The dark city was a symphony of fear. Car alarms, triggered by unseen terrors, blared into the oppressive silence, punctuated by isolated screams that were abruptly cut short. For the citizens of J-City, it was the end of the world. For the paralyzed Defense Force, it was their darkest hour.
For Saitama, it was a chore.
"Alright," he said from the balcony, stretching his arms. "I'll take the west side. Genos, you handle the east. Leek Guy, you take the middle. Try not to get stepped on."
Before Kafka could even protest the plan or the nickname, Saitama was gone. He didn't leap with a ground-shattering boom. He just pushed off, a silent yellow missile disappearing into the darkness, leaving only a whisper of displaced air.
Genos nodded once, his duty clear. Blue flames erupted from his back and feet, and he shot into the sky, becoming a silver and blue comet that streaked across the dark heavens. He was the eye in the sky, his sensors mapping the entire city, coordinating a three-man war.
Kafka was left alone on the balcony, the weight of an entire city sector on his shoulders. He felt a familiar wave of inadequacy, but it was quickly washed away by a surge of pure, unadulterated purpose. This was it. No Hoshina watching him. No Kikoru testing him. Just a city that needed saving.
He leaped. He didn't fly, but his Kaiju-enhanced muscles sent him soaring across rooftops, each landing a soft, controlled thump. Genos's voice immediately crackled in the small communicator he'd been given.
"Cadet Hibino," the cyborg's voice was crisp and all-business. "Multiple hostiles detected in the Midori-Cho apartment complex, 3 o'clock, 400 meters. They are phasing-type. Civilian life signs are in critical danger. Master is currently engaged with a subterranean nest on the other side of town."
The responsibility was his. Kafka pushed his legs harder, closing the distance in seconds. He arrived to a scene of horror. One of Kaiju No. 9's new, ghost-like monsters was halfway through the wall of a fifth-floor apartment, its spectral claws reaching for a terrified family huddled in the corner.
The front door was locked. He didn't have time for it. With a roar that was more human grit than monster, he grabbed the wrought-iron fire escape bolted to the side of the building. With a groan of tortured metal, he ripped a ten-foot section clean off the wall.
He used it as a battering ram, smashing through the apartment wall in a shower of brick and plaster.
The phasing Kaiju turned, its multiple eyes glowing with surprise. It let out a shriek and lunged at him. Kafka didn't bother with finesse. He swung the massive chunk of iron like a baseball bat, putting every ounce of his humanly disguised Kaiju strength into it.
The blow connected. The creature, caught in a semi-corporeal state, wasn't just hit; it was destabilized. It flickered violently like a bad hologram and then dissolved with a final, agonized screech.
Kafka stood there, breathing heavily, surrounded by the wreckage of the wall. The family—a mother, a father, two small children—stared at him, not with fear, but with wide-eyed, tearful awe. He wasn't a shining hero in a suit. He was a man in a cheap hoodie who had just torn their home apart to save them.
"Get to the basement," Kafka said, his voice rough. "Stay away from the walls."
He turned and leaped out of the gaping hole, disappearing into the night before they could even thank him. For the first time, it didn't matter that he looked like a monster on the inside. Out here, tonight, he was just a hero.
Across town, Saitama was getting tired of running.
He had already punched his way through two dozen of the new, annoying Kaiju. They weren't strong, just sneaky. He'd find one terrorizing a bus station, punch it, then Genos would tell him about another one five blocks away. It was inefficient. It was annoying. And his freezer was still defrosting.
He landed on the roof of the tallest skyscraper in the western district, the wind whipping his cape. "Genos," he said into his communicator. "This is taking too long. Give me a map of all the remaining bugs on this side of the city."
In his mind's eye, a map bloomed into existence—a direct data feed from Genos. He saw hundreds of red dots, a pestilent rash spread over dozens of city blocks.
"Okay," Saitama said to himself. "Time to take out the trash."
He took a relaxed stance. He lifted his right foot.
And then he brought it down.
THUMP.
It was not a loud noise. It was a dull, profound, bass note that resonated not in the ears, but in the bones, in the very soul of the city.
It was not an earthquake. An earthquake is chaotic, destructive. This was an act of absolute, perfect, and terrifying control. A single, flawless shockwave emanated from the skyscraper. It did not travel along the ground, cracking streets and toppling buildings. It traveled through the city itself, a harmonic resonance pulse moving with the speed of thought.
It was godly action at its most elegant and brutal.
For the dozens of specialized Kaiju crawling through the sewers, phasing through walls, and lurking in the dark alleys of the western district, reality simply... ended.
The pulse washed over them. It did not crush them or tear them apart. It vibrated at a frequency that specifically targeted their alien biology, causing their cellular structures to lose all cohesion instantly.
One moment, they were terrifying monsters. The next, they were puddles of inert, black goo. All of them. Instantly.
The entire western half of J-City fell silent.
In the bunker, Kenji Tanaka watched the data feed and felt his mind begin to unravel.
"What... what did he just do?" an analyst whispered, her face bloodless.
"He didn't cause an earthquake," Kenji breathed, staring at the telemetry. "There's no seismic reading. No structural damage to any of the buildings. He just... he just deleted every Kaiju in a ten-square-kilometer radius with a single foot stomp." He collapsed into his chair. "He didn't punch the monsters. He tuned the entire city like a guitar string and made them the only note that was out of key."
At a makeshift forward command post, Mina and Kikoru received the report. "West J-City has gone dark," the operator told them. "No more Kaiju signals. We... we don't know why." They looked out at the dark city, a sense of profound powerlessness and irrelevance washing over them. Someone else was fighting their war, and winning it with a casual, physics-defying stomp.
Deep in its lair, Kaiju No. 9 felt the life signs of a third of its new army vanish in a single, silent instant. It didn't rage. It didn't scream. Its fluid form simply froze as it processed the new, terrifying data.
Analysis Complete, its cold, internal voice stated. The Anomaly is not merely a reactive defense mechanism. When sufficiently provoked by inconvenience, it is capable of proactive, wide-area cleansing operations with zero collateral damage. It updated Saitama's threat profile from 'Unbeatable God' to 'Planetary-Scale Immune System.'
Back on the skyscraper, Saitama looked down at his work, a district now peacefully, blessedly quiet. The job was only half-done, but his annoyance had been slightly abated.
His communicator buzzed. It was Genos.
"Master, your pest-control method was 99.7% effective. The eastern sector is now clear as well. However, the primary problem remains. The city's infrastructure is still offline."
Saitama sighed. It was always something.
"Okay," he said, looking towards the distant, dark silhouette of the Sector Gamma data hub. "Pest control's done. Now, let's go figure out who broke the city's toaster."