Chapter 29: Whispers, Pixels, and a Quest for Cabbage
The U.A. Sports Festival was over. The crowds had dispersed, the stadium was empty, and the students of Class 1-A had been given two days off to recover, both physically and emotionally. But in the silent, humming world of the internet, the festival was just beginning.
It started not with a bang, but with a blog post. A small, obsessive corner of the internet, a forum for hero conspiracy theorists and Quirk analysis fanatics, was the first to see the article from the "Quirk Quibbles" blog. The headline was provocative: "U.A.'s 'Secret Weapon'? The Bald Ghost of USJ - EXPOSED!"
Initially, it was met with skepticism.
>>QuirkFan_87:LOL, fake. The pixels on the USJ pic are a mess. This is just some guy's uncle who works at the school.
>>HeroTruth_Seeker:No, wait, he's got a point. Look at the blurry footage from the obstacle race. The 'flying janitor' clip. The build is identical. Who WAS that guy?
>>Red_Riot_Fan_Club:My cousin has a friend in the U.A. General Course, and she said there are major rumors going around about a new 'consultant' who is ridiculously strong! This could be him!
The post began to spread. It was shared on social media, initially as a joke. But the side-by-side images were compelling. The blurry figure at the USJ, the flying staff member, the man casually observing the battle trials—it was all the same person. A popular hero-analysis YouTuber, "Quirkology," with over two million subscribers, picked up the story. He didn't present it as fact, but as a fascinating piece of fan speculation.
"So, is U.A. hiding a powerhouse right under our noses?" the YouTuber asked his audience with a dramatic flair. "Or is this just a series of bizarre coincidences featuring the world's most interesting janitor? Let me know what you think in the comments below!"
The video acted like gasoline on a spark. Within hours, the hashtag #UASecretWeapon was trending. The whispers were becoming a roar.
Miles away from this digital storm, Saitama was walking through the cool evening air, his gray hood pulled over his head. The neon signs of the city painted the streets in hues of pink and blue. The sounds of traffic, distant music, and the chatter of people leaving work filled the air. It was a normal, peaceful evening. His mind was not on national television or viral fame, but on his grocery list.
Cabbage, he thought, definitely cabbage. The sale ends tonight. He also needed eggs, green onions for garnish, and maybe some thinly sliced pork for a hot pot. The thought of a warm, savory meal was the most compelling thing in his universe right now.
As he neared the supermarket, he saw an elderly woman struggling with a ripped grocery bag, a cascade of bright red apples rolling across the sidewalk. Without a second thought, he bent down and began gathering them, his movements quick and efficient.
"Oh, thank you, young man," the woman said, her voice frail. "My hands aren't what they used to be."
"No problem," Saitama said, handing her the last apple. "You should get a stronger bag."
He continued on his way, the simple, kind act completely forgotten a moment later. He was unaware of the dozens of people walking past him, many of whom were scrolling on their phones, looking at memes and articles about a mysterious, bald powerhouse, never once glancing at the anonymous man in the hoodie who just wanted to buy vegetables.
He entered the bright, fluorescent-lit world of the supermarket. The squeak of a shopping cart wheel, the gentle mist spraying the produce, the soullessly cheerful music playing over the speakers—this was his sanctuary. This was a world that made sense.
The chapter of his day, and of this story, was closing on a perfectly balanced, comedic cross-cut. In one world, a video about the "Bald Ghost of U.A." hit one million views, its title flashing across screens in a dozen countries. The world's attention was a gathering storm, a wave of pressure and speculation building to a crash.
In Saitama's world, he stood in the produce aisle, holding a large, firm head of cabbage in each hand.
"Jackpot," he muttered to himself, a look of pure, unadulterated triumph on his face.
Chapter 30: Pressure, Panic, and a Problem with Pork
The next morning, the storm broke over U.A. High.
Principal Nezu's office had become a crisis command center. The digital whispers of the previous night had escalated into a full-throated media roar. Every major news network was leading with the story. The viral video was everywhere, now supplemented with amateur analysis, eyewitness accounts from the festival, and grainy cell phone footage of the mysterious tunnel.
Nezu sat behind his desk, calmly observing the chaos. Aizawa, who had been called in from his much-needed rest, stood with his arms crossed, his visible eye twitching with irritation. A pale and worried Toshinori Yagi sat on the sofa, occasionally coughing into a handkerchief.
"They're running with the 'Secret Weapon' angle," Aizawa grunted, gesturing to the large monitor displaying a news broadcast. "They're spinning it as U.A. developing an unregistered, unregulated human weapon. The Hero Public Safety Commission has called me four times this morning. They are… displeased."
"The public sentiment is a volatile mixture of fear and excitement," Nezu added, reviewing a data tablet. "It is a public relations nightmare. We cannot lie, as it would only fuel the conspiracy. But we cannot possibly tell the full truth. The world is not ready for a truth we ourselves do not understand."
He looked at his two most trusted colleagues. "Our primary objective is to protect Saitama-kun. He is an undocumented anomaly, a ward of this institution. To expose him to this level of scrutiny would be irresponsible and, frankly, dangerous for all parties involved." He steepled his paws. "I have scheduled a press conference for this afternoon. I will handle it. We will frame him as a civilian with a unique Quirk undergoing assessment for a position in campus security. It is vague, but it is not a lie."
He then asked the crucial question, the one that would derail his entire, carefully-laid plan.
"Speaking of which, where is Saitama-kun now? We must brief him immediately. Aizawa, if you would."
"He's not in his room," Aizawa said, having already checked. "His dorm is empty."
While they debated his whereabouts, the scene shifts to the previous night. Saitama was in the brightly-lit meat section of the supermarket. It was late, and the shelves were thinning out. But then he saw it. A single, glorious, beautifully marbled package of pork belly, marked with a vibrant red "50% OFF" sticker. It was the last one. He reached for it, a feeling of quiet joy swelling in his chest.
His hand was an inch away when another, much larger hand slammed down on the package, claiming it. The hand was grotesque, wrapped in thick, pulsing red muscle fibers that seemed to writhe with a life of their own.
Saitama followed the arm up to its owner. It was a mountain of a man, wearing a simple tank top that did little to hide the terrifying, unnatural musculature that defined his body. His face was framed by shaggy blond hair, and a sadistic, predatory grin was plastered on his face. It was the villain Muscular, out for a late-night snack run.
"That's mine, baldy," Muscular growled, his voice a low rumble.
Saitama's mind did not register 'villain.' It did not register 'danger.' It did not even register the man's bizarre, muscular Quirk. It registered a single, infuriating fact: "This big, rude bodybuilder is trying to steal my discounted pork."
"I saw it first," Saitama stated, his voice flat.
"My hand touched it first," Muscular sneered, his grip tightening on the package, his exposed muscle fibers pulsing. "Possession is everything. Now beat it."
The argument was no different from two children squabbling over a toy. It was a petty, mundane conflict. But one of the children just happened to be a mass-murdering villain, and the other was a walking physical absolute.
Back in Nezu's office, the faculty was growing concerned. "Where could he have gone?" Midnight wondered aloud.
Just then, the janitor, Kenji, who had seen Saitama leave the previous night, nervously knocked on the open office door. "Uh, excuse me, Principal, sir?" he stammered, intimidated by the high-level meeting. "I-I'm not sure if it helps, but… I saw Saitama-san last night. After his shift."
Every head in the room turned to him. "Where did he go?" Aizawa demanded.
Kenji flinched. "He… he said he was going to the supermarket, sir. He said something about being out of eggs… and a sale on cabbage."
A heavy, dreadful silence fell over the room. The faces of Aizawa and Toshinori Yagi simultaneously drained of all color. They both pictured it: their walking, reality-defying paradox, the subject of a global media firestorm, out in the city, alone, at night, completely oblivious to his own significance.
Aizawa closed his eyes, a vein throbbing in his temple. His internal voice was a scream of pure, unadulterated frustration.
"That absolute, world-class moron," he thought, "is going to start a war over a vegetable."
Chapter 31: Confrontations, Confusions, and a Catastrophic Finger-Flick
The fluorescent lighting of the supermarket aisle seemed to hum with a new, dangerous tension. The argument over the pork belly was escalating. Muscular, a man accustomed to having his desires met through brute force and the terror his presence inspired, was not used to being challenged, especially not by a placid-looking man in a hoodie.
"I'm not asking again," Muscular growled, his free hand clenching into a fist the size of a melon. He decided to end this the way he always did. He gave Saitama a powerful shove, augmenting it with a surge of his Muscle Augmentation Quirk. It was a push meant to send a normal person flying through a shelf of canned goods.
Saitama didn't move. He didn't even rock back on his heels. It was, from Muscular's perspective, like shoving against a deeply-rooted oak tree. The villain's arrogant smirk faltered, replaced by a flicker of genuine confusion. He'd put real power into that shove.
He pushed again, harder this time, more red muscle fibers layering over his arm and shoulder. "I said, MOVE!"
Still nothing. Saitama was getting annoyed now. His pleasant grocery run was being ruined. "Look," he said, his voice taking on a slightly sterner, flat tone. "I just want to buy the pork. It's half off. That's a really good deal, and you're holding up the line."
For Muscular, this wasn't about the meat anymore. His pride, the core of his violent identity, had been wounded. He saw this bald man's impossible stillness not as a sign of power, but as an act of supreme mockery. He snapped.
"You think you're funny?!" he roared, and threw a punch. It wasn't his full, city-block-leveling power, but it was fast, brutal, and more than enough to turn a human head into pulp. The air whistled as the meaty sledgehammer of his fist shot towards Saitama's face.
Saitama's mind finally re-categorized the situation. "Okay," he thought with a sudden, cold clarity. "First, he tries to steal my pork. Now he's trying to assault me. That's a crime." This was his version of the dine-and-dash logic. This was no longer a disagreement; it was an attempted robbery with assault. And Saitama was, in his own strange way, a hero.
He didn't counter with a punch. That would be absurdly excessive. As Muscular's fist flew towards him, Saitama's hand shot up. It was not a block. He simply raised his right hand and, with his middle finger extended, flicked Muscular squarely in the center of his forehead. The motion was casual, dismissive, almost lazy—the kind of gesture one would use to flick a breadcrumb off a table.
The result was catastrophic.
An audible, sickening CRACK echoed through the supermarket. Muscular's eyes rolled back in his head. He was not just knocked back. He was launched. He flew backwards like he'd been hit by a freight train, his body a rigid, unconscious projectile. He smashed through the reinforced glass of the meat counter, obliterating it. He continued through the supermarket's concrete back wall, leaving a perfectly human-shaped hole. His trajectory carried him across the back alley and only came to a stop when he slammed into the brick wall of the neighboring apartment building with a sickening, final CRUMP.
A profound, ringing silence descended upon the supermarket. Every shopper, every cashier, every shelf-stocker stood frozen, their jaws agape. They stared at the massive, cartoonish hole in the back of their store. They stared at the unconscious, muscle-bound man embedded in a building across the street. And then they stared at the calm man in the gray hoodie, who was now calmly reaching down to pick up the disputed package of pork belly.
Saitama looked at the trail of destruction. "Sheesh," he muttered, shaking his head in disapproval. "He really didn't want to pay for his groceries." He had, with absolute sincerity, interpreted the entire violent encounter as an interaction with a very aggressive shoplifter.
The spell of silence broke. People started screaming. Others fumbled for their phones, trying to get a picture of the mysterious man in the hoodie. The hood had slipped back slightly from the motion of the flick, but his face remained cast in the deep shadows of the supermarket's harsh overhead lighting.
Before a clear image could be taken, before the stunned security guard could even think to move, Saitama walked to the nearest checkout counter. He placed his cabbage, his eggs, his green onions, and his hard-won pork belly on the conveyor belt. The cashier, a teenage girl with wide, terrified eyes, scanned his items with a trembling hand. He paid in cash, took his bags, and walked out the front door into the anonymity of the night.
He left behind a scene of pure chaos. When the police and a low-level Pro Hero arrived minutes later, they were met with a dozen hysterical, contradictory witness statements.
"This… this monster!" the cashier stammered, pointing at the hole. "And this other guy in a hoodie… I don't know… he just… flicked him!"
The hero stared at the Muscular-shaped hole, then at the terrified witnesses. The story made no sense. It was impossible. A new, bizarre urban legend had just been born in the heart of the city. A tale of a hooded vigilante who protected discounted meat with a flick of his finger. It was a story completely disconnected from the "Secret Weapon of U.A." theory, a new, confusing thread in the rapidly tangling mystery of the world's most powerful, and most oblivious, man.