The arena had become a graveyard of stone.
Cracks spiderwebbed outward from every crater, while jagged ridges glowed faintly, as though the ground itself was straining to contain the power of the two beings locked in battle. Dust drifted in the stale air, glowing like ash under the overhead lights.
At one end, Sung Jin-Woo stood firm. His chest rose and fell with measured breaths, but his stance remained unbroken. Blood streaked his cheek, his forearms bore shallow cuts, yet his eyes—sharp, calculating—never wavered. They gleamed like black steel, alive with a hunger that was equal parts predator and survivor.
At the other end, Saitama looked almost out of place. His cape flapped lazily in the air currents stirred by their fight. His suit was unscathed, his skin pristine. He scratched the side of his bald head with a single finger, posture loose, expression mildly annoyed.
And yet, despite appearances, the distance between them was charged like a live wire.
"Still standing, huh?" Saitama said at last, breaking the silence with his casual, almost bored tone.
Jin-Woo smirked, wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.
"You'll have to do better than that."
The shadows answered his call.
They rippled outward beneath his feet, flooding across the cracked stone in an expanding tide of black. From within, countless weapons emerged—swords, spears, axes, halberds—all forged of pure darkness. They hovered in the air around him, a deadly constellation orbiting their master.
Saitama blinked. "…Magic tricks now?"
The storm was unleashed.
A rain of weapons descended from every direction, faster than arrows, sharper than steel. They whistled through the air, spears twisting mid-flight, greatswords plunging downward in synchronized arcs. Each strike carried killing intent—an inescapable web of death.
Saitama stepped into it.
With every flick of his fist, dozens of blades shattered into smoke. He slapped spears aside as though they were sticks, split a greatsword in half with the back of his hand. His movements were so simple they bordered on lazy—yet each one carried impossible precision.
And still, the sheer number pressed in. The space around him darkened, drowned by shadows.
Behind the onslaught, Jin-Woo blurred. His body melted into shadow and reappeared directly above Saitama, daggers gleaming with abyssal energy. He plunged downward in a lethal arc, aiming to split Saitama's skull.
The impact cracked like thunder.
Saitama's boots slid backward, scraping across fractured stone, leaving a shallow trench behind. It was only half a step—but it was the first time anyone in the audience had seen him give ground.
Gasps erupted from the stands.
Jin-Woo's blades pressed against Saitama's forearm, sparks flaring as shadow scraped against indestructible skin. Jin-Woo twisted, muscles straining, pouring every ounce of power into the strike.
For the first time, Saitama's eyes sharpened.
"…You're not boring."
Jin-Woo dropped back, landing in a crouch, only to lunge forward again. His daggers danced in his hands, each strike honed to kill. He fought like a man who had dissected gods themselves—every blow aimed at arteries, organs, weaknesses.
But Saitama blocked them all with casual grace. A flick here, a sidestep there. He fought without wasted motion, his defense so deceptively simple it bordered on mockery.
The battlefield convulsed under their rhythm. Every clash sent shockwaves smashing into the barrier that protected the audience, making the invisible wall ripple like water.
From the stands, Genos's eyes glowed as his sensors screamed warnings at the escalating energy.
"Sensei… he's actually reacting."
King gripped the railing with trembling hands.
"H-he moved back… Someone made him move back."
Inside the storm of blades and fists, Jin-Woo ducked low, his daggers slicing upward in a cross arc. Saitama caught both blades in his palms, their gazes locking in the suspended heartbeat of combat.
And then everything shifted.
Saitama's brow lowered. His eyes narrowed into sharp lines of focus. For the first time in the entire battle, the weight of his presence stirred—an invisible pressure radiating outward.
Jin-Woo felt it instantly. His instincts howled, warning him of the ocean-deep danger he now faced. The air itself grew heavy, as though gravity had thickened.
The corner of Jin-Woo's mouth curved upward. Finally.
He stepped back, spreading his arms wide.
The ground beneath him collapsed into blackness. A churning sea of shadow swallowed the battlefield, stretching from crater to crater until it consumed the entire arena floor. From the abyss rose his army—not weakened shades, but towering titans reforged by his unrestrained will.
Igris emerged first, eyes burning like twin rubies, his greatsword ignited in shadowfire.
Beru followed, wings unfurling with a predator's shriek that rattled the arena.
Kamish, the great dragon, tore upward in a wave of flame and smoke, its serpentine body covered in black armor.
Behind them, countless soldiers marched out of the abyss—a tide of blades, claws, and wings, each one a piece of Jin-Woo's boundless darkness.
"This is no longer a duel," Jin-Woo's voice boomed, resonant and cold. "This is war."
The audience trembled. Even behind the barrier, the oppressive aura of his army made their hearts quake.
And across the battlefield, Saitama… tilted his head.
"…Man," he muttered, scratching his cheek, "you really like making things dramatic."
The army roared, their combined voices shaking the heavens. Igris charged with his flaming greatsword, Beru dived like a thunderbolt, Kamish exhaled dragonfire that turned the air molten. Thousands of shadows surged forward as one, a tsunami of death.
For a fleeting moment, the world seemed swallowed by darkness.
And then Saitama smiled—just slightly.
Because deep down, after all this time, after all the years of waiting…
…he finally felt it again.
Excitement.