M City, early morning.
High-speed rail station.
The stark white lights illuminated the empty hall, making it feel as lifeless as a morgue.
In the corner, a vending machine hummed weakly, its fluorescent glow flickering over rows of expired sandwiches and cold canned coffee.
Every ten minutes, a train arrived on schedule, releasing two or three pale-faced office workers.
They dragged their feet across the platform, eyes hollow, their faces twisted with the silent wish that "the world better end tomorrow."
Even their footsteps sounded numb.
Ding—
Another train arrived, its doors hissing open.
Unlike the drained commuters before, this time a tall, broad-shouldered man stepped out first.
Kaito.
He carried a middle-aged man in a suit by the neck, one-handed.
The man's tie was crooked, his jacket wrinkled, and half his face had mutated—bluish-gray scales spreading like a rash.
His fingers had turned into sharp, bestial claws.
Clearly, the man was in the middle of monsterization—born of stress and resentment.
Following his usual principle of "every bit of effort counts, and dying isn't worth a single deterrence point," Kaito hadn't killed him.
"Hey! Buddy, wake up!"
He lifted his free hand and delivered two sharp slaps—
PA! PA!
The crisp sound echoed through the empty station like a whip crack.
The man's head snapped sideways, and the scales began to recede, peeling back until normal skin returned.
Kaito let go.
The man stumbled, then collapsed onto the ground, blinking around in confusion.
His eyes were bloodshot, his breathing ragged.
"I… what happened to me?" His voice came out hoarse.
"You almost turned into a monster."
Kaito pulled out a cigarette, lit one for himself, then tossed another to the man.
"Too much stress?"
The man's hands trembled as he accepted it.
Kaito leaned over, flicked his lighter, and the flame briefly reflected in the man's wet eyes.
He inhaled deeply. Smoke spilled from his nostrils. Then, suddenly, he hugged his knees and started crying.
"Wuu… wuu wuu… I'm such a failure! At work, my performance got stolen by that bastard team leader! My wife left me for her gym trainer—said I was useless! And now… I can't even become a monster! What's the point of living anymore?! Wuu wuu wuu…"
Kaito studied him under the cold white light.
Greasy hair.
Uneven stubble.
A cheap, wrinkled suit stained with dust and maybe vomit.
He reeked of alcohol and decay—a middle-aged man who'd been completely crushed by life.
"Brother," Kaito exhaled a lazy smoke ring, "you're too old to be crying like that. So what if your wife ran off? Clean yourself up, find someone younger and prettier. Big deal."
"The money… she took all the money!" The man's eyes were red, brimming with tears. "She left me with a kid—and he's not even mine! I don't wanna live anymore!"
Kaito's eyebrow twitched.
Good grief, this was more dramatic than a prime-time soap opera.
"Then think about your parents," Kaito tried, changing tactics. "They're old, right? Someone's gotta take care of them."
That hit a nerve. The man wailed even harder.
"I—I'm not even my dad's biological son! He disowned me years ago!"
"…What about your mom?"
"My mom… ran off with Old Wang next door!"
Kaito froze, cigarette halfway to his mouth.
This guy's family tree is a horror story.
Even his mom cheated, and not with his dad's permission?
Kaito sighed and took another drag. "Then what the hell are you still alive for? Go on, end it already. Spare yourself the misery."
To his surprise, the man stopped crying.
He lifted his head, eyes shining with sudden determination.
"Die?... No… no!"
He sprang to his feet, his movements quick and strangely spirited.
He wiped his face with his sleeve, then stared at Kaito like a man reborn.
"King! You're right! My life is a tragedy—a joke! But it's because I've suffered so much, because I've been through hell, that I can't stand to see others suffer like me! Others' happiness… their families… they deserve protection! Yes! I'll become a hero! I'll take the Hero Association exam! I'll stop those tragedies—from me onward!"
And before Kaito could say a word, the man turned and bolted out of the station, running as if the weight of the world had suddenly vanished from his shoulders.
Kaito stood there for a long moment, smoke curling lazily from his cigarette.
Then he sighed.
"…Did I just accidentally create another hero?"
Kaito stood there, cigarette between his lips, utterly bewildered as he watched the disheveled figure vanish down the passageway.
He couldn't wrap his head around what had just happened.
The guy had been on the verge of suicide after Kaito talked to him for half an hour—but the moment Kaito told him to die, he suddenly lit up and decided to become a savior?
What kind of twisted mental gymnastics was that supposed to be?
Still, Kaito didn't doubt the man's potential.
When he'd interrupted the monsterization earlier, he'd felt it—the man's body had strengthened under resentment, far beyond normal human limits.
Getting a C-Class Hero rank shouldn't be too hard for him.
Kaito even smirked and thought up a hero name on the spot:
[Cuckold Man].
A true inspiration born of pain and infidelity.
His cigarette burned down to the filter.
Kaito flicked the butt, landing it cleanly in a trash can several meters away, and turned to leave.
That's when the station lights flickered.
"King."
The voice came from the border between light and shadow—cold, restrained, dripping with hatred.
Kaito paused. Slowly, he turned his head.
From the darkness, a slender figure emerged—agile and deliberate, as if carved from shadow itself.
The newcomer wore a dark purple ninja suit that clung to a lean, muscular frame.
His long hair was tied high, his face almost too beautiful for a man—delicate to the point of demonic—but his eyes burned with obsession and vengeance.
Kaito narrowed his eyes, studying him for a moment.
Then recognition dawned, followed by amusement.
"Oh," Kaito said with a smirk, "the One-Nut Sonic, huh?"
His tone was lazy, teasing. "Didn't you learn your lesson from last time? Or is the lack of… male hormones clouding your judgment?"
"Shut up!" Sonic's voice cracked, his fury immediate. "Kaito! I have mastered the highest secret art of the Ninja Village! Today is your death day! I'll wash away my humiliation with your blood!"
Before his words finished echoing, Sonic's body blurred—vanishing into motion.
"Ninja Art: Ten Shadow Burial!"
In an instant, the air itself seemed to tear.
Sonic's figure split into ten overlapping afterimages that darted around Kaito like phantoms, each one radiating murderous intent.
From every direction—above, below, left, right—they closed in.
Each angle was lethal. Each path, unavoidable.
It was an attack fast enough to make even an S-Class Hero tense.
But Kaito didn't even flinch.
He didn't raise his guard. He didn't activate the Emperor Engine.
Because the moment Sonic moved, Kaito's Observation Haki had already seen it all—
the path of the real body, the trajectory of the strikes, even the exact point where Sonic would lose control from his own extreme speed.
The entire battle had already played out in Kaito's mind, second by second.
One-hundredth of a second before the ten afterimages converged, Kaito casually lifted his right hand.
The motion was unhurried, yet unnervingly precise—
as if calculated down to a billionth of a millimeter.
His fingers spread slightly—not forming a fist, but positioned as though waiting to catch something.
Then—
"Puchi!"
A dull, sticky sound echoed, accompanied by a noise so sharp and visceral that every man within a kilometer would've instinctively crossed his legs.
Time froze.
Kaito's raised palm had found its target perfectly—
catching Sonic's true body mid-charge, at full speed,
and landing squarely on the most delicate spot below the waist.
The position.
The angle.
The impact.
Perfectly replicated that legendary moment—
Saitama's "Divine Nutcracker."
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