The fight began not with a clash, but with a question.
**
Saitama's answer was simple, direct, and delivered with his fist.
He threw the first punch. It was not a "Serious Punch." It was not a "Normal Punch." It was simply… a punch. A perfectly executed, blindingly fast jab that crossed the fifty feet between them in less time than it takes for light to cross a room. It carried in its knuckle the quiet, unassuming weight of a collapsed star.
The air in front of his fist did not compress; it ceased to exist, creating a perfect vacuum, a silent tunnel through reality itself, leading directly to the Critic's placid, smiling face.
The Critic did not move. He did not dodge. He did not block. He simply… raised one, gloved hand.
The fist and the palm met.
There was no sound. There was no shockwave. The world did not end.
Instead, a single, silent, hair-thin line of pure, incandescent white light appeared at the point of impact, as if a seam in reality itself had been torn open and was leaking the pure, unfiltered energy of creation. The entire plateau, the entire mountain, the entire world should have been obliterated by the sheer, uncontained forces being brought to bear in that single, casual exchange.
But it wasn't. Because both combatants, in their own unique ways, were exercising a level of control so absolute, so profound, that the collateral damage was, for the moment, contained to a single, impossible point in space.
Saitama stared, his eyes wide, a jolt of pure, unadulterated, electrifying shock running through him.
His fist… had been stopped.
His punch, a blow that had vaporized gods, erased fortresses, and flattened mountains, had been caught. Casually. In the palm of an opponent's hand. He could feel the infinite, irresistible force of his own punch meeting an equally infinite, unshakeable, immovable reality.
For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, for the first time since he had lost his hair and his limits, Saitama was in a real fight.
A slow, wide, truly beautiful smile spread across his face. "Heh," he breathed, a single, happy puff of air. "Hehe. Hahahahaha! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
His laughter was a joyful, thunderous roar of pure, cathartic release. The years of boredom, of emptiness, of hollow victories, were washed away in that single, glorious moment of contact. He had found it. He had actually, finally, found it.
The Critic, his own placid smile unwavering, his hand still holding back the force that could unmake galaxies, replied, his voice a calm, academic murmur. ** **
He then pushed. Gently.
Saitama was sent flying backwards. He didn't tumble or get thrown; he was simply… displaced, shot across the plateau with the speed of a bullet, his body a golden streak. He crashed into the far side of what was left of the mountain, disappearing in a silent, blossoming cloud of pulverized granite.
From the command hill miles away, the unified leaders of the world watched on their scrying orbs, their faces ashen.
"He… he was… thrown?" King Olric stammered, his mind refusing to process the image. The being who had treated an avalanche as a minor inconvenience had just been flicked away like a bug.
The cloud of dust cleared. Saitama was standing in the center of a new, thousand-foot crater, completely unharmed, a look of almost manic glee on his face. He rolled his shoulder. "Whoa," he said to himself. "He's… he's really strong."
He crouched, and in the next instant, he was back in front of the Critic, his other fist already swinging. This time, it was a "Normal Punch," delivered with the speed and power that had destroyed armies and ended conceptual entities.
The Critic, once again, did not move. He just… allowed the punch to happen.
The punch connected. With his face.
And then… the universe seemed to hold its breath.
Saitama's fist, a projectile of absolute, final power, met the Critic's simple, unassuming, smiling face.
And it stopped.
Again.
The impact, which should have shattered the continent, was contained entirely within the point of contact. Saitama could feel the full, crushing force of his own blow recoil back up his arm, a sensation he had not felt since before he was a hero. His bones, his muscles, which had forgotten the very concept of strain, now sang with the glorious, painful feeling of effort.
The Critic just stood there, his head not even having moved back an inch. His smile was gone, replaced by a look of clinical, detached analysis. **
Saitama pulled his fist back, shaking his hand, a feeling like pins and needles running up his arm. It wasn't pain, not really. It was… feedback. Sensation. The glorious, wonderful sensation of hitting something that didn't break.
"Okay," Saitama breathed, his voice a low, happy growl. "Okay."
He stopped holding back.
What happened next was not a fight. It was a conversation held in a language of impossible violence. It was a debate on the nature of existence, argued with fists that could shatter reality and a will that could rewrite it.
"CONSECUTIVE NORMAL PUNCHES!" Saitama roared, his voice no longer bored or quiet, but a thunderous, joyful battle cry. His fists became a blur, a storm, a meteor shower of pure kinetic energy, each punch powerful enough to destroy a planet, all of them focused on a single, unmoving point: the man in the simple dark suit.
The Critic stood in the heart of the storm, unmoving. He didn't block. He didn't parry. He simply… existed. Each of Saitama's reality-breaking blows would land, and their energy, their very concept of 'impact,' would simply be… negated. Not absorbed, not deflected. Just… nullified by the Critic's absolute authority over the laws of the reality they occupied.
**
"Then how's this for elegant?!" Saitama yelled. He changed tactics. He began to move, his speed now a thing of pure, abstract beauty. He was no longer just a blur; he was a probability storm, a being that seemed to be in all places at once, his attacks coming not just from the front, but from every conceivable angle simultaneously. He was moving so fast, he was creating afterimages that had their own physical presence, each one striking with the force of the original.
Frustration, not of anger, but of a joyful desperation, began to build in Saitama. This was it! The ultimate challenge! The ultimate un-punchable wall! But how could he break it? How could he win?
For the first time in his life as a hero, Saitama was forced to think, not just act. He wasn't just fighting a strong guy. He was fighting a rule. A law of nature. And you can't just punch a law.
Or… maybe you can.
He stopped his assault. He landed on the far side of the plateau, panting, a wide, bloody grin on his face. He had a small cut on his lip, from a piece of ricocheting rock that had actually managed to possess enough reality to scratch him. It was the most beautiful injury he had ever sustained.
He looked at the Critic, who stood, as always, calm, untouched, impassive.
"Okay," Saitama breathed. "Okay, Mr. Critic. You want to see something new? You want to see my… 'thesis development'?"
He settled into his stance. The quiet, focused calm returned, but it was different now. It was sharper. Harder. All the years of boredom, of hollow victories, of restrained power, of pointless waiting… all of it was being gathered, focused, not into a punch, but into a single, clarifying purpose.
He wasn't fighting for fun anymore. He wasn't fighting because it was a chore. He wasn't fighting to save the world, not really.
He was fighting for the sheer, stubborn, beautiful right to exist. The right for his flawed, boring, beautiful, and interesting world to continue, whether the Critic approved of its story or not. He was fighting for Iris's noble struggle, for Alexia's cunning games, for Gregor's weary resilience, for Lyraelle's ancient sorrow, for Sid's ridiculous, dramatic, chuunibyou theatre. He was fighting for all of it. For the whole messy, imperfect, and wonderful story.
"You wanted to see something interesting," Saitama said, his voice now a low, universe-shaking rumble. "You wanted to see the point."
His entire being began to glow. Not with a magical aura, but with the sheer, incandescent overflow of his own, infinite, and now finally, completely, unleashed, potential.
"Serious Series…" he whispered.
The Critic watched, and for the very first time, the faint, placid smile on his face disappeared, replaced by a look of genuine, absolute, and utter, interest.
"…Serious Punch."
This time, the punch wasn't aimed at his face. It was aimed at his argument. It was aimed at the very concept of "judgment." It was a punch that contained not just force, but will. The simple, stubborn will of a hero who had finally found something worth fighting for.
The world held its breath. The first second of forever was over. And the real review was about to begin.