"Shit! What the hell is this?! Shoot! Shoot!! Kill him!"
The bearded sub-leader, Martin, turned pale, stumbling back a few steps in terror before signaling his men to open fire.
A man who could stop bullets with his body? This had to be a dream.
RATATATATA—
Over a hundred armed militants unleashed a furious barrage at Saitama. Their combat skill wasn't impressive, but they were quick to burn through ammo—when your life was on the line, pulling the trigger came fast.
The spot where Saitama stood was instantly swallowed in a rain of bullets. The captured residents of Sayar covered their children's eyes, trying to spare them from the bloodshed.
With fire that dense, he should be turned into a sieve—no, minced meat.
"Pfft! What a waste of bullets. You bastards ever heard of saving some for later—"
Martin spat on the ground, but then noticed the strange look on the face of the militant behind him—mouth hanging open, eyes bulging, pointing shakily at something.
Instinctively, Martin turned around. His scowl froze in place, his voice catching in his throat like a strangled duck.
A lone figure walked calmly out of the bullet storm.
A gleaming bald head, a slightly damaged yellow jumpsuit, red gloves, white cape—without a single bullet hole on him. The ground, however, was littered with layers of twisted, flattened bullets.
"You guys aren't very friendly… Even though we're all human… it's starting to make me a little mad."
Saitama had never intentionally killed a human before—at most, he destroyed monsters. But now, with the people of Sayar slaughtered before his eyes, these terrorists barely counted as "human."
"Tank… Tank! Kill this bastard—!"
Martin screamed in fear and rage, but the words had barely left his mouth when—
THUMP—
A dull, wet sound rang out. The militant behind him went blank as Martin exploded into a cloud of blood and flesh, his body reduced to chunks by a single flick of Saitama's finger.
The spray painted the ground for over ten meters. Even these hardened killers gagged at the sight.
CLANK CLANK CLANK—
The heavy clatter of treads announced the arrival of a tank. Its long cannon slowly swiveled, the black barrel locking onto Saitama.
"That's a monster! We have to report this to the Laza boss! Bullets don't even scratch him!"
"He's dead now! Our tank's here! Hahaha—"
"KILL HIM!"
The tank's arrival reignited their morale. The sub-leader's death? Not a problem—there were plenty lining up to take his place.
"Hey, monster! Let's see you blown to bits!"
The gunner peered through the sight, grinning cruelly.
A custom armor-piercing shell was fired with a deafening BOOM, the shriek of metal splitting the air. The recoil jolted the 50-ton tank back, kicking up a cloud of dust.
Saitama looked at the incoming shell, even able to see the air rippling around it.
"So slow…"
Murmuring to himself, he raised his hand and spread his fingers.
BOOM—
The armor-piercing shell crumpled like tofu in his grip. Smoke curled from the red glove, but it didn't move him back an inch.
HISSS—
CLANG—
The deformed, arm-thick shell dropped to the ground. Refugees and militants alike froze, staring in stunned silence at the unharmed bald man.
The entire battlefield fell into a deathly stillness.
Only Saitama's slow footsteps broke the quiet.
CLANG CLANG CLANG—
He stopped in front of the tank, knocking lightly on its armor. Inside, the crew was in total shock—especially the gunner, who had collapsed in terror, his pants warm and wet.
Single-handedly crushing an armor-piercing shell… God, please tell me I'm dreaming.
"So this thing attacked me, huh?"
Scratching his cheek, Saitama gave the tank an idle look. In his own world, tanks were rare—he'd only seen them on TV. Seeing a real one up close was new to him.
He stretched his arms in a warm-up habit.
"What… what's he doing?!"
The militants watching began to feel a chill in their bones.
Saitama gripped the tank's barrel in one hand. Screams rang out from inside as he twisted the 50-ton war machine like a toy, spinning it around like a yo-yo.
Perhaps misjudging his strength—
CRACK—
The barrel snapped. The entire tank was hurled into the distance, shrinking into a black dot before vanishing over the desert mountains. Who knew how many kilometers it had flown.
"Guess… I used too much force."
He glanced at the warped barrel still in his hand, his palm print clearly embedded in the metal.
(End of Chapter)
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