The public knew nothing of park bench conversations or secret Kaiju. They only knew what they saw, or in this case, what they didn't see.
In the weeks following the Daigo incident, a strange and hopeful mythology began to take root in the public consciousness, watered by hushed whispers and grainy, unverified mobile phone footage.
It started in J-City, Saitama's adopted home. A gas line exploded downtown, threatening a chain reaction that would have leveled a neighborhood. Firefighters arrived to find the main valve, fused shut by the initial blast, had been... twisted closed. By a force that had left visible handprints melted into the reinforced steel. The only clue was a blurry photo taken by a civilian of a bald man in a yellow jumpsuit walking away from the scene.
A week later, a low-level Honju tunneled its way up in a residential area. By the time the Defense Force arrived, the Kaiju was gone. All that remained was a massive crater, a few drops of blackish ichor, and an old woman who swore a "nice young man who looked very strong" had simply "bopped it on the head" before asking her for directions to the nearest public bathhouse.
These were the miracles of the "Silent God of J-City."
The legend was a ghost story for a hopeful age. A guardian spirit, too humble or too powerful to seek credit, who would appear in moments of crisis, solve an impossible problem with casual, invisible force, and then vanish back into the mundane tapestry of the city. He had no name, no official record. He was an urban myth, a collective prayer answered by a man who was just trying to live his life.
The official story, of course, was always different. The gas leak was contained by a "faulty automated safety system." The Honju was credited to a "drone strike from a new rapid-response unit." Every victory of Saitama's was a victory he never claimed, unknowingly feeding the two parallel narratives: the official, polished propaganda of the Defense Force, and the whispered, awe-filled legend of the common people.
This phenomenon was the subject of intense, frustrating debate within Project Bald Cape.
"He's a force for public good, whether he means to be or not," Dr. Arisugawa argued during one briefing, pointing to a graph showing a dramatic decrease in civilian casualties in his operational radius. "His presence is saving lives."
"He's also a force of pure, untraceable chaos," Kenji Tanaka countered, gesturing to a different chart. "Property damage claims from 'unexplained seismic events' and 'localized sonic booms' have skyrocketed. He punches a monster through a building, and we're left with the bill and a hundred conspiracy theories. He's a PR nightmare and an insurance catastrophe."
Their ghost was actively shaping the world, and they were still just watching, unable to interfere, their multi-trillion yen surveillance network reduced to a glorified gossip column.
At the Tachikawa Base, Genos was encountering a different kind of legend.
At Kenji Tanaka's "recommendation," Soshiro Hoshina had formally invited Anomaly-Beta for a "technological exchange and threat assessment analysis." To their surprise, Genos had accepted, arriving with the punctuality of a time-stamped machine. He stated that his Master was busy with a new manga volume and that he was free to "observe and document this world's defense capabilities."
He was led not to a meeting room, but to a state-of-the-art combat simulation chamber.
Waiting for him inside was Hoshina. And beside him, his shadow, was Kafka, who had been ordered to attend as Hoshina's personal adjutant for the day—a thinly veiled excuse to see if Genos would react to him.
"Anomaly-Beta, or Genos, as you prefer to be called," Hoshina said, his voice respectfully neutral. "We wish to understand the capabilities of a warrior on your level. A demonstration."
"A demonstration is an inefficient method of data transfer," Genos replied, his metallic face betraying no emotion. "I could simply provide you with my technical schematics." He knew, of course, he would provide a version that was 90% incomprehensible junk data.
"We prefer a more... hands-on approach," Hoshina said with a thin smile. "The target is a virtual composite, built from the data of every Fortitude 8.0+ Kaiju we have on record. We call it 'Chimera.' No one on our force has been able to defeat it in under ten minutes."
The chamber walls flickered, and a massive holographic monster materialized. It was a grotesque fusion of creatures, spitting virtual fire and swinging colossal claws.
Genos simply glanced at it. "My sensors indicate its attack patterns are predictable and its defenses, while formidable, have numerous structural flaws."
He didn't even adopt a combat stance. His arms, which Hoshina knew from reports could transform into city-destroying cannons, remained at his sides. Instead, small portals opened up on his shoulders and back. A dozen tiny, missile-like drones shot out, zipping through the air like angry hornets.
They didn't attack the Chimera directly. In a display of breathtaking tactical precision, half the drones fired micro-explosives at the floor around the creature's feet, creating a subtle imbalance in the virtual terrain. The other half unleashed a barrage of high-frequency sonic pulses aimed at its joints, causing the hologram's internal logic to register catastrophic structural stress.
The Chimera roared and stumbled. In that split second of imbalance, Genos moved. He wasn't a blur like Saitama. He was a rocket, a jet of blue flame propelling him forward. He didn't use a grand, flashy attack. He delivered a single, precise, open-palm strike to the monster's chest—a smaller, less powerful echo of his master's technique. The impact point flashed with critical damage data.
The entire exchange took four seconds. The Chimera hologram flickered violently and disintegrated. The simulation ended.
[COMBAT TIME: 4.3 SECONDS. RECORD SHATTERED.]
Hoshina stared, his mind once again performing the cold, hard calculus of his own obsolescence. The drones, the tactical precision, the overwhelming speed and power... Genos wasn't just a collection of powerful weapons. He was a genius-level tactical computer, a one-man army, and a master weaponsmith all in one. He was the single most advanced piece of military hardware Hoshina had ever seen. The Defense Force's efforts to reverse-engineer his technology suddenly seemed laughably arrogant.
Even Genos barely registered his own victory. His gaze drifted past Hoshina and landed on Kafka. His optical sensors zoomed in, performing a micro-scan.
"Cadet Kafka Hibino," Genos stated, his synthesized voice making Kafka jump. "My thermal scans indicate your resting body temperature is 1.2 degrees Celsius higher than standard human biology should allow, and I detect faint traces of exotic cellular decay consistent with Kaiju #98." (#98 being his own private designation for Kafka No. 8).
Kafka froze, his blood turning to ice. Genos had just casually, accurately identified his secret in the most clinical way imaginable.
Before Kafka could have a full-blown panic attack, Hoshina stepped between them. "Your analytical skills are as impressive as your combat prowess, Genos," he said smoothly, trying to regain control of the situation. "We refer to him as Kaiju No. 8."
Genos tilted his head. "An inefficient designation. It implies only seven came before it. My master encountered him by chance; therefore, my numbering system is based on chronological encounters, which is a more logical framework."
It was a clash not of swords or cannons, but of pure, obsessive, analytical pedantry. Hoshina, the master tactician who saw the world as a series of battlefield maneuvers, had just met his match in a cyborg who saw the world as a set of data points to be organized for his Master's benefit.
This wasn't a meeting between a soldier and a weapon. It was the first meeting of two rival high priests, both devoutly studying the same, incomprehensible god from different, obsessive angles. Hoshina analyzed his combat capabilities; Genos documented his grocery lists. Together, they possessed the most complete, and most contradictory, picture of Saitama in existence. And at that moment, they both recognized in each other a fellow, tormented scholar.
A new, strange, and grudging respect was born in that simulation chamber, a rivalry built not on who was stronger, but on who could better comprehend the incomprehensible. And poor Kafka Hibino was caught right in the middle, the living Rosetta Stone they were both desperate to translate.