The fight in the rafters was a silent, lethal ballet, a war waged in the spaces between seconds.
FWOOM!
Genos unleashed a concentrated blast from his incineration cannon. It wasn't the wide, city-destroying cone of fire he had used before; it was a tight, lance-like beam of pure heat, designed for surgical precision. It tore through the air, melting a steel girder it grazed on its way to its target.
Kaiju No. 9 didn't try to dodge. Instead, its body contorted, its pale flesh peeling back to reveal a gleaming, bio-mechanical carapace beneath—a new evolution. The beam struck the armor, and instead of exploding, the energy was absorbed, causing glowing, circuit-like lines to pulse across the monster's chest.
It had adapted. It had learned from Genos's own technology.
"Fascinating," Genos said, his internal monologue a frantic stream of data analysis. [Target displays energy absorption and redistribution capabilities. A direct counter to my primary weapon systems.]
Kaiju No. 9 responded not with a roar, but with a calculated, silent lunge. Its arms elongated into whip-like tendrils tipped with sharpened, metallic claws. It was terrifyingly fast, closing the distance in an instant.
A storm of slashes descended on Genos. He met the attack with his own inhuman speed, his arms a blur as he parried and blocked, sparks flying as his hardened fists met the monster's bio-metallic blades. It was a breathtaking display of close-quarters combat, a whirlwind of silver and black unfolding a hundred meters above a cheering, oblivious crowd.
While Genos had it distracted, a single, almost invisible nano-drone detached from his collar and zipped towards the first explosive charge. It extended a microscopic pincer and, with surgical precision, snipped the detonator wire. One down.
Kaiju No. 9, sensing the drone's action, let out a frustrated hiss. It disengaged from Genos, its body suddenly sprouting a dozen smaller, biomechanical limbs. Each limb fired a shard of hardened bone like a biological bullet. A cloud of projectiles shot towards Genos.
[Projectile velocity: Mach 3. Switching to evasive pattern Delta-7,] Genos's internal computer stated. He moved with a speed that defied inertia, twisting and weaving through the hail of deadly projectiles. A few shards struck his trench coat, tearing through the fabric but ricocheting harmlessly off his armored body.
He used the momentary opening to launch a salvo of his own small missiles from his shoulders, each one programmed to seek out and disable the remaining explosive charges.
The silent, secret war continued. Below them, the tournament announcer's voice boomed, "And a stunning victory for Vice-Captain Hoshina in the officer's exhibition match!" No one knew the real main event was happening right above their heads.
Saitama, having decided that watching from the VIP box was too boring, was now taking a stroll through the stadium's cavernous underbelly, looking for the competitor's locker rooms and, more importantly, a vending machine that wasn't sold out of his favorite sports drink.
He walked past a heavily armored door marked [SUB-LEVEL C4 - KAIJU MORGUE - AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY]. He didn't give it a second glance. It probably didn't have a soda machine.
He was, however, walking directly through the designated security perimeter of Hoshina's squad.
A young Third Division officer, seeing the bizarre civilian in a hoodie wandering through a restricted area, moved to intercept him. "Sir, this area is off-limits. You need to—"
Before he could finish, a blur of silver shot past him. Soshiro Hoshina appeared in front of Saitama, his hand held up to halt the young officer.
"He's with me," Hoshina said, his voice deadly quiet. It was the same lie Kikoru had used, an emergency protocol for dealing with the anomaly. His eyes, however, were burning with a terrifying, obsessive light. He was finally face-to-face with the subject of his obsession, away from the prying eyes of the high command.
"Hello," Saitama said, unimpressed. "Do you know where I can find a..."
He was cut off by Hoshina suddenly drawing his blades. The air hummed as the twin swords, prototypes from his new design philosophy, materialized in his hands.
Saitama just looked at the swords, then at Hoshina's face. "Oh," he said, a note of profound disappointment in his voice. "You're one of those."
"I have spent every waking moment since our first meeting analyzing your movements," Hoshina said, his voice a low, intense hiss. "I know I cannot defeat you. That is not my goal. My goal... is to land a single, undeniable strike."
This wasn't an attack. It was a scientific inquiry, conducted with razor-sharp blades.
Without another word, Hoshina moved.
It was not a simple charge. He vanished. He was employing his new, predictive combat style, moving not to where Saitama was, but to where he calculated Saitama would be in the next 0.01 seconds. His new blades didn't cut the air; they seemed to fold the space around them.
He appeared behind Saitama, his blades already descending in a perfect, inescapable cross-slash aimed at his back.
Saitama didn't even turn.
Just as the blades were about to make contact with his hoodie, he took one, small, casual step to the side.
The world seemed to lurch. Hoshina's blades, their path now completely unobstructed, sliced through the space where Saitama had been. But they didn't just cut air. The kinetic energy, robbed of its intended target, was unleashed on the corridor itself. Two deep, impossibly clean grooves were carved into the reinforced concrete floor, walls, and ceiling, extending for twenty meters.
Hoshina stumbled, his eyes wide with disbelief. It was a perfect attack. Flawless. And it had been defeated by a single, lazy step. The man hadn't even bothered to look at him. The sheer, contemptuous ease of the dodge was a greater blow than any physical strike.
"You're fast," Saitama said, turning to look at him, his expression one of mild curiosity, like a man watching a slightly interesting squirrel. "But you're trying too hard. You think too much. It's making you slow."
Hoshina was about to launch a second, more desperate attack, but a new, more urgent chaos erupted.
Down the corridor, an armored door blew off its hinges. Not the morgue door, but the one to the primary power conduit. Two obsidian Kaiju, the same type from the base siege, poured out. They must have infiltrated through the power lines. This was part of Kaiju No. 9's backup plan.
And they were heading directly towards the Kaiju morgue. Directly towards the bait.
Hoshina cursed. His personal obsession would have to wait. He spun to face the new, very real threat.
But it was in that moment that Kafka, having heard the explosion, came running around the corner.
He saw it all in a split second: Hoshina, the two Kaiju, the open door to the morgue... and Saitama, the one person he could not afford to have witness him in action.
The two Kaiju saw him, too. Their blank insectoid faces seemed to recognize something in him. They bypassed Hoshina and charged directly at Kafka.
They weren't trying to kill him. They were trying to capture him.
Kafka was caught. Hoshina was to his left, ready for battle. Saitama was to his right, watching with mild disinterest. If he fought as a human, he would be captured or killed. If he transformed, his secret would be out to the two people who mattered most.
The high tension of the unseen war had just converged on him. The brutal action was about to get personal. His two separate, secret lives had just collided in a narrow, concrete corridor, and he was out of room to run.