The Hero Association's announcement was a masterclass in corporate spin. It hit the networks less than an hour after Saitama had crumpled up his promotion letter. The headline screamed: S-CLASS HEROES UNITE! TANKTOP MASTER AND NEWCOMER 'CAPED BALDY' ERADICATE MYSTERIOUS THREAT IN CITY D!
The story they spun was of a perfectly coordinated pincer movement. Tanktop Master, the brave vanguard, had drawn out the "phantom menace," while Saitama, the strategic newcomer, had struck the decisive blow. There was no mention of power nullification, of an S-Class hero brought to his knees in terror. It was a clean, heroic, confidence-boosting win. Just what Sitch ordered.
Public reaction was mixed. Tanktop Master's fans were ecstatic. King's fans were suspicious, claiming this "Caped Baldy" must have been working under King's direction. Most people were just confused. Who was this guy?
In a high-tech lab buried deep beneath City A, the genius S-Class hero Child Emperor watched the news report on a dozen different screens, his brow furrowed in concentration. He cross-referenced the announcement with raw data streams he'd… ethically acquired from the HA servers.
"This doesn't add up," he muttered to himself, sucking on his signature lollipop. "Tanktop Master's bio-signs indicate a state of non-lethal catatonia, followed by a sudden reboot. The energy readings in the area show a complete void, then a localized spike that breaks every known scale. And then there's him."
He pulled up Saitama's file. B-Class. Perfect hero test scores on the physical, abysmal on the written. A history of destroying property. Associated with a high number of monster attacks. His threat assessment algorithm, which he'd named "Annoying Homework," was practically screaming at him.
"Subject Saitama," Child Emperor dictated to his computer. "Possible link to Blast? Unknown power source. Displays characteristics of a gag manga character trapped in a shonen world. Threat Level: Incalculable. Priority: Observe." He popped a new lollipop in his mouth. Something was happening. A fundamental shift in the world's power balance. And this bald guy was standing right at the epicenter of it.
Far, far away, in a place that wasn't a place, a dimension of silent, swirling darkness, other beings took notice. They weren't human. They had no bodies, no names. They were the Void Collective. The "librarians" of reality.
The one that Saitama had popped like a soap bubble was just a scout. A low-level drone sent to gauge the "noise" level of this particular dimension.
Its final moments replayed across a thousand non-minds at once. The feeling of absolute nullification failing. The sensation of a force that wasn't an "ability" but a "state of being." And then, the punch. It wasn't a blast of energy. It was a targeted injection of something. Of causality. Of existence itself, weaponized. A concept so alien, so offensively loud to their nature that it caused the scout's entire being to collapse.
A consensus was reached, a silent thought rippling through the collective darkness. This anomaly, 'Saitama,' is not merely noise. It is a dissonant chord that threatens the entire symphony of silence. It must be erased. Standard scouts are insufficient. Send a Specialist.
Back in their home dimension, a flicker of something new began to form in the void. Something bigger, sharper, and much, much angrier.
Saitama, blissfully unaware of the cosmic, corporate, and juvenile attention he was now receiving, was having a serious problem. The crab legs were boiled, the butter was melted, but Genos was ruining the mood.
His cyborg disciple had turned the promotion into a grand affair. He had printed out a large, pixelated photo of Saitama's face from the hero registry and taped it to the wall under a hand-drawn banner that read: "CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR INEVITABLE ASCENSION, SENSEI."
"Sensei, this is a momentous occasion," Genos declared, his voice full of genuine pride. "Your proper place among the world's protectors is finally being recognized. I have already begun drafting a new, more rigorous training schedule befitting an S-Class mentor and his disciple." He held up a thick binder filled with charts and graphs. "Phase one involves increasing our daily run from 10 kilometers to 100 kilometers."
"Pass," Saitama said, cracking open a crab leg with his thumb. "And we're not running a hundred kilometers."
"Of course," Genos nodded, scribbling a note. "A warm-up jog of 100 kilometers. The main exercise will follow. I have also calculated that your new S-Class salary, even at the lowest rank, will allow for a 47% increase in our budget for household upgrades. I recommend we start with replacing this entire building with a reinforced subterranean blast shelter."
"We're not building a bunker," Saitama sighed, dipping a chunk of crab meat in butter. He pointed a claw at Genos. "Listen. Nothing's changed. The title's different, maybe the pay is better. But I'm still just me. I do this for fun. All this S-Class stuff is just… noise."
The word hung in the air. Saitama had used it casually, but for Genos, whose mind was still processing the data from the void creature, it clicked into place with terrifying significance. The creature had called power "noise." Saitama had just called his new status "noise."
"Noise…" Genos whispered. "Sensei! Your philosophy aligns with the terminology used by the enemy! Is this a clue to the true nature of your strength? That true power lies in the rejection of external labels and classifications, thereby creating an internal state impervious to—"
Knock-knock-knock.
A softer knock this time. Almost hesitant. Saitama looked at the door, his mouth full of crab. "Is Fubuki back? Tell her I already told her no."
Genos scanned the door. "Negative, Sensei. The energy signature is low, almost negligible. Civilian-level."
He opened the door to reveal a man in a perfectly tailored black suit, holding a sleek silver briefcase. The man had a kind face, an impeccably professional haircut, and a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Good evening," the man said smoothly. "My name is Hitori. I'm with the Hero Name Registry Division. May I speak with the hero known as Caped Baldy?"
Saitama swallowed his food. "Who?"
"That would be your provisional S-Class hero name, sir," Hitori said with a pleasant chuckle. "We understand it's not the most… glamorous. Which is why I'm here. As part of your promotion, you are entitled to a priority rebranding consultation."
Hitori stepped inside, his eyes scanning the cramped apartment with a look of polite horror that he quickly masked. "The Hero Association believes that a hero's name is their most important asset. It must project strength, inspire hope, and most importantly, be marketable. 'Caped Baldy' tested poorly with focus groups. Polled at only 12% approval. Too on-the-nose."
He opened his briefcase on the small table, revealing a slick tablet. "So, we've prepared a few alternatives based on your profile." He swiped the screen. "Option one: 'The Crimson Fist.' Strong, classic, evocative. But perhaps a bit generic." He swiped again. "Option two: 'Hyperion.' Gives a sense of cosmic power, plays well with international audiences." Swipe. "Option three, a personal favorite: 'The One-Hit Wonder.'"
Saitama stared at him blankly.
"No?" Hitori didn't lose his composure. "Alright, a bit cheeky. How about… 'Mister Clean?' Short, memorable, plays into the—"
"I don't care what you call me," Saitama interrupted. "Can you just leave? I'm in the middle of dinner."
Hitori's professional smile finally flickered. "Sir, with all due respect, as an S-Class hero, you are no longer just an individual. You are a brand. A symbol. The public needs to rally behind you. They can't rally behind 'that bald guy.'"
"Sure they can," Saitama said. "You just yell, 'Hey, that bald guy!' and then you point."
"Sensei raises a valid point concerning the efficiency of direct address," Genos added helpfully.
Hitori took a deep breath. He clearly wasn't used to clients this… uncooperative. "Perhaps I should put it another way. As part of your new S-Class contract, public appearances, press conferences, and branding consultations are mandatory." He pointed to a clause on his tablet screen. Failure to comply could result in salary deductions. And ultimately, expulsion.
Saitama's eye twitched. Expulsion, whatever. But salary deductions? They were messing with his grocery money now.
"Fine," he grumbled. "What do I have to do?"
A genuine smile finally graced Hitori's face. "Excellent! Step one is the photoshoot. We have a studio and a selection of approved costume redesigns waiting for you." He gestured vaguely to the side. "The cape, for instance. It's a classic look, but the polls suggest the public finds it a bit dated. We're thinking something more armored. Tactical."
The idea of Saitama willingly putting on a complex, armored suit was so ludicrous Genos almost short-circuited.
Just as Hitori was about to launch into a full presentation on market demographics, his own tablet buzzed violently. A red alert flashed across the screen. He paled.
"What is it?" Genos demanded, his senses instantly on high alert.
"It's… it's City Z," Hitori stammered, his professional demeanor shattering. "A massive monster threat has appeared. Threat Level… they've already designated it Dragon."
He looked up at Saitama, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and a new, calculating hope. "This is it! Your debut as an S-Class hero! A live-fire branding opportunity! We have to get you there, get the cameras on you, you'll make your grand entrance and—"
Before he could finish, the wall of Saitama's apartment exploded inward.
Not from a monster attack.
Tatsumaki floated in the new hole where the wall used to be, her small frame radiating an aura of pure, concentrated fury. Her green psychic energy crackled around her, making the air taste of ozone.
"You," she spat, her glare fixed on Saitama. "They made you S-Class? Over my dead body." Her eyes narrowed to slits. "I'm here to give you your official S-Class entrance exam. Don't worry. You're going to fail."