The rain was no longer a drizzle; it was a deluge, a solid sheet of water that turned the streets of J-City into shallow, flowing rivers. Hakai stood under the awning of a shattered storefront, a specter untouched by the panic swirling around him. Civilians, hunched under umbrellas and jackets, fled in a disorganized tide towards the sturdy public shelter. Their fear was a palpable fog, thick and cloying.
He watched it all with a profound and utter disinterest.
From his vantage point, he had a perfect view of the city's defensive line—or lack thereof. The first to fall was Mumen Rider. Hakai watched the C-Class hero pedal directly into the path of the approaching behemoth, shouting about justice and courage. The Deep Sea King didn't even break stride. A casual backhand sent the cyclist and his bike flying into a building wall with a sickening crunch of metal and bone.
Hakai's lip curled. "An insect challenging a tsunami," he muttered. "Not bravery. Statistics."
Next came a duo of B-Class heroes, their costumes already soaked and pathetic. They lasted slightly longer—perhaps ten seconds. One launched a flurry of weak energy projectiles that sizzled harmlessly against the Deep Sea King's slick hide. The other tried a close-range lariat, only to have his arm shattered for his efforts. They were swatted aside like gnats, their bodies joining the growing pile of casualties in the flooded street.
This was the Hero Association's might? This was the best humanity could muster? A cold, familiar boredom settled in Hakai's chest, heavier than the rain. This "King" was powerful, yes. But the resistance was so pitiful, so artistically bankrupt, that it diminished the entire spectacle. It was like watching a master sculptor use his chisel to crush gravel.
His white sclera with red pupils tracked the monster's path. It was heading straight for the large public shelter, a magnet for the desperate and the defenseless. The logical endpoint of this farce.
Then, a flicker of something more. A pulse of heat, a surge of energy that cut through the monotonous downpour. A figure clad in black and silver landed between the Deep Sea King and the shelter's entrance. Genos.
"Finally," Hakai breathed, a spark of interest igniting in his gaze. "A real instrument."
He watched, rapt, as the cyborg unleashed his arsenal. Incinerate! Missiles! The blasts were bright and concussive, scalding the Deep Sea King's flesh, actually making the monster roar in pain. For a few moments, the fight had rhythm, a genuine exchange of power. Hakai's analytical mind dissected the cyborg's movements: powerful, direct, but linear. Predictable. He relied too much on his ranged arsenal, leaving openings a more cunning opponent would exploit.
And exploit it, the Deep Sea King did. A feint, a burst of speed, and a brutal, mucus-coated fist slammed into Genos's core. There was a horrific sound of crushing metal and spitting electronics. The cyborg's own incineration attack backfired, crippling his systems. He fell, a sparking, broken heap in the rising water, his internal oil leaking out like blood.
The spark of interest within Hakai guttered and died. He let out a soft, disappointed sigh. Another flawed tool, broken. All that potential, wasted on a straightforward, brute-force approach. The Deep Sea King, now dehydrated and enraged, was more powerful than ever. But the "fight" was over. All that remained was the slaughter of the cowering civilians inside.
The scene was set for the ultimate, boring climax: meaningless, one-sided carnage.
This was the mediocrity he despised. Not just weakness, but the failure of anything to live up to its potential. The heroes were weak. The cyborg was flawed. Even this "King" was just a mindless force of destruction, no more artistic than an earthquake.
A memory, unbidden, flashed in his mind: the gang of fifty, their numbers meaningless against his skill. The same feeling of listless superiority washed over him. There was no challenge here. Only cleanup.
And yet... the energy was concentrated here. The fear was at its peak. If a challenge were to appear, it would be here. It was the last, logical place to look before writing off this entire event as a waste of time.
He pushed off from the wall, the soaked fabric of his hoodie clinging to his toned frame. The blue dragon on his back seemed to ripple as he moved. He didn't run. He didn't make a grand leap. He simply began to walk, cutting through the pouring rain with a calm, deliberate stride, his hands tucked into his pockets.
He wasn't answering a call to heroism. He was a critic stepping onto the stage to dismiss the play. He was moving towards the shelter not to save the victims, but to personally confirm the depths of the world's mediocrity, and perhaps, if he felt like it, put the final, boring act to a swift and brutal end.