S.H.I.E.L.D. agent stared at the tactical tablet without even looking up. "Saitama-san, the energy readings show the core is right there! But there are tons of enemies on the outer perimeter!"
Before the words were even finished, dozens of cultists in black robes—faces hidden beneath hooded shadows—surged out from the ruins like ghosts. They chanted obscure incantations, dark violet energy spheres condensing in their hands, all aimed straight at Saitama-san and the S.H.I.E.L.D. squad.
"Oh. Got it," Saitama-san answered, like he'd just heard the neighbor's plumbing burst.
The next second, he moved.
No flashy effects. No earth-shaking roar. His figure blurred, turning into a gale that ripped through the air as he charged straight toward the dark vortex. He was so fast he left only a fleeting afterimage behind.
"Stop him!" a shrill command rang out from the black-robed group.
Dark violet energy beams crisscrossed into a net, trying to seal off his path. But in front of Saitama-san's utterly unreasonable speed, the attacks looked clumsy—almost funny. He didn't even bother to dodge deliberately. A slight lean, a tiny burst of acceleration, and the beams that could melt steel scraped past the edge of his cape and exploded behind him, blasting stone into fragments.
As the distance closed, the first cultist who tried to block him with their body saw only a plain, ordinary fist rapidly enlarging in their vision. They didn't even have time to react.
Bang!
A muffled explosion of impact. The black-robed cultist was hit like a train at full speed—his entire body instantly burst into a cloud of blood mist. The two behind him were also hurled away by the violent shockwave, smashing into a broken wall in the distance, bones shattered.
"Ants," Saitama-san muttered, not slowing down in the slightest.
He was like a human bulldozer. Wherever he passed, the defensive line the cultists formed crumpled like paper. The air howled with punch wind—every swing came with dull impacts and the crisp, sickening crack of bones breaking. They tried to form formations. They tried stronger spells. But in the face of Saitama-san's absolute power, all resistance was meaningless. Like leaves swept up by a storm, they flew, scattered, and broke apart.
"Cover Saitama-san! Suppressing fire on the right flank!" Phil's voice snapped through the comms, sharp with urgency.
The S.H.I.E.L.D. agents braced behind cover. Energy weapons spat searing beams, pinning down cultists trying to sweep around from the side, clearing a channel toward the vortex for the bald hero.
Saitama-san ignored the intense firefight behind him. His eyes were locked on the dark vortex drawing closer and closer. The nearer he got, the more terrifying the suction became—like it wanted to rip his soul out. Rubble, broken rebar, and shattered steel were pulled up by an invisible force and swallowed into the bottomless darkness. A raging wind tore at his cheap hero suit and white cape, making them snap and whip loudly.
But he still didn't stop.
Bearing a pulling force that would shred an ordinary person to pieces, Saitama-san stood steady at the edge of the vortex. He looked down at his fist, then raised his gaze to the twisting, spinning core that seemed capable of devouring all light.
"Looks… kinda hard?" he murmured to himself.
Then his eyes sharpened. Beneath that usual blank expression was an unshakable resolve.
"Then I'll just smash it."
He bent his knees slightly. Ignoring the fierce battle between the S.H.I.E.L.D. squad and the remaining black-robed cultists behind him, he focused every ounce of attention on the vortex's core—preparing to launch the blow that would shake the darkness itself.
(End of Chapter)
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