The Grand Gala was less of a celebration and more of a tactical battlefield, just with canapés instead of collateral damage.
Saitama stood by the buffet tower, defending a fortress of cocktail shrimp against a hungry Pig God (who was in a tuxedo that was mostly just a very large tarp with a bowtie).
"Back off," Saitama warned, wielding a toothpick like a spear. "This is the VIP shrimp section. Go for the pigs in a blanket."
Pig God grunted, accepting defeat, and wandered off to inhale the entire chocolate fountain.
From across the ballroom, Sitch tapped a microphone.
"Ladies and Gentlemen. Heroes. Donors. Survivors."
The room quieted.
"Tonight we celebrate peace. But we also celebrate the dawn of a new age. The Age of the Fortress."
A spotlight hit Saitama. He froze mid-chew, a shrimp tail hanging from his mouth. He swallowed it whole.
"Please welcome... the newly appointed S-Class Rank 1... SAITAMA!"
Polite applause rippled through the room. Some clapped enthusiastically (Genos was clapping so hard he generated a small sonic boom). Others clapped with jealousy (Sweet Mask was scowling so hard his veins popped).
Blast walked onto the stage. He took the mic.
"Hey everyone," Blast waved casually. "So, I'm retired. Going fishing. This guy," he pointed at Saitama, "punched the moon. I think he deserves the chair. Don't break it."
He handed Saitama a golden plaque. **RANK 1**.
Saitama took it. It was heavy.
"Uh. Thanks," Saitama said into the mic. "Can I sell this?"
Nervous laughter.
"I mean, thanks. I'll... do my best. Or whatever."
He walked off stage.
Fubuki met him at the stairs. "Short and sweet. Good."
"Can we go home now?" Saitama tugged his collar. "This bow tie is choking me."
"Not yet," Fubuki smirked. "Tradition dictates the Rank 1 hero opens the dance floor."
Saitama went pale. "Dance? I don't dance. I punch."
"It's just walking to music," Fubuki took his hand. "Trust me."
The orchestra struck up a waltz. The crowd cleared a circle.
Fubuki led him to the center. She placed her hand on his shoulder, his hand on her waist. The contact burned through the fabric of his suit.
"Just follow my lead," she whispered. "One, two, three. One, two, three."
Saitama looked at his feet. "If I step on you, your toe will break."
"I have a barrier up. Just move."
They began to move.
At first, Saitama was stiff as a board. He moved like a robot needing oil. But Fubuki guided him, her movements fluid and confident. She swirled around him, her emerald dress flaring.
Then, Saitama started to get it. It wasn't about thinking. It was about rhythm. Like dodging punches.
*Step. Turn. Glide.*
He relaxed. His natural agility—the infinite reflex—took over. He stopped looking at his feet. He looked at Fubuki.
She was looking up at him, her eyes shining under the chandeliers. She looked... happy. Not calculating. Not ambitious. Just happy to be there, in his arms.
"You're not terrible," she murmured.
"I learn fast," Saitama said, spinning her.
The spin was a little too fast. The centrifugal force whipped Fubuki around like a tetherball. She squeaked, her feet leaving the ground.
Saitama caught her perfectly as she came back around, dipping her low.
The crowd gasped. Then cheered.
"Show off," Fubuki laughed, breathless, her face flushed.
"Accident," Saitama admitted. "My grip strength slipped."
As they swayed, the world seemed to narrow down to just the two of them. The politics, the monsters, the rankings—it all faded into background noise.
From the balcony, Tatsumaki watched. She gripped the railing, bending the steel.
"She's actually doing it," Tatsumaki whispered. "She's taming the beast."
Genos appeared next to her, holding a camera. "Correction. She is optimizing his social subroutines. It is a highly efficient partnership."
Tatsumaki glared at the cyborg. "If he hurts her... I'm crushing him into a cube. Rank 1 or not."
Genos panned the camera to the dance floor. "Based on biometric readings... the probability of intentional harm is 0%. The probability of romance is... calculable."
Tatsumaki scoffed, turning away. But a small, reluctant smile touched her lips.
***
Suddenly, the glass dome of the ballroom ceiling shattered.
Screams erupted. Music stopped.
Three figures descended on cables. They were clad in sleek, tactical gear.
Not monsters. Assassins.
"Target identified," the leader hissed. "Saitama. Eliminate."
They weren't human. They were... Androids? No. Bioroids. Artificial humans created from the stolen data of the Neo Heroes.
**PROJECT: GOD-KILLER.**
The leader raised a weapon. A **Void Cannon**. A miniaturized version of God's energy beam.
"Die."
He fired.
Fubuki reacted instantly, throwing up a psychic shield. *PING.* The shield cracked. She was knocked backward, sliding across the polished floor.
"Fubuki!" Saitama roared.
The calm vanished. The goofy dancer vanished.
The "Final Fortress" arrived.
Saitama stepped in front of the next beam. He didn't block it. He slapped it away with his bare hand.
"You ruined the party," Saitama said. His voice was cold. Absolute. "And you stepped on the shrimp."
He moved.
He appeared in front of the leader.
"Normal Slap."
*WHACK.*
The assassin's head didn't explode. It remained intact, but his body spun 700 times in mid-air before embedding itself in the far wall.
The other two assassins panicked. "Speed unreadable! Deploy self-destruct!"
They glowed red. Nuclear cores primed.
"Everyone down!" Blast shouted, creating a portal to swallow the explosion.
But he didn't need to.
Saitama grabbed both assassins by the necks. He squeezed.
*CRUNCH.*
He crushed the nuclear cores with his grip strength before they could detonate. The red glow faded. The bioroids went limp.
Saitama dropped them like trash bags.
He stood in the center of the silent ballroom, straightening his bowtie.
"Is the dance over?" he asked the orchestra.
The conductor, terrified, shook his head. He hurriedly raised his baton. The music started again, shaky and fast.
Saitama turned to Fubuki. She was getting up, rubbing her arm.
He walked over to her and offered his hand.
"Sorry about that. Work interruption."
Fubuki looked at his hand. Then at the unconscious assassins in the wall. Then back at him.
She took his hand.
"Just another Tuesday," she smiled.
They finished the dance amidst the rubble and unconscious bodies. Because that's what heroes do. They keep dancing when the music stops.
**(End of Gala Arc)**
---
**BONUS EPILOGUE: THE SHOPPING LIST**
*The Apartment. Three days later.*
Saitama sat on the couch in his underwear, playing video games.
"Saitama!"
Fubuki marched in, holding a piece of paper. "I found this in your pocket when I took your suit to the cleaners."
It was the receipt from the Gala valet.
On the back, written in crayon, was a list.
**THINGS TO DO AS RANK 1:**
1. Get Paid.
2. Fix Roof (Again).
3. Buy unlimited cabbage.
4. Ask Fubuki if she wants to... go for tea? (Scratched out)
5. Ask Fubuki to teach me how to do taxes. (Circled twice).
Fubuki looked at him, waving the paper. "Number 5? Really?"
Saitama paused the game. He turned red.
"Taxes are hard! They have forms!"
Fubuki sighed, sitting next to him on the couch. "Fine. I'll teach you taxes."
She leaned closer.
"But first... let's talk about Number 4."
Saitama blinked. "The tea? I scratched that out. It seemed... weak."
"It's not weak," Fubuki smiled. "It's a start."
She kissed him on the cheek. Quick. Soft.
"Get dressed. I know a tea place."
Saitama touched his cheek. He looked at Fubuki, who was already walking to the door.
He looked at the game. He was winning.
He turned off the console.
"Coming," Saitama said.
He grabbed his yellow suit. And for the first time, he didn't feel bored. He felt... expectant.
Maybe Rank 1 wasn't so bad after all.