"The monster... it's actually dead this time, right?"
"Hard to say. I mean, look at the size of that thing. What if it's just sleeping? Or what if it regenerates?"
"Are you blind? Didn't you see what happened? That guy literally just flicked a pebble and turned the thing's brain into swiss cheese. Someone that powerful wouldn't leave the job half-done."
"How dare you call him 'that guy!' Show some respect, that's obviously a top-tier pro. That's 'My Lord' to you!"
"Ugh, he's so cool... look at those scars. He looks like he's lived through ten world wars."
As the massive, mutated rabbit remained slumped in a heap of charred fur and purple gore, the nearby civilians hesitated. Even though the "Strongest Man" was standing right there, the trauma of the monster's sudden "second phase" was still fresh. No one wanted to be the first person to get within reach of those obsidian claws. They had families, mortgages, and unplayed video games to think of.
"Rest assured, everyone! The crisis is officially over!"
Hoop-Star Kun stepped forward, raising his arms like a referee signaling a touchdown. Beside him, Academy Starlet and Mecha Chief struck their most heroic poses, though they couldn't help but steal worshipful, sidelong glances at the scarred man standing in the center of the crater.
They were completely awed. To them, King's stony silence wasn't the result of a mental shutdown; it was the stoic gaze of a veteran checking his subordinates for injuries. Every twitch of his facial muscles was interpreted as a deep, tactical calculation.
Despite the heroes' assurances, the citizens remained cautious. It was only when Academy Starlet, still shaking from her near-death experience marched over and delivered several sharp kicks to the monster's unmoving snout that the tension finally snapped.
"It's true! It's really over!"
"Incredible! Absolutely incredible!"
"Did you see that shot? I didn't even see his hand move! Just a crack like a gunshot and a hole appeared in that thing's head. He's a god!"
"I knew it. I spotted his power level the second he showed up. You can just tell by the way he breathes, the air literally trembles around him."
"Oh, shut up, Dave. Five minutes ago you were crying behind a dumpster. I've never seen anyone so shameless."
Within minutes, the fear had vanished, replaced by the frenzied energy of a mob that had just witnessed a miracle. The citizens who had been hiding in shops and alleyways surged forward, forming a loose, vibrating circle around King.
"Sir! I'm a reporter for the Metropolis Daily, may I ask a few questions about your technique?"
"Back off! Cerulean News was here first! Answer us!"
"Excuse me! The Daily Sentinel has priority for S-Class level events!"
A dozen reporters, identifiable by the colorful badges pinned to their suits, began shoving their microphones through the gaps in the crowd. It was a chaotic scramble for the "Million-Dollar Quote."
A lanky young man with thick glasses and an air of desperate ambition managed to slip through the throng, nearly tripping over a piece of rubble. He shoved his mic toward King's chin.
"I'm Brooks Okamoto from Cerulean News! Sir, could you tell the public why you stepped in to protect that mother and daughter? Was it a pre-planned operation, or were you just in the neighborhood?"
Before Noah, who was currently hovering in a semi-manifested state behind King could even think of a way to respond, a meaty, sweat-slicked hand reached out and shoved Okamoto's microphone downward.
"Out of my way, kid! I've been on this beat for twenty years. Ever heard of seniority?"
A balding, pot-bellied reporter named Barnaby barged forward, using his significant girth to bump Okamoto aside. He puffed out his chest, trying to look professional while gasping for air.
"What the hell, Barnaby! I was clearly first!" Okamoto yelled, nearly losing his glasses.
Being shoved aside by a middle-aged man with a "chrome dome" and a cheap suit was the ultimate professional humiliation for the twenty-six-year-old Okamoto. Furious, he transformed into a warrior of civil discourse, unleashing a tempest of "polite" insults and elbows against Barnaby and the eleven other reporters. It was a one-versus-the-world brawl, and Okamoto was holding his own.
While the press core descended into a fistfight, King finally recovered. The "Emperor Engine" roar of his heart began to slow from a frantic gallop to a heavy, rhythmic thud.
Huff... huff...
Still shaken to his core, King slowly raised his hands. He looked at his palms, then lowered them again, repeating the motion several times. The feeling of his limbs moving on their own, of possessing a strength that could shatter stone had felt like a fleeting, vivid dream.
I'm... I'm back? I can move again? "Sir? Are you alright? Are you a registered hero? What's your name? Can we take a photo?"
While King was trying to regain his breath, Hoop-Star Kun stepped up, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly. He was firing off the classic "fanboy" questions that usually made pro-heroes roll their eyes.
The scuffle between Okamoto and Barnaby died down instantly. Every camera lens and every pair of eyes swung toward King. The atmosphere was electric; everyone wanted the name of the man who had just saved the district. The smarter people in the crowd were already plotting how to get close to him, sensing a rising star that would eclipse the entire A-Class.
"Ah... no. No need for all that," King stammered.
As he looked at the tight ring of people, thousands of eyes staring at him, judging him, expecting something from him, he felt his entire body stiffen. As a shut-in gamer who preferred the company of virtual waifus and pixelated monsters, he had never been the center of this much attention.
To him, the thousands of eyes felt like a swarm of ants crawling and biting over his skin. His social battery wasn't just low; it was currently melting. All he wanted was to race home, grab a cold soda from the fridge, and collapse on his couch until the world went away.
"I... I have things to do. If you could just... move aside?" King's voice was low, which the crowd interpreted as "menacingly calm."
"Uh... of course! Sorry!" Hoop-Star Kun squeaked. He looked like a puppy that had just been scolded by its owner. Not wanting to anger his new idol, he quickly stepped aside, clearing a path.
"Move it! Didn't you hear the man? The Hero has official business!" Okamoto's eyes slid slyly. Seeing an opportunity to get on King's good side, he used his shoulder to shove Barnaby into a pile of trash and barked at the other reporters to clear the way.
Noah, watching from the spectral plane, couldn't help but chuckle. Damn, this Okamoto guy is slick. He's a snake, but a useful one.
The other reporters glanced at each other, then at the smug Okamoto, then at the terrifying, scarred face of the man walking toward them. They swallowed their pride, parting like the Red Sea.
"He's such a good guy," King thought, following the path Okamoto had cleared. He gave the reporter a brief, grateful glance as he passed, a look that sent a thrill of pure professional ecstasy through Okamoto's heart.
"Sir! I'm Brooks Okamoto from Cerulean News! I truly hope we meet again!" Okamoto stood on his tiptoes, waving frantically as King's tall, imposing figure disappeared down the street.
"Pah! Shameless vulture," Barnaby spat, dusting off his suit.
But he knew Okamoto had won this round. A man that strong and that righteous would undoubtedly join the Hero Association soon. Whoever had left a positive impression today would get the exclusive interview tomorrow. Barnaby cursed his own slow reflexes; that friendship could have been his ticket to the Chief Editor's desk.
While the crowd continued to gossip about the mystery hero, Okamoto vanished. He didn't follow King; he knew better than to stalk an S-Class level threat. Instead, he reappeared near the curb, crouching before the mother and daughter who were being treated by paramedics.
"Excuse me, little sister," Okamoto said, his voice dropping into a gentle, professional tone. He held a notebook ready. "Could you tell me something? That giant rabbit... do you know where it came from?"
The little girl, her eyes still red from crying, sniffled and nodded. "Yes, Mr. Reporter. That was Little Eleven."
Okamoto's smile widened. He began to write: Girl buys pets to satisfy cruel, hidden desires.
"You're such a pretty girl, and you clearly care a lot about animals," Okamoto prompted, his pen flying across the paper. "I bet you two were the best of friends, right? You played with him every day?"
"Yes!" the girl said, her voice small. "I played with Little Eleven and all his brothers and sisters. We did everything together. We exercised, we went on diets, we even watched cooking shows on TV. I'm a very good owner. I eat exactly what they eat."
Okamoto's hand paused. "Diets? What do you mean by that, sweetie?"
"The doctor told Mommy that I was getting too chubby," the girl explained with innocent, wide eyes. "So Mommy said the whole house had to diet. And since I'm the owner, the bunnies had to diet too. It was only fair!"
Okamoto felt a cold bead of sweat roll down his temple. "And... what exactly does a bunny diet look like?"
"Let me think," the girl tilted her head, tapping her chin with a finger. "Oh, right! I gave all eleven of them three carrots and five lettuce leaves every single day. I told them they had to be healthy like me!"
The air seemed to leave Okamoto's lungs. He stared at the girl, then at the charred, massive mountain of muscle that used to be a pet.
Eleven rabbits sharing three carrots and five leaves? Even a city boy like Okamoto knew that wasn't a diet. That was a slow, agonizing death sentence.
"Oh, don't worry," the girl added, seeing the odd look on the reporter's face. "They're so tiny! They can't possibly eat more than that. They were just being grumpy."
Okamoto fell silent. He looked at the girl's innocent expression, the terrifying, unconscious cruelty of a child who didn't understand the value of life.
He slowly stood up, adjusted his glasses, and offered a professional, plastic smile. "Thank you for your time, little sister. You've been very helpful."
He walked away from the ambulance, his pen scratching furiously against the notepad. He crossed out his previous headline and wrote a new one in bold, jagged letters:
THE TRAGEDY OF THE HUTCH: Ignorant Girl Starves Pets into Monsters, A Case of Moral Decay or Human Depravity?
Noah, who had returned to King's shadow, caught the tail end of the conversation. He looked back at the girl, then at the dead monster.
"Hey, System," Noah whispered. "I think I liked it better when I thought the rabbit was just a jerk."
[Ding! Welcome to the real world, Host~ The monsters aren't the only ones with teeth.]
Noah sighed as King rounded a corner, finally out of sight of the press. "Open the Rare Treasure Chest. I need something good to wash the taste of this world out of my mouth."