyway."
Nobunaga's eye twitched slightly, a vein pulsing at her temple. Being reduced to a vaguely familiar name from a school lesson was clearly not something the Demon King was accustomed to.
"I am Uesugi Kenshin," the white-haired warrior interjected smoothly, perhaps sensing Nobunaga's rising irritation. "Known in my time as the God of War, Dragon of Echigo. I faced Takeda Shingen on the battlefield five times at Kawanakajima, and—"
"Oh yeah, that rings a bell too," Saitama interrupted, settling down at the table with his own cup. "You're the one they made that video game about, right? With the giant robots?"
Kenshin's serene expression faltered. "I... do not believe so."
"I am Miyamoto Musashi!" the pink-haired swordsmaster declared exuberantly, seemingly unbothered by Saitama's historical ignorance. "Undefeated in sixty duels! Creator of the Niten Ichi-ryū style of swordsmanship! The first to perfect the technique of wielding two—"
"Wait, I definitely know that one," Saitama brightened. "You're in my favorite manga. The one with the talking sword that's possessed by the spirit of—"
"That is NOT me," Musashi interrupted, looking mildly offended for the first time.
"My bad," Saitama shrugged, picking up his chopsticks. "Anyway, the ramen should be ready now. Careful, it's hot."
The three legends regarded their cups of instant noodles with varying degrees of skepticism. Nobunaga studied hers as though suspecting poison, Kenshin observed the proper way to open the lid from watching Saitama, and Musashi dove in with enthusiastic abandon.
"By the spirits!" Musashi exclaimed after her first slurp, eyes widening. "Such flavor! The perfect balance of salt and umami, the springiness of the noodles, the—"
"It's just instant ramen," Saitama said. "The fancy kind was sold out."
"Perhaps in this era, you have become desensitized to culinary marvels," Musashi replied, already halfway through her cup. "But to one who has subsisted on plain rice and occasionally dried fish for months of wandering, this is a feast beyond imagining!"
Kenshin took a more measured approach, savoring small bites with contemplative appreciation. "There is wisdom in finding joy in simple pleasures," she observed. "Even in my time, the greatest tea masters sought perfection in the most humble vessels."
Nobunaga, after a reluctant first taste, ate with dignified efficiency, her expression giving nothing away. "Adequate sustenance," was her only comment.
As they ate in what had become a surprisingly comfortable silence, Saitama finally asked the question that had been simmering at the back of his mind. "So... why are you guys here, exactly? That magic circle thing brought you, but for what?"
The three legends exchanged glances again, a silent communication passing between them.
"The ancient texts regarding this particular summoning ritual are... incomplete," Kenshin admitted, delicately setting down her chopsticks. "But from what I understand, we are bound to the summoner until the purpose of our calling is fulfilled."
"Wait," Saitama paused with noodles halfway to his mouth. "You mean you're staying here? Like, in my apartment?"
Nobunaga let out a sharp laugh. "Certainly not in this tiny hovel! A warrior of my caliber requires proper accommodations."
"The ritual draws us to the summoner," Musashi clarified, already finishing her ramen with evident delight. "But we are not required to share living quarters."
"Oh good," Saitama nodded, relief evident. "'Cause I definitely don't have space for three more futons."
"Perhaps," Nobunaga said slowly, a calculating gleam in her crimson eyes, "we should discuss the purpose of our summoning first. Once that task is completed, the issue of accommodations becomes moot."
"So why are you guys here anyway?" Saitama asked, starting on his second cup of ramen.
"To serve the greatest warrior of this era," Musashi answered simply, looking at Saitama with unconcealed fascination. "To fight at your side against whatever enemy requires the combined might of the four most powerful combatants history has ever known."
Saitama chewed thoughtfully. "But I don't really need help fighting anyone. One punch usually does the trick."
"One punch?" Nobunaga repeated skeptically.
"Yeah," Saitama nodded. "I hit things once, and they explode. It's actually pretty boring after a while."
The three warriors stared at him, expressions ranging from disbelief to intrigue.
"Perhaps you exag—" Kenshin began diplomatically, but was interrupted by a sharp knock at the door.
Saitama rose to answer it, revealing a tall, blond young man with mechanical arms and serious eyes. The newcomer took one look past Saitama at the three legendary warriors seated around the table and immediately shifted into a combat stance, his palms beginning to glow with barely contained energy.
"Sensei!" the cyborg exclaimed, his voice tense with alarm. "Who are these individuals, and should I eliminate them immediately?"
"Oh, hey Genos," Saitama replied casually. "These people came out of some magic circle I poked earlier. They're having dinner."
Chapter 4: The Disciple's Dilemma
Genos remained frozen in the doorway, his mechanical body humming with barely contained power. The combat assessment protocols running through his cybernetic brain calculated threat levels, targeting solutions, and optimal attack sequences with inhuman speed. His optical sensors whirred softly as they zoomed in on each of the three strangers, analyzing everything from their weapons to the subtle energy signatures they emitted.
"Sensei," he said again, his voice modulated to remain calm despite his internal alarm bells blaring at maximum volume. "I am detecting phenomenal energy signatures from all three subjects. The one in armor appears to be channeling some form of spiritual energy that defies my sensors' categorization. The one in the military uniform is generating heat comparable to the core of a small star. And the one with pink hair seems to be... existing in several dimensional coordinates simultaneously?"
"Cool," Saitama replied absently, already returning to his seat at the table. "Hey, did you remember to get that special fabric softener I like? The regular kind makes my cape all stiff."
The disconnect between Genos's deadly serious assessment and Saitama's casual response created a moment of cognitive dissonance that hung in the air like an unresolved chord. The three legendary warriors observed this interaction with varying degrees of interest, each making mental notes about the dynamic between Saitama and this mechanical newcomer.
Nobunaga's lips curled into an amused smile as she addressed Genos directly. "Stand down, metal man. If we wished harm upon your master, this building would already be reduced to atoms."
"That would be rude," Saitama commented between slurps of his ramen. "I just paid rent."
Kenshin's green eyes assessed Genos with calm precision, noting the way he positioned himself to protect Saitama despite the obvious gap in their power levels. There was something admirable in such loyalty, even if it was technically unnecessary.
"Your devotion to your master does you credit," she observed with a formal nod. "But as my... colleague... has stated, we are merely guests at this table."
Musashi waved cheerfully with her chopsticks. "The food in this era is fascinating! Have you tried this 'instant ramen'? It's like eating a warm cloud filled with salt!"
Genos remained suspicious but lowered his combat stance slightly. With mechanical precision, he moved to stand protectively behind Saitama, glaring at each visitor in turn. His metal fingers flexed subtly, ready to transform into weapons at the slightest provocation.
"Sensei," he said quietly, leaning down to speak directly to Saitama. "These beings possess power signatures unlike anything in my database. The Hero Association should be notified immediately. At minimum, we should relocate to a more secure location where collateral damage can be minimized in case of conflict."
Saitama slurped the last of his broth before responding. "Nah, it's fine. They seem okay. Plus, I already told them they could crash here tonight."
"Crash... here?" Genos repeated, his mechanical face somehow managing to convey horror despite its limited expressiveness.
"Well, not exactly here," Saitama clarified, glancing around his tiny apartment. "That wouldn't work. But nearby, I guess."
"I would sooner sleep in the stables of my enemies than spend another night in this..." Nobunaga gestured vaguely at the surroundings, searching for a word sufficiently dismissive, "...hovel."
"Your loss," Saitama shrugged. "The futon's pretty comfortable."
Genos straightened, his decision made. "Sensei, as your disciple, it is my duty to ensure your safety and comfort. I will arrange suitable accommodations for these... guests... while maintaining surveillance to guarantee they pose no threat to you or the city."
"Whatever works," Saitama replied, gathering the empty ramen cups. "Just don't blow up anything important. The Hero Association is still mad about that shopping district incident last month."
As Genos pulled out a sleek communications device and stepped into the hallway to make arrangements, an awkward silence settled over the room. The three legendary warriors and the modern hero found themselves in a momentary social impasse—historical figures from different eras trying to navigate a post-dinner lull in conversation in a twenty-first-century apartment.
It was Musashi who broke the tension, her natural exuberance seemingly immune to awkwardness. "So! One punch, you say? That must make combat rather anticlimactic!"
Saitama's expression shifted subtly—so subtly that most would have missed it entirely. But to warriors who had spent lifetimes reading opponents on the battlefield, the flash of melancholy in his eyes was as clear as a battle flag.
"Yeah," he admitted, moving to wash the cups in his small sink. "It does."
Kenshin tilted her head slightly, reassessing Saitama with new insight. "You speak of your power as though it is a burden rather than a blessing."
"It's not a burden exactly," Saitama replied, his back to them as he rinsed the cups. "It's just... boring, I guess."
Nobunaga let out a bark of laughter, though it held more genuine amusement than mockery. "The ultimate warrior laments that victory comes too easily! How perfectly ironic. In my conquests, I would have sacrificed a thousand men for even a fraction of such power."
"That's the thing," Saitama said, turning back to face them. "It's not really victory when there's no fight. It's just... ending things."
A contemplative silence followed this statement, each warrior processing its implications in their own way. For beings who had defined their existence through combat and the pursuit of martial excellence, Saitama's dilemma represented something profoundly existential—the void beyond mastery, the emptiness after achievement.
"Perhaps," Kenshin suggested carefully, "what you seek is not a worthy opponent, but a worthy purpose."
Before Saitama could respond, Genos returned, his mechanical features set in an expression of efficient satisfaction.
"I have made arrangements," he announced. "Three separate apartments in this building have been secured, one for each guest. The previous occupants were adequately compensated for their immediate relocation."
"Wait, you kicked people out of their homes?" Saitama asked, looking mildly concerned for the first time.
"The financial settlement was extremely generous," Genos assured him. "Approximately 300% of market value, plus moving expenses and temporary luxury hotel accommodations. The Hero Association maintains funds for such contingencies."
"Since when?" Saitama demanded incredulously.
"Since I informed them of the potential property damage that might result from housing three transdimensional legendary warriors in close proximity to their most powerful asset," Genos explained with perfect logic. "The cost-benefit analysis was quite clear."
"Asset? I'm just a guy who—"
"So!" Musashi interrupted cheerfully, stretching her arms above her head. "About our purpose here. If we're not meant to fight alongside you against some cosmic threat, then perhaps we're meant to fight you directly?"
The suggestion hung in the air, electric with possibility.
"Fight... me?" Saitama repeated, genuine surprise registering on his usually impassive features.
"Of course!" Nobunaga exclaimed, sudden understanding lighting her crimson eyes. "The summoning circle doesn't just bring us to the greatest warrior—it brings us as challengers! As tests!"
"That would explain much," Kenshin agreed, her analytical mind tracing the logic. "The ritual is not about
One Punch, Three Legends: The Expanded Edition (Continued)
Chapter 4: The Disciple's Dilemma (Continued)
"The ritual is not about assistance in battle, but about providing a worthy challenge to one who has transcended normal combat," Kenshin concluded, her analytical mind piecing together the puzzle with elegant precision.
Saitama scratched his cheek, processing this theory with visible reluctance. "So you guys got yanked across time and space just to... give me a good fight?"
"It is not so simple," Kenshin replied, folding her hands gracefully in her lap. "The ancient texts speak of such rituals as instruments of fate—cosmic corrections when the balance of power in an era becomes too skewed."
"Yeah, that sounds unnecessarily complicated," Saitama sighed, slumping back against his kitchen counter. "Look, I appreciate the offer and all, but I've got grocery shopping to do tomorrow, and there's a special on—"
"The warrior awakens!" Nobunaga declared, slamming her palm on the table with enough force to make the cups jump. "Do not insult us with your feigned indifference, Caped Baldy! The call of battle supersedes mundane concerns."
"Grocery shopping isn't mundane when you're on a budget," Saitama muttered, but his protest lacked conviction.
Genos, who had been silently observing the exchange with increasing concern, finally intervened. "Sensei, if I may—perhaps this development could be beneficial. You have often expressed dissatisfaction with the lack of challenge in your hero activities."
Saitama glanced at his disciple, a flicker of betrayal in his eyes. "Et tu, Genos?"
The cyborg blinked, his facial recognition software failing to process the historical reference. "I am uncertain what you mean, Sensei, but my primary concern is your psychological well-being. Extended periods without adequate stimulation have been shown to decrease overall life satisfaction by up to 73.4% in studies of exceptional individuals."
"Did you just quote a psychology paper at me?" Saitama asked incredulously.
"I have been researching potential solutions to your ennui," Genos admitted. "The Hero Association's behavioral science division has been quite helpful in this regard."
Musashi, who had been watching this exchange with undisguised fascination, suddenly clapped her hands together. "It's settled then! Tomorrow, we shall test the might of the era's greatest warrior!" Her enthusiasm was infectious, her bright blue eyes sparkling with anticipation. "A battle not for life or death, but for the purest essence of combat itself!"
"I have not agreed to this," Saitama protested weakly.
"Your reluctance only confirms the necessity," Kenshin observed with serene conviction. "Those who seek battle are often those who need it least. Those who avoid it..." Her penetrating green eyes seemed to see through Saitama's careful indifference. "...are sometimes those who need it most."
Saitama held her gaze for a long moment, then sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "Fine. But if my apartment gets destroyed in the process, you're all helping me find a new one. And those Hero Association guys get really annoyed when I cause property damage."
"It is a pact," Musashi declared solemnly, extending her hand in a surprisingly modern gesture. The juxtaposition of this ancient warrior adopting contemporary customs created a moment of unexpected warmth in the cramped apartment.
Somewhat to his own surprise, Saitama found himself shaking it, feeling a faint flicker of something that might, just might, have been anticipation.
"There is an abandoned quarry approximately 17.3 kilometers from here," Genos suggested, already calculating logistics. "Remote, structurally reinforced, minimal chance of civilian casualties. I can make the necessary arrangements for tomorrow morning."
"Make it afternoon," Saitama countered. "Morning is for sales."
Nobunaga rolled her eyes dramatically, a gesture surprisingly modern for an ancient warlord. "Heaven forbid the mighty hero miss a discount on fish paste."
"Hey, when you're living on a hero's salary—which is basically nothing at my rank, by the way—every yen counts," Saitama defended himself.
An unexpected chuckle escaped Kenshin's lips, drawing surprised looks from everyone in the room. The normally stoic warrior covered her mouth delicately with one hand, her green eyes crinkling slightly at the corners.
"Forgive me," she said, composing herself. "It is just... in my time, I commanded armies, controlled provinces, held the fate of nations in my hands. Yet I too understood the value of proper resource management." Her smile held genuine warmth. "My quartermaster would appreciate your frugality, Saitama."
"Thanks... I think," Saitama replied, oddly touched by this unexpected connection across the centuries.
As the evening wore on, the initial tension gradually dissolved into something more comfortable. Genos remained vigilant, of course, his optical sensors never ceasing their constant threat assessment. But even he relaxed marginally as Musashi enthusiastically convinced Saitama to show her how the television worked, her childlike delight at the "magic picture box" impossible to view as threatening.
Nobunaga, while maintaining her imperial bearing, eventually settled into examining Saitama's sparse collection of manga with surprising interest, occasionally muttering comments about "primitive but effective propaganda techniques" as she flipped through the pages.
Kenshin moved to the balcony, assuming a meditative posture as she observed the nighttime cityscape, the glow of distant buildings reflecting in her emerald eyes. There was melancholy in her stillness, a quiet acknowledgment of displacement—a warrior out of time, adrift in an unfamiliar world.
As midnight approached, the practical matter of sleeping arrangements could no longer be avoided.
"Your apartments should be prepared by now," Genos informed the three warriors, displaying a digital floor plan on his palm projector. "I have taken the liberty of arranging basic furnishings and necessities."
"Most generous," Kenshin acknowledged with a formal bow. "We shall remove ourselves from Saitama-dono's space and allow him proper rest before tomorrow's contest."
"I'll sleep here," Nobunaga announced abruptly, her tone brooking no argument. "Strategic considerations demand I maintain close proximity to the primary subject."
"Strategic considerations," Genos repeated flatly, his electronic eyes narrowing with suspicion.
"Indeed," Nobunaga confirmed, meeting his gaze without flinching. "Until we determine the exact parameters of our summoning bond, separation could prove... problematic."
"Is that actually a thing?" Saitama asked, glancing between the warriors with mild concern. "Like, will you guys explode if you get too far away or something?"
"Unlikely," Kenshin replied thoughtfully. "But not impossible. The lore surrounding transdimensional summonings is inconsistent at best."
"I too shall remain!" Musashi declared, abandoning the television to join the conversation. "For... scientific purposes! To monitor any potential summoning side effects!"
Genos's internal cooling fans audibly accelerated. "Sensei's apartment is not designed for multiple occupants. The square footage per person would fall well below recommended habitability standards."
"It's fine, Genos," Saitama sighed, recognizing the futility of resistance. "One night won't kill anyone. But—" he fixed each warrior with a serious look, "—no setting things on fire," a pointed glance at Nobunaga, "no dimensional cutting," to Musashi, "and no... whatever spirit war stuff you do," he finished, nodding at Kenshin.
"I shall monitor them throughout the night, Sensei," Genos declared firmly, positioning himself near the door in what was clearly intended to be a guard stance.
"Whatever," Saitama muttered, gathering his toothbrush and heading for the bathroom. "I'm taking a bath. Try not to destroy the timeline while I'm gone."
As the bathroom door closed behind him, the three legendary warriors and the cyborg disciple engaged in a silent staring contest, the beginning of what promised to be a very long night.
Chapter 5: Midnight Conversations
Starlight filtered through the open balcony door, casting long shadows across Saitama's small apartment. The sounds of the city at night—distant sirens, the occasional roar of a motorcycle, the persistent hum of electrical infrastructure—created a modern lullaby that did little to soothe the minds of those still awake.
It was well past midnight, and Saitama found himself staring at his ceiling, hands folded behind his head. The soft sounds of breathing (and in Nobunaga's case, occasional muttering about battle strategies) filled his small apartment. Somehow, they'd managed to make it work—Kenshin meditating in a corner rather than sleeping, Nobunaga commandeering his futon while he took the floor, Musashi curled up contentedly under a spare blanket, and Genos standing vigilant by the door in low-power mode, his eyes dimmed but still alert.
Sleep eluded Saitama, his mind unusually active. The presence of these legendary figures had stirred something in him—not excitement exactly, but a kind of restless anticipation he hadn't felt in years.
Unable to find comfort on his makeshift bedroll, Saitama quietly rose and stepped out onto his small balcony, the cool night air a welcome relief from the crowded apartment.
To his surprise, he found Musashi already there, perched precariously on the railing with perfect balance, gazing up at the stars with an expression of wonder.
"The constellations have shifted," she said without turning around. "Some are the same, but others... time has moved them."
"Yeah, stars do that, I guess," Saitama replied, leaning against the railing beside her.
They stood in comfortable silence for a moment before Musashi spoke again, her voice uncharacteristically subdued.
"You truly defeat all opponents with one strike?"
Saitama nodded, a hint of melancholy in his typically expressionless face. "Yeah. It's kind of a problem, actually."
"A problem?" Musashi looked genuinely puzzled, turning to study his profile in the moonlight. "Most warriors spend lifetimes seeking such power."
"That's just it," Saitama sighed, running a hand over his smooth scalp. "There's nothing to seek anymore. No challenge, no thrill, no point. I train, I patrol, I punch monsters, they explode. Rinse and repeat."
Musashi considered this, her bright blue eyes reflecting the starlight. "In my pursuit of the sword, I found that true mastery lies not in the defeat of others, but in the victory over oneself."
"Yeah, people keep telling me stuff like that," Saitama replied, a touch of weariness in his voice. "Sounds good on paper, doesn't help much in practice."
The balcony door slid open silently, and Kenshin stepped out, her movements as fluid and graceful as falling snow. "I could not help but overhear. The warrior's dilemma—when battle no longer provides purpose, what remains?"
"Food's still good," Saitama offered with a shrug, attempting to lighten the suddenly philosophical mood. "Sales are exciting."
"Such simple pleasures sustain you?" Kenshin asked, genuine curiosity in her tone. There was no judgment in her question, only a desire to understand.
"They have to," Saitama replied honestly. "When you can end any fight with one punch, you've got to find thrills elsewhere."
"Like discount ramen," came Nobunaga's sardonic voice from behind them as she joined the increasingly crowded balcony. Unlike the others, she made no attempt to move quietly, letting the door bang against the wall as she strode forward. "How pathetic. The greatest warrior of the era finds his joy in discounted noodles?"
"Hey, don't knock it till you've tried it," Saitama defended himself with unexpected passion. "A good sale can get your heart racing just as much as a fight. The anticipation as you approach the store, knowing supplies are limited. The strategic planning to optimize your route through the aisles. The split-second decision-making when you discover an unexpected discount. The triumph of securing the last package right before some old lady can grab it."
His description was so earnest, so detailed, that the three warriors found themselves momentarily speechless. It was perhaps the most animated they had seen Saitama since their arrival.
"You describe it as one would a military campaign," Kenshin observed finally, a hint of amusement in her voice.
"War by other means," Nobunaga agreed reluctantly, something like respect flickering in her crimson eyes. "Perhaps I judged prematurely."
Musashi laughed, the sound bright and clear in the night air. "I once crossed swords with a master who claimed his greatest insights came not from combat but from fishing. The stillness, the patience, the perfect timing required... he said it taught him more about the Way than a thousand duels."
"Perhaps," Kenshin said thoughtfully, "what you seek is not greater power, but greater purpose."
"I'm a hero," Saitama replied simply. "Saving people is my purpose."
"Yet you derive no satisfaction from it," Nobunaga pointed out shrewdly, leaning against the doorframe with arms crossed. "Because there is no effort involved. No risk, no sacrifice."
Saitama looked out over the sleeping city, the distant lights twinkling like earthbound stars. "Sometimes I think about what it was like before. When I was weaker. When fighting actually meant something."
"You wish to return to weakness?" Musashi asked, genuinely curious.
"No... I just wish strength still felt like something."
A contemplative silence fell over the four of them, warriors from across time united by the strange loneliness that comes with standing at the pinnacle.
"Tell me," Kenshin said after a long moment, "how did you acquire such power? Was it bestowed upon you by the gods? A sacred relic? Ancient bloodline awakened?"
"I trained," Saitama answered simply.
"Trained?" Nobunaga repeated skeptically. "What manner of training yields such results?"
Saitama shrugged, his expression deadpan. "One hundred push-ups, one hundred sit-ups, one hundred squats, and a ten-kilometer run. Every day. For three years."
The three legends stared at him in disbelief.
"You jest," Nobunaga accused, her eyes narrowing.
"Nope. That's it. Oh, and I didn't use air conditioning, even in summer. To strengthen the mind."
"Impossible," Kenshin whispered, yet her tone suggested she was reassessing everything she thought she knew about spiritual power and martial cultivation.
Musashi tilted her head, studying Saitama with new interest. "The simplest truths often lie beneath the most complex mysteries." She hopped down from the railing, landing without a sound. "Perhaps the path to transcendence was always there, hidden in plain sight, waiting for one stubborn enough to walk it without deviation."
"Or perhaps he's lying," Nobunaga suggested dryly.
"Does it matter?" Saitama countered. "The result's the same either way. One punch, fight over, everyone goes home."
"Tomorrow," Kenshin said firmly, bringing the conversation back to their immediate purpose. "Tomorrow we shall test your strength. Not to defeat you, perhaps, but to remind you of what battle truly means."
"No offense," Saitama replied, "but I don't think any of you can push me far enough to make me feel anything."
"Oh? Such confidence in the face of warriors who have each altered the course of history!" Musashi exclaimed, but there was more excitement than offense in her voice. "I look forward to proving you wonderfully wrong, Saitama-san!"
Nobunaga's smile was sharp in the darkness, predatory and calculating. "Perhaps not individually. But together? With strategies honed across centuries of warfare? Do not underestimate the warriors of history, Caped Baldy."
"That's fair," Saitama conceded. "But if my apartment gets destroyed in the process, you're all helping me find a new one. And those Hero Association guys get really annoyed when I cause property damage."
"It is a pact," Musashi declared solemnly, extending her hand once more.
As Saitama shook it, something passed between them—an understanding, a recognition of kindred spirits despite their vastly different backgrounds and abilities. For all their differences, they shared the unique burden of excellence, the isolation that comes with standing above one's peers.
"We should rest," Kenshin suggested, ever practical. "Tomorrow's contest will demand our full capabilities."
As they turned to re-enter the apartment, Saitama hesitated, looking back at the city one last time. "You know," he said quietly, "I never thought I'd say this, but I'm actually kind of looking forward to tomorrow."
In the doorway to the balcony, Genos watched silently, recording everything for later analysis. Something unprecedented was happening to his sensei—something that even his advanced sensors couldn't quite quantify. If he had been fully human, he might have called it hope.
Chapter 6: Morning Revelations
Saitama awoke to the smell of something burning. Not an unusual occurrence in City-Z, admittedly, but significantly more concerning when it was coming from inside his own kitchen.
He bolted upright from his makeshift bed on the floor to find Nobunaga engaged in what appeared to be a fierce battle with his rice cooker.
"Infernal contraption!" she was snarling, crimson energy crackling around her fingers as she jabbed at the buttons. Small flames licked around the edges of the appliance, threatening to spread to the surrounding countertop. "Submit to the will of the Demon King!"
"Whoa, whoa!" Saitama intervened, stepping between the warlord and his appliance. "You can't just threaten kitchen appliances!"
"It defies me," Nobunaga stated flatly, her red eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. "Nothing defies Oda Nobunaga."
"You have to plug it in first," Saitama explained, demonstrating with exaggerated slowness. He grabbed the power cord and connected it to the outlet, causing the rice cooker's display to light up obediently. "Electricity, remember? We talked about this last night."
Nobunaga crossed her arms, refusing to acknowledge her error. "Your era's reliance on this 'electricity' is a strategic weakness. One well-placed strike at these power sources, and your entire civilization would crumble."
"Yeah, that's why we have backup generators," Saitama replied absently, opening his refrigerator to survey its meager contents. "And heroes, I guess."
From the small bathroom came the sound of running water and Musashi's delighted voice, occasionally punctuated by splashing noises. "The water is hot instantly! No need for fires or servants! And these 'shampoo' and 'conditioner' concoctions—my hair has never felt so smooth! Truly, this era has achieved marvels!"
"She has been bathing for forty-three minutes," Kenshin informed Saitama from where she sat in perfect seiza posture beside the window, apparently having resumed her meditation from the night before. Unlike the others, she appeared exactly as she had the previous evening, not a hair out of place, as though she had neither slept nor required refreshment. "I believe she has discovered the 'shower massage' setting."
Saitama rubbed his temples. One day. They had been here one day, and already his routine was completely destroyed. The peaceful monotony he had both resented and relied upon had been shattered by these historical interlopers, replacing predictability with chaos.
The bathroom door finally opened in a cloud of steam, and Musashi emerged wearing nothing but one of Saitama's spare towels, her pink hair dripping wet and her skin flushed from the hot water.
"Your bathing chamber is magnificent!" she declared, seemingly oblivious to her state of undress. "Though small by the standards of a proper bathhouse. In my day, bathing was a communal activity, you know. Entire villages would share the same hot spring!"
Saitama immediately averted his eyes, a faint blush coloring his typically impassive features. "Uh, there should be some spare clothes in the closet. Maybe you could, um..."
"Oh!" Musashi exclaimed, following his gaze downward and realizing her predicament. Rather than appearing embarrassed, she merely laughed. "Forgive me! Cultural differences, I suppose. In my era, nudity was viewed with far less concern."
She disappeared into the closet, emerging moments later wearing one of Saitama's spare tracksuits, the sleeves and pant legs rolled up multiple times to accommodate her smaller frame.
"Much better!" she declared cheerfully. "Though I must say, your era's obsession with constant clothing seems rather restrictive. How does one properly appreciate the movement of muscles during combat when everything is covered?"
"We manage," Saitama muttered, still slightly flustered as he returned to the task of preparing breakfast.
The door to the apartment opened suddenly, revealing Genos laden with multiple bags of groceries. "Sensei, I have returned with provisions," he announced, stepping inside and surveying the scene with his usual analytical precision. If he noticed the lingering awkwardness, he gave no indication. "I calculated your nutritional requirements for optimal performance and prepared accordingly."
"Thanks, Genos," Saitama replied automatically, accepting a bag filled with fresh vegetables, high-quality proteins, and what appeared to be imported specialty items. "Though this looks way fancier than my usual breakfast."
"Today is not usual," Genos stated simply, already unpacking the groceries with mechanical efficiency. "Today you face three legendary warriors in combat. Your caloric intake should reflect these extraordinary circumstances."
"I was just gonna have cereal," Saitama admitted.
Kenshin rose from her meditation, moving to inspect the items Genos had brought. Her slender fingers hovered over unfamiliar packages, her expression one of careful curiosity. "These preserved foods... they maintain their nutritional value despite long storage?"
"Indeed," Genos confirmed, pleased by her perceptive question. "Modern preservation techniques allow for—"
"Boring," Nobunaga interrupted, claiming one of the bags for herself and rifling through its contents with imperial entitlement. She pulled out a container of coffee beans, sniffing it suspiciously. "What manner of spice is this?"
"That's coffee," Saitama explained. "It's a morning drink. Helps people wake up."
"A stimulant, then," Nobunaga's eyes gleamed with interest. "In my campaigns, we used tea ceremonies before battle to sharpen the mind. Perhaps this 'coffee' serves a similar purpose?"
"Pretty much," Saitama agreed, reaching for his electric kettle. "Though it's more of an everyday thing now, not just for battles."
"Every day is a battle," Kenshin observed quietly, the simple statement carrying the weight of profound philosophy.
"Deep," Saitama commented without inflection, filling the kettle with water.
As Genos began preparing what looked to be an unnecessarily elaborate breakfast, carefully measuring ingredients with scientific precision, Musashi wandered the apartment, examining everyday objects with childlike fascination. She picked up Saitama's alarm clock, turning it over in her hands.
"This device measures time?" she asked, watching the digital numbers change. "So precisely? Down to the minute? In my era, we divided the day into broader segments—the time it takes for incense to burn, the shadows cast by the sun..."
"Yeah, we're kind of obsessed with exact time now," Saitama acknowledged, accepting a perfectly prepared cup of coffee from Genos. "Minutes, seconds, even milliseconds."
"Yet you were late to three consecutive Hero Association meetings last month," Genos pointed out with mechanical precision.
"That's different," Saitama defended himself. "Those meetings are boring."
"The point remains," Genos persisted, "that despite possessing multiple timepieces, you frequently disregard their information."
Nobunaga let out a bark of laughter. "Perhaps there is wisdom in that! In my conquests, I learned that strict adherence to schedules often leads to defeat. The truly great commander knows when to advance swiftly and when to hold position, regardless of what the battle plans dictate."
"I was just distracted by a sale," Saitama clarified. "It wasn't some deep military strategy."
"All the same," Kenshin interjected smoothly, accepting a cup of tea from Genos with formal grace, "there is something to be said for allowing natural rhythms to guide one's actions rather than artificial constraints. The warrior who fights according to the clock rather than the flow of battle has already surrendered a key advantage."
Musashi nodded enthusiastically, her mouth already full of rice from the bowl Genos had handed her. "Mmmph—exactly!" she exclaimed, swallowing hastily. "In a duel, there is no 'proper' time to strike. There is only the perfect moment, which reveals itself differently in each encounter. To be bound by external measurements is to blind oneself to opportunity!"
Saitama looked between the three legendary warriors, a hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Are you guys seriously turning my oversleeping into some profound warrior philosophy?"
"Perhaps," Kenshin replied with the ghost of a smile, "or perhaps we are merely recognizing wisdom where it appears, even if inadvertent."
"Well, that's a first," Saitama muttered. "Usually people just call me lazy."
As breakfast continued, an unlikely camaraderie began to develop among the mismatched group. Nobunaga, having mastered the coffee maker with Genos's reluctant assistance, was now expounding on the tactical applications of caffeine in prolonged sieges. Musashi was demonstrating to a politely attentive Kenshin how various breakfast foods could be balanced on chopsticks as a form of dexterity training. And Saitama, despite himself, found that he was actually... enjoying the chaos.
The peaceful monotony of his mornings—the silent routine he had followed for years—had been utterly disrupted. Yet somehow, the apartment felt more alive than it had in memory. The space that had always seemed more than adequate for a single occupant now hummed with energy and conversation, arguments and laughter, the clash of personalities and perspectives spanning centuries of human experience.
It was noisy. It was messy. It was inconvenient.
And Saitama realized, with mild surprise, that he didn't mind at all.
Genos, observing his teacher's relaxed posture and the almost imperceptible upward curve of his lips, made a note in his internal memory banks. This unusual development warranted further study—and perhaps, continuation.
The morning progressed with surprising smoothness, considering the volatile mix of personalities involved. Plans for the afternoon's contest were discussed and refined, with Genos providing detailed maps of the quarry and surrounding areas. Nobunaga approached the planning with the strategic mind of a general, suggesting positions and tactical considerations. Kenshin added spiritual insights about the energy flows of the location, while Musashi contributed enthusiastic but somewhat impractical ideas involving additional swords.
Throughout it all, Saitama remained largely quiet, offering occasional comments but mostly observing with an unreadable expression. The legendary warriors' excitement about the coming battle was palpable—but did he share it, even slightly? Would today finally bring the challenge he had unconsciously been seeking for so long?
Only time would tell. But as the morning sun climbed higher in the sky, bathing the small apartment in golden light, one thing became increasingly clear: something had changed in Saitama's world. Whether that change would prove temporary or lasting, trivial or profound, remained to be seen.
But it was change nonetheless. And in a life defined by stagnant power and monotonous victory, perhaps that was significant in itself.
Chapter 7: The Arena Awaits
The abandoned quarry stretched before them like a natural amphitheater, its stone walls rising in tiered formations that bore the scars of industrial excavation. Years of disuse had allowed nature to begin reclaiming portions of the site—stubborn vegetation clung to crevices in the rock face, and a small pond of collected rainwater gleamed at the lowest point, reflecting the afternoon sun like a mirror.
Saitama stood at the entrance, hands in the pockets of his yellow jumpsuit, surveying the arena with practiced indifference. Beside him, Genos was conducting final environmental scans, his mechanical eyes projecting faint blue beams that analyzed terrain composition and structural integrity.
"The location is optimal," the cyborg announced, mechanical fingers tapping on a holographic display only he could see. "Minimal civilian presence within a five-kilometer radius. Bedrock composition suggests high resistance to seismic disturbances. Weather conditions favorable with low wind velocity."
"Cool," Saitama replied without enthusiasm. "So we just... get started?"
Behind them, the three legendary warriors were engaged in their own preparations, each according to their distinct traditions and personalities.
Kenshin knelt at the quarry's edge, eyes closed in perfect stillness. The air around her shimmered with faint iridescence, like heat rising from sun-baked stone, yet the day was mild. Her white-and-black hair moved in a breeze that affected nothing else, spiritual energy gathering around her like an invisible cloak.
Nobunaga paced energetically, her boots leaving smoldering footprints on the rocky ground. Occasionally she would stop, eyes narrowing as she assessed some feature of the terrain, muttering calculations and strategic observations to herself. The crimson highlights in her dark hair seemed to glow with internal fire, and the edges of her military uniform rippled with barely contained power.
Musashi, by contrast, appeared almost casual in her preparation, performing stretches that seemed deceptively simple yet would have left an Olympic gymnast in awe. Her twin katanas lay before her on a clean cloth, and every few moments she would pause to touch them lightly, as though communicating silently with the blades. Her pink hair was tied back in a practical ponytail, her eyes closed in an expression of serene focus.
The scene was one of surreal juxtaposition—three beings of legendary power preparing for cosmic combat, while Saitama stood checking his watch and wondering if they'd be finished in time for the evening sales at his local supermarket.
"Sensei," Genos said quietly, moving closer to Saitama. "I feel I should inform you that word of today's event has spread within the Hero Association."
"What? How?" Saitama asked, genuinely surprised for once. "We just decided on this last night."
Genos had the mechanical equivalent of looking sheepish. "When I arranged for the quarry's usage, I was required to file a formal request citing 'potential S-class power demonstration' as justification. Such requests are... monitored."
As if on cue, a distant rumbling drew their attention to the access road leading to the quarry. A convoy of vehicles approached—sleek black cars bearing the Hero Association emblem, along with what appeared to be mobile monitoring equipment.
"Great," Saitama muttered. "An audience."
"Your glory shall have witnesses!" Musashi called cheerfully, having overheard. She bounded over, practically vibrating with excitement. "Is that not fitting for a contest of such magnitude?"
"It's just going to complicate things," Saitama sighed. "Those Association guys get really uptight about property damage and 'proper heroic conduct' and stuff."
"Proper conduct?" Nobunaga scoffed, joining them. "In battle? How absurd. Combat is not a performance for bureaucrats to judge—it is the rawest expression of will against will, power against power!"
"Tell that to the PR department," Saitama replied dryly.
The vehicles came to a halt at a respectful distance, and figures began to emerge—mostly staff in suits carrying tablets and monitoring equipment, but among them were several familiar faces. Saitama recognized Silver Fang, the elderly master of the Water Stream Rock Smashing Fist style, his wizened features set in an expression of keen interest. Beside him stood Atomic Samurai, self-proclaimed greatest swordsman of the modern era, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his blade as he surveyed the scene.
Most noticeable, however, was the diminutive figure floating several feet above the ground—Tatsumaki, the Terrible Tornado, her perpetual scowl visible even at this distance. The esper never missed an opportunity to belittle Saitama, and he could already imagine the cutting remarks she was preparing.
"Colleagues of yours?" Kenshin inquired, having silently appeared beside them, her meditation apparently complete.
"More like coworkers I don't really talk to at the office party," Saitama explained with a shrug.
Genos straightened formally. "They are S-class heroes—the highest rank within the Hero Association, second only to Sensei in true combat capability."
"Only in your opinion, Genos," Saitama corrected.
"My assessment is based on empirical data," the cyborg insisted. "Your defeat of the Deep Sea King alone, accomplished without sustaining any damage whatsoever, statistically places your combat effectiveness at—"
"Yeah, yeah," Saitama interrupted, clearly uncomfortable with the praise. "Let's just get this over with before they try to make us fill out paperwork or something."
As the group from the Hero Association established what appeared to be a monitoring station at a safe distance from the quarry floor, Saitama and his three legendary challengers moved toward the center of the arena. Each step seemed to increase the palpable tension in the air, the very atmosphere growing heavy with potential energy.
For once, even Saitama seemed to feel it—a tingle at the base of his spine, a faint echo of the anticipation he had once known before it had been buried under the weight of his unstoppable power.
The three warriors took positions at equidistant points around Saitama, forming a perfect triangle with him at the center. Even to the untrained eye, it was clear that they were coordinating, establishing lines of attack that would complement each other.