Hashimoto Yoma opened his eyes in the shadows of the sewer.
No longer were they the desperate eyes of a trapped human, but rather the aloof indifference of one standing above all; the golden figure behind him had fully materialized, imbuing him with a touch of divinity.
A mortal's plan? Stealth?
That was too boring; he represented the endless power of muscle, and there was no need for such sneaking around!
A god's actions should be like a fierce wind, like lightning, unbridled, crushing them with absolute power.
He subtly stretched his neck, clung to the wall, and climbed forward, leaving a series of afterimages on the wall, stirring up a silent current of air.
The finger holes left by his climb on the wall were smooth-edged, as if they had always been there; the sturdy wall was like tofu in his hands.
"Go to the police station and retrieve my things."
Once this thought arose, it was no longer a goal but an impending fact. He would do whatever he wanted; the time had come, he no longer needed to hide, and his revenge was about to begin.
He burst out of the sewer like a phantom, returning to the surface.
The sunlight fell on him, yet it brought no warmth; instead, it was distorted by the almost tangible domain of "Swiftness" that permeated his body.
Pedestrians on the roadside didn't even have time to clearly see his appearance, only feeling a gust of strong wind sweep past, making the roadside posters flap loudly, almost tearing them.
"What was that just now?"
"Was it the wind?"
"No... it seemed like a shadow..."
Before people's whispers had died down, Hashimoto Yoma was already standing at the Morioh Police Station, a place that once protected the populace but now suppressed them.
Hashimoto Yoma looked at the building, painted in a comical manga style yet exuding a stern aura, with two police officers dressed like ancient guards standing watch at the main entrance, holding weapons and cautiously looking at him.
"Things have really changed. When they confiscated my belongings, it wasn't like this, was it? But there's no mistaking that this is the police station."
After confirming this was the place he needed to be, he didn't hesitate for a moment, not even slowing down.
Facing the tightly closed reinforced glass door and the police officers at the entrance, who were on high alert, raising their pistols and riot shields, he simply, directly, charged through.
"Stop! Fire!"
The leading police officer screamed in terror, his finger pulling the trigger, but Japanese police pistols fired far too inaccurately, their trajectories impossible to predict. Their superiors still wouldn't let them use military pistols.
Moreover, the speed of the trigger's movement, in Hashimoto Yoma's perception, was as slow as a crawling snail.
In his eyes, the bullet's trajectory as it left the barrel was clearly visible, like a metal insect suspended in viscous air; hitting him was undoubtedly a pipe dream.
He laughed; in the face of muscle, such weapons were simply too weak, posing no threat whatsoever.
Time, or rather his speed, had accelerated to an unimaginable extent.
"Only muscle is true power! How could this perfect body of mine be harmed by mere bullets!"
He easily sidestepped the first bullet, flicking its tip with his fingertip, and the bullet returned along its original path at an even faster speed, piercing the shooter's wrist with a strange spin.
Immediately after, he swept into the group of police officers like a human storm, the air current swirling around his body, driven by his terrifying power.
There were no complex combat techniques, only the ultimate aesthetic of violence brought by absolute speed and strength.
One punch. The riot shield, along with the arm bone of the police officer behind it, shattered, and the fierce wind lifted the entire person away.
One kick. Two police officers attempting to flank him were sent flying backward, spitting blood, as if hit by a truck, crashing through the giant Kishibe Rohan propaganda poster on the wall.
He didn't even spare a glance for the fallen officers, his figure a golden flash, darting left and right through the police station lobby.
Wherever he went, the sound of shattering bones, exploding equipment, and terrified screams filled the air, mixing with flying manga fragments and blood, forming an absurd and cruel scene.
The remaining police officers collapsed; their beliefs, their "Manga Code," seemed ridiculous and fragile in the face of such primal, utterly unreasonable absolute speed and strength.
But they ran too slowly, ultimately only to be caught and eliminated one by one by Hashimoto Yoma.
Hashimoto Yoma walked directly to the evidence room; the heavy iron door was like paper before him, kicked open, the entire door embedded in the wall, twisted into a crumpled mess.
He precisely located his confiscated fitness equipment. He picked up a dumbbell, weighed it in his hand, feeling the familiar weight, and a satisfied smile curved his lips.
"Warm-up over."
He said in a low voice, his voice carrying overlapping echoes, both his own resentment and Hermes's indifference.
He turned and walked unhurriedly out of the police station lobby, which had already become a ruin. Outside, more police cars roared to a halt, surrounding the area.
A trembling warning came from the loudspeaker.
"Criminal, do not come any closer, or we will open fire! It's not too late to surrender now, don't be impulsive!"
Hashimoto Yoma stood on the steps, bathed in sunlight and countless terrified gazes.
He raised the dumbbell in his hand, calmly looking at the police officers before him. He casually threw the dumbbell, and it cut a graceful arc through the air.
Spinning and tumbling in the air, it instantly pierced through several police cars, spewing out large amounts of flesh and bone fragments. With just this one throw, only one police car remained intact.
The people inside the cars were also in complete terror; they couldn't understand why a dumbbell, like a self-guided missile, could precisely smash through so many police cars and kill everyone inside.
"Tell Kishibe Rohan!"
His voice was not loud, yet it clearly spread throughout the entire district, as if carrying the power of a divine oracle, "You weave cages with ink, and imprison souls with lies.
But before this body of mine, forged by sweat and will, before your ridiculous, fictitious 'Manga God Power'…"
The muscular wings behind him suddenly spread open, fully formed, exuding a heart-pounding pressure. The golden Hermes's phantom almost merged with him, his scepter pointing to the sky.
Although the ordinary people before him couldn't see it, they felt an endless terror from the bottom of their hearts, and they drove away without hesitation.
"...Your order is utterly vulnerable!"
Before his words finished, he himself once again transformed into a golden lightning bolt, not fleeing, but launching the most direct, most violent charge!
The streets he passed through, with their uniform manga paint, were torn apart as if by an invisible force; signs crashed down, posters burned.
The last remaining police car was fleeing, having driven for several seconds, yet it couldn't escape him. He simply ran calmly beside the car, yet faster than the car, watching the desperate police officers inside. He pointed to a tire.
"Hey, your tire is flat. Didn't you check it before you came?"
Watching the police officer driving the car actually look down, Hashimoto Yoma instantly circled to the other side, reached in and pierced through the glass, then pressed the officer's head against the broken glass shards, cutting off his head.
"You don't even trust your own car, you fell for it. Bye bye."
Then, under the terrified gazes of the other surviving police officers, he ripped open the hood of the now driverless police car, shoved the severed head inside, and completely destroyed the internal structure of the car.