The only thing that should be roaring on a sunny Tuesday afternoon was the soundtrack to the new Fist of the Fury: Legacy fighting game. King, a large, imposing figure with a face carved by fate and a heart sculpted from anxiety, held the pre-order ticket in his slightly sweaty palm. This was the day. He'd been saving, he'd cleared his schedule, and he was going to be one of the first in line.
He took a deep breath, the seven scars on his face twitching as he psyched himself up for the simple human interaction of purchasing a video game. Just walk in, hand them the ticket, say "thank you," and leave. No eye contact. Easy.
He never made it to the door.
The first tremor was subtle, a vibration through the pavement he mistook for a heavy truck. The second was a violent lurch that sent parked cars bouncing on their suspensions. The third was accompanied by the sound of rending concrete and a collective city-wide scream.
From the earth in the center of the shopping district, a colossal form erupted. It was a golem, but not of simple rock. It was a jagged, patchwork monstrosity of asphalt, rebar, and the twisted remnants of sewer pipes, standing fifteen stories tall. A single, malevolent red eye glowed from its roughly-hewn head. It was a Dragon-level threat, and it had picked the worst possible time and place to appear.
Panic was an understatement. It was a tidal wave of humanity fleeing in every direction. King's own personal "King Engine" immediately kicked into overdrive, a deafening B-BOOM! B-BOOM! that hammered against his ribs. He stood frozen, a statue of terror, the pre-order ticket crumpled in his fist.
No, no, no! Not today! Any day but today!
The Golem monster raised a fist the size of a bus, pulsing with chaotic energy, and prepared to bring it down on the very electronics store King was aiming for.
Instinct, honed by years of surviving certain death, took over. It wasn't the instinct to fight, but to flee. He turned and ran, his large frame barreling through side alleys, his only goal to put as much distance between himself and that thing as possible. He ducked behind a dumpster, his heart trying to punch its way out of his chest. He was safe. For now.
He peered around the corner. The Golem was turning, its red eye scanning the area. And it locked directly onto him.
Why?! Why does this always happen?!
The Golem took a earth-shaking step towards his hiding spot. King scrambled backward, tripping over a loose pipe and landing hard on his backside. He stared up as the monster loomed over him, its rocky fist raised for a final, crushing blow. This was it. He was going to die over a video game. The irony was almost as terrifying as the monster.
"Hey."
A single, calm voice cut through the chaos.
The Golem's fist halted mid-descent. King's eyes darted to the source of the voice.
There, standing in the middle of the street with a discount grocery bag in one hand, was Saitama. He looked… bored.
"The sale on bananas ended an hour ago," Saitama remarked to no one in particular, looking mildly disappointed. He then glanced up at the Golem. "Oh. You're big."
The Golem, as if offended by the interruption, redirected its punch towards the bald man.
Saitama didn't even drop his grocery bag. He simply cocked back his other fist and threw a casual, almost lazy, punch forward.
FWOOM-CRUNCH.
There was no dramatic clash. There was only the sound of a thousand tons of rock, asphalt, and rebar being instantly and completely pulverized into a fine, dissipating dust. One moment, there was a Dragon-level threat. The next, there was a gentle breeze carrying the smell of powdered concrete and a faint, pleasant aroma of discount fabric softener from Saitama's bag.
King sat on the ground, mouth agape, his heartbeat slowly beginning to decelerate from "jackhammer" to "mere freight train."
Saitama walked over, peering down at him. "You okay, King? That was a close one."
"Sa… Saitama," King stammered, forcing himself to his feet and dusting off his pants with trembling hands. "Th-thank you. I... I don't know what would have..."
"It's fine," Saitama interrupted, his expression unchanging. "I was just on my way home. Pretty weak for a big guy, huh?"
King just nodded mutely. Weak? It was atleast a Dragon-level!
An idea, a spark of genuine gratitude, cut through his fear. He looked down at the crumpled pre-order ticket in his hand. "Saitama," he said, his voice a bit firmer. "As a thank you... I just got the new Fist of the Fury game. Would you... like to come over and play it sometime? I owe you one."
Saitama's eyes lit up with the first sign of genuine interest King had ever seen. "Really? Yeah, that sounds way more fun than this. Sure. Just call me." He hefted his grocery bag. "Well, see you."
And with that, the world's strongest man walked away, leaving the world's luckiest man standing alone in a street coated with the dust of a vanquished catastrophe.
It was at that precise moment that the world arrived.
The roaring of engines announced the arrival of Hero Association vehicles. S-Class hero Metal Bat leaped from a motorcycle, his bat slung over his shoulder. A-Class heroes Spring Mustachio and Golden Ball arrived right behind him, weapons drawn.
They skidded to a halt, taking in the scene.
The entire block was a ruined, dusty crater. In the center of it all stood King, his back to them, his massive frame silhouetted against the settling dust. His iconic scars were visible in profile, and the low, resonant thump... thump... thump... of the King Engine was the only sound in the sudden silence.
At his feet was the only remaining piece of the Golem: a single, shattered rock from its core, still faintly smoking.
Metal Bat whistled, lowering his weapon. "Whoa. He already took care of it."
Spring Mustachio adjusted his mustache, his voice filled with awe. "Incredible. There's no collateral damage beyond the initial emergence. It was a single, precise, overwhelming attack. The monster was utterly obliterated."
Golden Ball peered at King's motionless form. "He's not even winded. And listen to that... his Engine is already calming down. For him, that was just another Tuesday."
King, meanwhile, was frozen for an entirely different reason. He was desperately trying to think of a way to explain that he hadn't done anything, that it was all Saitama. But his vocal cords were locked. The weight of their assumptions pressed down on him like a physical force.
Metal Bat walked up and clapped a friendly hand on King's shoulder, making him jump. "Nice one, King! Saved us the trouble. What'd you do, yell at it?"
King managed to turn his head, his face a mask of stunned silence that was instantly interpreted as stoic, battle-hardened calm.
He opened his mouth. A low, guttural grunt was all that emerged. "...Ugh."
Metal Bat grinned. "Heh. Classified technique, got it. No problem. We'll handle the cleanup."
As the heroes began to cordon off the area, chatting excitedly about the "legendary power of King," the man himself just stood there, the crumpled pre-order ticket still in his hand. He had gotten his game, but he had also, entirely against his will, forged another chapter in the legend he never asked for.
He had no idea that the collective, awe-struck belief of the heroes at that very moment was gathering, condensing, and waiting for a catalyst to ignite a spark of true power within him. But that would come later. For now, he just wanted to go home and play his game.
Later at King`s apartment
The silence of his apartment was a tangible thing, a thick blanket smothering the chaotic noises of the city—and the even more chaotic noises in his own head. King slid the deadbolt home, the sharp click a final barrier between him and the world that thought he was a god. He leaned against the door for a moment, eyes closed, waiting for the frantic thump-thump-thump of his heart to settle. The King Engine, as always, was the last to fall silent.
He made his way to the couch, the familiar path a comfort. The case for Fist of the Fury: Legacy felt solid and real in his hands. This was his domain. This was where he was truly powerful.
For the next few hours, he was no longer the S-Class fraud. He was a player, a master of digital combat. The pixelated enemies fell before his flawless combos, the boss mechanics yielding to his practiced reflexes. Here, his reputation was earned. Here, his strength was real.
After achieving a perfect S-rank on a brutal stage, he finally paused, setting the controller down. The triumph was sweet, but fleeting. His eyes drifted across the room, landing on the second controller, dusty from disuse.
This game... it's fantastic, he thought, a genuine smile touching his lips for the first time that day. Saitama would get a kick out of it. It'd be... fun.
The thought of his bald friend was like a key turning in a locked chamber of his mind. The carefully constructed walls of his gaming focus crumbled, and the day's events came flooding back.
The Golem. The terror. The casual, world-altering punch.
The awe in the other heroes' voices.
His name on their lips.
Guilt, cold and heavy, settled in his stomach. "He saved me again," King whispered to the empty room, his voice rough. "He always does. And they... they give me the credit." He looked down at his hands, these massive, scarred things that had never truly fought anything. "It should be him. Saitama is the real hero. He's everything they think I am."
He thought of Saitama's simple, unassuming nature, his search for a challenge, his quiet existence. He didn't crave the spotlight; he barely seemed to notice it. And King, the coward, stood basking in its glow, a pathetic impostor.
A profound, aching weariness washed over him. It wasn't just the fear of being exposed. It was the soul-crushing weight of the lie itself. The loneliness of being a statue on a pedestal, knowing you're made of clay.
Tears of frustration pricked at the corners of his eyes. He was so tired of being scared. So tired of flinching at every shadow. In a moment of raw, unguarded honesty, a plea escaped him, so quiet it was barely a breath.
"I'm so tired of being a fraud," he confessed to the silence. "I don't want to be a god. I just... I wish I had the strength to not be afraid. I wish I could be even a fraction of the man they believe I am. Just for a moment. Just to deserve... to have him as a friend without being a burden."
It was the most sincere wish he had ever made.
As if on cue, a soft, electronic chime echoed in the quiet room, clear and distinct. It was no sound from his television or console.
King froze.
Before him, the air shimmered like heat haze on a summer road. Then, it resolved, solidifying into a sleek, transparent screen of brilliant blue light. Text, in a clean, futuristic font, glowed with serene intensity.
[System Initialization Trigger: User's Sincere Aspiration for Congruence]
[Core Power Source Designated: 'Saitama' - Link Established]
[Synchronizing with Host Reality... Complete.]
[Welcome, User: KING. The Legend Maker System is activated.]
At the bottom of the impossible interface, a number glowed, a silent testament to the legend he never asked for:
[Belief Points (BP): 12,850]