The silence at Hero Association headquarters was a heavy, expensive thing. It was the kind of silence that usually comes after a multi-billion yen screw-up, and that was exactly what had happened. On the massive central monitor in the command center, a live satellite feed showed the new, perfectly circular crater where a thriving commercial district used to be.
Sitch stood before the screen, his face looking like it had aged a decade since breakfast. Around the circular table, a dozen executives in identical black suits were sweating, their faces pale.
"Damage report," Sitch barked, his voice gravelly.
An executive with a twitchy eye read from a tablet. "Sir, structurally, the damage is… total. Five city blocks, including commercial towers, a public park, and a transit hub, have been… removed from the map. However," he paused, swallowing hard, "civilian casualties are at zero. Thanks to the S-Class containment and Fubuki's evacuation efforts, the area was clear. The only material losses were property."
"Property?!" another executive shrieked, his voice cracking. "Our largest corporate sponsor, the Big-Chin Kid Foundation, owned three of those towers! Their CEO is on line three, and he sounds like he's gargling acid!"
Sitch pinched the bridge of his nose. "What about the public?"
A different executive, from the PR department, cleared his throat. "That's… the confusing part, sir." He swiped his tablet, and the main screen changed to a montage of social media feeds and news tickers.
The public reaction wasn't fear or anger. It was awe.
Headlines read: NEW S-CLASS HERO REVEALS GOD-LIKE POWER!, CITY Z CRATER: A SYMBOL OF ABSOLUTE SAFETY?, IS 'CAPED BALDY' THE HERO WE'VE BEEN WAITING FOR?. User comments flew by: "OMG, he can punch holes in reality?! I feel so safe now!" and "Who needs walls when you have a hero who can delete threats from existence?"
The people weren't mad about the crater. They were treating it like a tourist attraction. They saw it as a sign that there was finally a hero so powerful that no threat, no matter how great, could ever touch them.
The PR executive wrung his hands. "Sir, against all logic, public confidence in the Hero Association has shot up by fifteen percent in the last hour. He destroyed a piece of the city, and they're calling him its savior."
Sitch stared at the screen, a muscle working in his jaw. The sheer, beautiful, idiotic irony of it was pure One Punch Man. They were facing financial ruin and a political firestorm, and yet they were more popular than ever. It was a nightmare wrapped in a golden opportunity.
"Get him here," Sitch said, his voice low and dangerous. "Get Saitama here. Now. And somebody get me a very, very large bottle of aspirin."
The summons arrived via another drone. Saitama was trying to patch the hole in his wall with cardboard and duct tape. It wasn't working.
"A mandatory debriefing at headquarters," Genos read from the official message. "Attendance is non-negotiable."
"Great. A scolding," Saitama grumbled, tearing off a piece of tape with his teeth. "They're gonna make me pay for all those buildings, aren't they? S-Class pay isn't that good."
"Unlikely, Sensei," Genos reasoned. "Given the public's positive response, a punitive action would be detrimental to their image. My projection suggests this will be a 'containment and branding' meeting. They will attempt to quantify and control your public persona."
"Sounds like even more of a pain than a fine," Saitama said, giving up on the wall. He sighed. "Alright, let's go. Might as well get it over with."
Their arrival at the HA headquarters was a stark contrast to Saitama's previous visits. Before, he was an anonymous B-Classer, ignored by everyone. Today, the moment he stepped out of the taxi (Genos had insisted they take one, for the sake of appearances), a hush fell over the bustling lobby.
Heroes, support staff, and executives all stopped what they were doing and stared. Whispers followed him like a shockwave.
"That's him… the new S-Class…"
"I heard his punch shook the planet."
"He looks… kinda plain."
Saitama just kept his blank face, stuffing his hands in his pockets. All this attention was making his scalp itch. He hated it.
They were escorted to the top-floor S-Class briefing room by a nervous-looking aide. The room was intimidating—all chrome and black leather, with a single, massive table overlooking the city. Sitch sat at the head, looking like a man with a migraine the size of a blimp. The other executives were arranged around him like nervous crows. Hitori, the brand manager, was there too, looking excited.
"Saitama," Sitch began, his voice flat. "Take a seat."
Saitama slumped into one of the expensive leather chairs. It was surprisingly comfortable. Genos stood rigidly behind him, his notebook already out.
"Do you have any idea," Sitch said slowly, "of the scale of the destruction you caused?"
Saitama shrugged. "It looked like a lot."
Sitch's eye twitched. "A lot. Yes. You could say that. You vaporized 2.2 square kilometers of prime real estate." He leaned forward. "Ordinarily, this would be grounds for immediate dismissal. Possibly even imprisonment. But…" he gestured to a monitor showing his soaring approval ratings, "we find ourselves in a unique situation."
"The people see you as a symbol of ultimate strength," Hitori chimed in, barely able to contain his glee. "You haven't just created a crater, you've created a brand! We're already calling it the 'Saitama Safe Zone'! The marketing potential is staggering!"
"Quiet, Hitori," Sitch snapped. "The fact remains, Saitama, you are a loose cannon. A nuke in a cape. We can't have you operating without… oversight."
"So, what?" Saitama asked, already getting bored. "You want to put a leash on me?"
"We want to put a framework around you!" an executive corrected, a little too quickly. "Guidelines! Protocols! To ensure your power is deployed with maximum efficiency and minimum… topographical restructuring."
Before Saitama could reply with a resounding "No thanks," the briefing room doors slid open. Fubuki walked in, radiating a cool, unshakable confidence. Her Blizzard Group subordinates were not with her. She came alone.
"Apologies for my tardiness, gentlemen," she said, her voice smooth as silk. "I was just finalizing the preliminary damage assessment report for my sister's… unscheduled architectural modifications." She gave Sitch a pointed look, then turned her attention to the room. "I trust you're not trying to intimidate my associate."
Sitch glowered. "This is a restricted S-Class debriefing, Miss Blizzard. You are out of your jurisdiction."
"Am I?" Fubuki smiled, a calculated, predatory thing. She slid into the empty chair next to Saitama as if she owned it. "As you know, my organization specializes in team-based threat management and public relations. Given Saitama's recent… impact… it's clear he requires a handler who understands both his unique capabilities and the delicate political landscape. Someone to translate his direct methods into a language you bureaucrats can understand." She gestured towards Saitama, who was currently examining a loose thread on his glove. "I am that translator."
Saitama looked up. "I don't need a translator."
"Of course you don't," Fubuki said, patting his arm reassuringly without breaking eye contact with Sitch. "But they do."
It was a brilliant power play. She wasn't asking for permission. She was stating a fact. She was making herself an essential part of the "Saitama Package."
Deep underground, the conversation was of a different nature. Zombieman lay strapped to a reinforced medical table. Wires and tubes snaked from his body to a series of whirring, humming machines. The air was cold and smelled of ozone and antiseptic.
Dr. Genus's holographic form hovered over a control panel, his face etched with worry. "The procedure is ready," he said. "We will be stimulating your cellular regeneration to its absolute limit while simultaneously bombarding your neural pathways with psychic resonance frequencies. The theory is that this will force your body and mind to perceive a near-death state a million times per second. It is that 'brush with death,' that desperate will to survive pushed to an illogical extreme, that we believe triggered Saitama's limiter to break."
"But it will be a simulated state," Zombieman said, his voice strained. "Will that be enough?"
"That is the question," Genus admitted. "Your body might reject the process. Your mind might simply… shatter. The limiter isn't just a physical barrier; it's a psychic one. It's the voice in your head that says, 'This is impossible.' We're going to try and scream over that voice." He hesitated. "There is no turning back once we begin. I must ask you one last time: are you sure?"
Zombieman stared up at the cold, metal ceiling. He thought of all the monsters he'd killed, the corruption he'd uncovered, the endless, grinding cycle of death and rebirth. He thought of Saitama's empty eyes and the devastating crater he'd left behind. Power had a price. He knew that better than anyone. He had made his peace with it.
"Do it," he rasped.
Genus nodded sadly. He tapped a button on the control panel. The machines hummed to life, a low thrum that grew into a deafening roar. Electricity arced across Zombieman's body. Needles plunged into him, pumping glowing, unknown chemicals into his veins. A psychic amplifier lowered from the ceiling, its crystal lens focusing a beam of invisible energy onto his forehead.
His back arched. A scream tore from his throat—raw, agonized, inhuman. Inside his mind, he wasn't in a lab. He was dying. Over and over. Being torn apart by Carnage Kabuto. Being eaten by the Deep Sea King. Being vaporized by Boros's blast. Every hero's death he'd ever witnessed, every nightmare the world had ever conjured, became his reality, a million times a second. His sanity began to fray, stretched to the breaking point across a landscape of infinite death.
The limiter held. For now.
Back in the briefing room, the negotiations had reached a fever pitch.
"—and therefore," Fubuki argued, sounding like a high-powered corporate lawyer, "any attempt to saddle him with restrictive protocols will not only be ineffective, but will also damage the 'invincible protector' brand you've so successfully, if accidentally, established."
"But we must have some measure of control!" an executive insisted.
Suddenly, a direct line from the global Hero Network board buzzed on Sitch's console. He tapped it, and the stern, mustached face of the Supreme Commander of Earth's defense forces appeared on the main screen.
"Sitch," the commander said, his voice booming. "Reports are coming in from all over the globe. Your new hero. The one who left the… crater."
"Yes, Commander. We are discussing the situation now," Sitch said stiffly.
"Good. Tell him congratulations. In the last hour, seven independent alien scout ships that were lingering in high orbit have abruptly changed course and left our solar system. Dozens of subterranean monster nests that we've been monitoring have gone dormant. It seems your 'loose cannon' has created the single most effective deterrent in the history of this planet. He's a symbol. Don't screw it up."
The line went dead.
The room was silent. Hitori was practically vibrating with vindication. Fubuki allowed herself a small, triumphant smile.
Saitama, completely missing the point, finally spoke up. "So… does this mean I can go home? I think I have some coupons that are about to expire."
Sitch looked at Saitama, at his simple, bored face. He looked at the soaring poll numbers. He looked at the report of retreating alien fleets. He sighed, the weight of the world settling on his shoulders. He was beaten. The pigeon had knocked over all the pieces.
"Fine," he said, rubbing his eyes. "No formal restrictions. But you will be assigned a liaison. Someone to... facilitate communication." His eyes flickered towards Fubuki. "And for God's sake, we need a better hero name than 'Caped Baldy.'"
Hitori jumped to his feet. "I have it! A name that conveys his power, his role as a protector, and the sheer scale of his impact! A name that will look great on a lunchbox! We'll call him… 'The Final Fortress'!"
There was a murmur of approval around the table. It was strong. It was marketable. It was perfect.
Saitama's brow furrowed. "Fortress? But I'm a person. That's a stupid name."
"It's decided!" Hitori declared, ignoring him completely.
Fubuki walked with Saitama and Genos out of the headquarters. The afternoon sun was warm. She felt a heady sense of victory.
"Well," she said, smoothing down her dress. "That went well. It seems my services are more necessary than ever. As your new, unofficial liaison, my first duty will be to manage your schedule."
Saitama groaned. "A schedule? What did I do to deserve this?"
"You saved the world, Saitama," Fubuki said, a hint of genuine sincerity in her voice. "This is your reward."
As they walked down the steps, a man in the crowd watched them go. He was lean, with sharp eyes and an A-Class rank insignia on his collar. It was Forte, the hero known for his powerful stereo-blasting battle suit. He'd been stuck at the top of A-Class for years, watching S-Class heroes get all the glory. And now this… this plain-looking bald guy gets promoted for just blowing things up. Resentment burned in his chest.
A quiet, unassuming man in a business suit stepped up beside him.
"Frustrating, isn't it?" the man said softly. "To see a system reward random destruction over years of hard work and discipline."
Forte glanced at him, surprised. "Who are you?"
The man smiled, handing him a simple black business card. It just had a name and a number. No company logo. "Just someone who believes that heroes should be chosen for their merit, not their marketing potential. Someone who believes in building something better." He looked after Saitama. "He's a symbol of their broken system. And broken things," the man from the Neo Heroes said, his voice turning cold, "are so easy to replace."