The scent of old paper filled my room.Piles of martial arts novels surrounded me like silent guardians, their pages worn from endless nights of reading. Each story carried the echo of steel clashing, fists breaking stone, and warriors who carved their names into eternity. I devoured them all for entertainment, but for the dream of touching that world, even if only in imagination.
But dreams, like life, are fragile.The night I finished my thousandth novel, a sharp pain seized my chest. The dim light above me swayed as my vision narrowed, the words on the final page blurring into darkness.
When I opened my eyes again, I was not in my room. I stood in a city skyline that hummed with energy, under a sky where the distant boom of explosions felt almost routine. Somewhere beyond, I saw the unmistakable silhouette of the Hero Association's headquarters smaller, newer, almost… unfinished.
A whisper of realization struck me.This was ten years before Saitama's rise.
I was no hero. I had no monstrous strength, no supernatural gift. But I had one thing years of studying the principles, the footwork, and the mindset of countless martial artists.
And if this world was real, then so were its masters.Bang, the Water Stream Rock Smashing Fist.Bomb, the Whirlwind Iron Cutting Fist.Every technique, every style, every movement in this world that relied on the human body… I would find them. I would learn them. I would weave them together into something no monster could break.
For the first time, my dream wasn't confined to pages.It was a path I could walk one fist at a time.