"Mr. Akira, what is the meaning of this?"
Fubuki did not order the attack. She was calculating—reassessing. She had underestimated him. Badly.
Defeating a Tiger-level Monster met B-Class requirements. But that speed—closing five meters in an instant—that was A-Class territory. Minimum.
And the hammer, she recalled. Embedded in the wall after passing through a Monster's skull.
His strength alone qualified him for A-Class. His speed confirmed it. His precision suggested even more.
"Nothing." Akira's voice was calm, almost bored. "Saving his life. My temper isn't terrible, but it isn't good either. For that one sentence, his head could have rolled."
Could have. Not would have. The distinction was deliberate.
"You—"
"Shut up."
Fubuki's command silenced her subordinates instantly. She knew what they didn't: against Mr. Akira, B-Class fighters were playthings. The Fubuki Group had numbers, but numbers meant nothing against genuine power.
"But big sis—"
"This is your fault. Watch your mouths in the future."
The chastised member—the one still nursing his reddened cheek—bowed deeply. "Mr. Akira, I apologize for my rudeness. You were right to correct me."
"Good." Akira's nod was dismissive. "From now on, show some awareness. You can't judge the sea with a bucket." He turned to leave. "I've paid my respects. I have other matters."
Fubuki opened her mouth—
All their phones rang simultaneously.
Monster swarm. Silver Sand Bay. Landing in progress. Targeting the wealthy district.
The words flashed across screens, and the atmosphere shifted instantly.
"Nearby B-Class Heroes are already responding." A subordinate looked up. "Big sis, are we taking this mission?"
Two seconds of silence. Then: "We take it."
She turned to Akira. "Mr. Akira, my apologies for today's discourtesy. I will compensate you with a meal when time permits." Her voice sharpened. "Fubuki Group—move out."
They flowed toward the underground garage with practiced efficiency, Fubuki at their head, her presence commanding.
Akira watched them go, then slid back into his Maybach.
Rich district.
The villa. The 200 million yen property.
His eyes narrowed. He slammed the accelerator. The engine roared—not a civilized purr, but a predator's snarl.
Seaside District — Coral Villa Complex
C-Class Heroes fought desperately along the perimeter, their blades and powers barely containing the tide of scaled horrors emerging from the surf. Official intelligence had rated the threat as B-Class maximum—manageable with numbers.
"This doesn't make sense—where are they all coming from?" A swordsman yanked his blade free from a fallen creature's skull. Foul ichor sprayed, and he gagged at the stench.
Then—a black line.
He didn't register the movement. Didn't feel the cut. Only saw his own torso falling away from his legs before consciousness ended.
Across the front lines, the same scene repeated. What had been a manageable engagement became a slaughter.
Reversal. Absolute.
A massive figure emerged from the surf—bulging muscle, lantern-sized eyes, a grin that stretched too wide across inhuman features.
"Not enough." The Fishman Vanguard surveyed the carnage with obvious disappointment. "The bait is insufficient. No big fish have taken the hook."
"You—who ARE you—"
"We are the Deep Sea Tribe." His voice rumbled across the battlefield. "Sent by our King to claim the surface. We are merely the vanguard." His gaze swept over the remaining Heroes, dismissive. "After so many years of surface evolution, is this truly the best you've produced?"
He laughed—a wet, horrible sound.
"The King's descent may be unnecessary. I could rule this world myself."
A C-Class Hero, trembling but defiant, raised his weapon. "We're only C-Class! When the other Heroes arrive, you'll—"
CRACK.
The ground fractured. A fissure spread fifty meters in both directions. The Vanguard's fist emerged from the crater, the Hero's blood dripping from his knuckles.
The survivors broke. They ran.
"Hoho!"
The Vanguard's fists moved with impossible speed. Each punch found its mark. Each mark became a red smear.
"Attention all Heroes—Coastal threat level elevated to DEMON. C-Class personnel, evacuate immediately."
"Attention all citizens—Demon-level threat confirmed. Coastal residents, evacuate in orderly fashion."
The announcement triggered a rout. C-Class Heroes fled. Civilians screamed and stampeded. Only a handful of A-Class remained at the front.
Stinger dodged another spray of corrosive ink, his rapier flickering in the moonlight. "Troublesome—this octopus is both slippery and sticky."
Two black lines shot from the creature's mouth. Stinger evaded—barely—retreating to safe distance.
"There's no choice. We have to—"
A blur shot past him.
Faster than his eyes could track. Faster than the Monster could react.
No—he's going to—
"Careful! It can spray—"
But the figure was already through the kill zone, threading between the black lines with millimeter precision. His body twisted—a dancer's grace married to a predator's economy—
FLASH.
A blade caught moonlight.
The figure launched skyward, trailing silver.
The Octopus Monster split open from bottom to top, its two halves collapsing outward in a fountain of viscera.
Stinger stared at the raining gore.
Then at the figure landing softly in the center of it all.
Then back at the corpse.
"...Who the hell is that?"
"Cool!"
Stinger watched the collapsing Monster collapse with genuine admiration, thrusting a thumb upward. "A bit less flashy than my Super Giant Spiral Stinger, but you've got my approval. So—are you a new A-Class? Or maybe S-Class?"
Akira didn't acknowledge the question. His attention was on his blade—the cheap katana he'd picked up somewhere, forged from ordinary steel, never meant for what he'd just demanded of it. Hairline fractures spiderwebbed across the surface.
He flicked the flat of the blade with his finger.
Ting.
The sword snapped cleanly in two.
"Looks like I'm back to fists," he murmured.
Then his speed erupted, and he was gone.
Stinger blinked at the empty space. "Hey—I was talking to you! Rude much?"
He stepped forward, glancing down at the broken blade. Then at the Octopus Monster's corpse. Then back at the blade.
That sword was junk. Mass-produced. Meant for decoration, not combat.
But the cut on that Demon-level creature was perfect. Clean. Surgical.
That wasn't the blade. That was the man.
Stinger shivered.
Elsewhere on the Battlefield
"Big sis—we can't hold much longer!"
The Fubuki Group was being pushed back. The individual Monsters weren't strong—Tiger-level at best, manageable in ones and twos. But there were dozens of them. Elastic muscles absorbed impact. Mucus coats deflected grapples. Scales turned aside blades.
One B-Class could handle one Monster.
Twenty B-Class against twenty Monsters was a stalemate.
Against forty? Fifty?
Slaughter.
Their stamina was draining. Their formation was fracturing. If Hellish Blizzard didn't act soon, the Fubuki Group would suffer casualties it couldn't afford.
WHOOSH.
A tornado materialized from nothing—intelligent, directed, hungry. It caught the two nearest Monsters and lifted them screaming into the air. Psychic wind stripped away their mucus defenses. Compressed blades of pure will carved them apart.
Three seconds. Two Monsters. One puddle of rotten flesh.
Hellish Blizzard exhaled slowly, a sheen of sweat on her brow. "Everyone—maintain vigilance. Evacuate the wounded. We're not done yet."
Her eyes swept the battlefield, counting, calculating.
Then—footsteps.
Slow. Deliberate. Unhurried.
A tall figure emerged from the smoke and chaos, walking toward them like a man taking an evening stroll.