yo DoomOmega here again, I'm gonna be back to making chapters. your boy had some free time and will have even more soon, i start Christmas vacation tomorrow, so expect more frequent updates. also...
new Baki story?
YUH UH
NUH UH
----
Saitama's apartment, never spacious, became an exercise in improbable geometry with the addition of so many formidable guests. The air was thick with the rich, savory scent of hotpot broth and the low hum of disparate energies. Bang and Bomb sat with serene, cross-legged poise by the wall, two ancient pillars of discipline amidst the clutter. Genos, now connected to several portable charging units courtesy of his arriving guardian, Dr. Kuseno, sat rigidly, his systems whirring as he analyzed the social interaction as if it were combat data.
Fubuki had arrived last, a storm of controlled pride and lingering chagrin. Her defeat at King's hands (in gaming and, in her mind, the subsequent battle with the Jumping Spider) had tempered her arrogance into a watchful, competitive respect. She watched King especially, her green eyes missing nothing.
And then there was Dr. Kuseno. The elderly scientist fussed over Genos with a grandfather's concern, his smile gentle, his words encouraging. But to King, whose perception was honed by King's Eyes and a life spent reading the minute tremors of fear and falsehood in others, something felt… off. It wasn't a physical disguise. It was in the performance itself. The doctor's kindness was a little too perfect, his patience a fraction too seamless. The emotional responses—the pride in Genos's growth, the gentle chastisement for his recklessness—felt like expertly chosen garments, worn correctly but not lived in. Beneath the kindly mask of the mentor, King's instincts sensed a profound, calculating emptiness, a puppeteer's patience rather than a guardian's love. He met the doctor's eyes for a moment across the room and saw only a polished, reflective surface. King dismissed the thought. In a world of monsters, a man with a well-crafted emotional mask was not a priority, but it was a shiver of unease he tucked away, another piece of a world that grew more complex by the day.
The hotpot itself was a quiet war. Saitama, with the focus of a grand strategist, defended his share of premium meat against Genos's logistical analysis of optimal nutrient distribution. Fubuki tried to maintain a dignified, small-portioned approach but was soon drawn into the fray by Saitama's relentless chopsticks. Bang and Bomb ate with polite, efficient grace, while King methodically claimed his portion, his sheer presence creating a respectful buffer zone around his corner of the pot.
"It is… a unique broth," Bang offered diplomatically, as Saitama added another questionable packet of instant flavoring.
"It's efficient," Saitama countered.
By the end, the pot was scraped clean, a testament more to Saitama's relentless appetite than to adequate provisioning. As the evening wound down, the guests began to depart. Bang and Bomb bowed their farewells. Fubuki left with a final, complex look at the Saitama Group. Dr. Kuseno ushered a still-lecturing Genos out the door, promising further upgrades, his benign smile never slipping.
Finally, it was just King and Saitama amidst the empty bowls and lingering steam.
"Hey," Saitama said, staring at the two overstuffed trash bags by the door. "You're heading out, right?"
"I am," King rumbled.
"Cool. Mind taking the trash down? The chute's on the first floor."
It was such a profoundly, perfectly Saitama request—enlisting the legendary Strongest Man on Earth for a chore he simply couldn't be bothered with—that King almost smiled. He gave a single nod. "sure."
He hoisted the bags easily, the weight nothing to his Demonic Super Human Condition. The walk down the silent, dimly lit stairwell of the apartment building was a decompression. The chaotic warmth of the gathering faded. He deposited the bags in the collection area, the mundane act a grounding anchor after a day of fighting Dragons and sharing pots with legends.
Stepping out into the back alley behind the building, the cool night air hit him. Z-City's quarantine zone loomed in the near distance, a silent, jagged silhouette against the star-flecked sky. He took a deep breath, the King Engine a soft, contented purr.
Then, his King's Eyes activated without conscious command.
Three distinct, malevolent signals flickered on the edge of his perception, about two blocks away, deep in the ruinous borderland. Not the weak, scattered blips of Wolf-level pests. These were dense, pulsing knots of malicious energy. Three of them. And the system tagging them, clear and cold in his vision:
[Threat Designation: Venomous Doom-Scale] - DEMON
[Threat Designation: Screaming Mandrill] - DEMON
[Threat Designation: Giga-Roach] - DEMON
A hunting pack. Demon-level. Here, on the periphery, likely drawn by the residual energy of the day's colossal battle or perhaps scouting for the Monster Association.
A few weeks ago, the sight would have frozen his blood. A day ago, before his demonic upgrade, it would have been a cause for severe tactical caution. Now?
A slow, steady beat began to build in his chest. The King Engine shifted from a purr to a low, gathering thunder. Not fear. Anticipation.
Three Demons, he thought, his mind cool and clear, already mapping the terrain, their positions, their potential synergies. A roach-type implied durability and possibly flight. A mandrill suggested brute force and rage. A "doom-scale" suggested poison or long-range attacks.
He had just helped against a Dragon-level. He had stalled a calamity. These were not that.
This was not a catastrophe to be survived. This was a problem to be solved. A high-yield problem.
He didn't rush. He stepped fully out of the alley's shadow, his golden eyes glowing like distant lanterns in the dark, fixed on the sector where the three monstrous auras simmered. The trash run was over.
The three Demon-level monsters turned as one, their malevolent senses drawn by the sudden, oppressive weight in the air—the gathering storm of the King Engine. In the gloom of the ruins, six eyes (and several clusters of light-receptive cells) fixed on the single, unmoving figure with the glowing golden gaze.
The Giga-Roach chittered, its armored plates rasping. The Screaming Mandrill beat its chest, a silent prelude to a roar. The Venomous Doom-Scale coiled, a faint, sickly green mist beginning to seep from its joints.
King's analysis was complete. Three targets. Close quarters. A confined ruin space. The optimal solution was decapitation of their coordination.
He drew a breath, and with a focused thought, he unleashed the King Engine not as a blanket of dread, but as a targeted, concussive hammer of psychic authority. The sound, focused into a tight cone, slammed into them.
DOOM.
The effect was instantaneous. The Mandrill's roar died in its throat, choking into a gurgle of fear. The Roach's chittering ceased, its antennae flattening. The Doom-Scale flinched, its poison mist stuttering. For two full seconds, they were statues of terror, paralyzed by the legendary heartbeat.
Two seconds was all he needed.
Royal Acceleration ignited. He didn't become a blur; he became a localized thunderclap of motion. In the space of a paralyzed heartbeat, he crossed the distance. King's Armor cascaded over him not as a full suit, but as concentrated plating over his fists, shins, and core—a balance of ultimate defense and mobility.
He arrived before the Screaming Mandrill, the most overtly aggressive. His right fist, a comet of golden light and demonic density, drove up into its sternum before it could drop its guard.
KRUNCH-BOOM!
The impact wasn't just a hit; it was a detonation. The Mandrill's chest cavity imploded, and the shockwave blasted out its back, vaporizing the monster's spine and painting the crumbling wall behind it with a burst of violet viscera. The creature was dead before its body, lifted off its feet, had even finished registering the punch. King's sleeve was instantly drenched in hot, alien blood.
[Demon-level Threat: Screaming Mandrill - DEFEATED]
[BP Awarded: +25,000]
The other two monsters shook off their paralysis, now fueled by panic and rage. The Giga-Roach launched itself, not at King, but at the ceiling, using its six limbs to scramble and reposition with insectoid speed, seeking to flank. The Venomous Doom-Scale exhaled, and the previously faint mist became a torrent of corrosive, nerve-searing poison, flooding the corridor between them.
King didn't retreat. His King's Eyes tracked both threats simultaneously. He saw the Roach's trajectory, calculating its landing point. He saw the viscosity and spread pattern of the poison cloud.
He moved. Royal Acceleration carried him not away from the poison, but parallel to its leading edge, a golden streak skirting the lethal fog. As the Giga-Roach dropped from above, mandibles snapping, King was already spinning beneath it. His armored left leg shot up in a vicious axe kick that caught the underside of its thorax.
SHATTER-CRACK!
The exoskeleton, capable of withstanding tank shells, buckled and split under the concentrated, demonic force. The Roach was slammed back into the ground, creating a crater, green ichor spurting from the rupture. It wasn't dead, but its mobility was crippled.
The Doom-Scale, seeing its poison fail, charged, its body elongating like a spear, its fangs dripping with a more concentrated, gleaming toxin.
This was the coordinated counterattack. A wounded, grounded foe and a focused, penetrating lunge. A week ago, it would have been a deadly pincer.
Now, it was a sequence.
King planted his feet, facing the charging Doom-Scale. He didn't clap for a wide wave. He brought his palms together in a sharp, compact motion directly in front of the spear-tip of the monster.
KA-POW!
A focused Seismic Clap, a point-blank shockwave of pure concussive force, erupted. It met the Doom-Scale's charge head-on. The sound was the shriek of reversing momentum. The monster's head and forward third of its body were instantly pulverized into a fine, wet paste, stopping the charge dead. The concussive force ricocheted back down its own body, shattering scales and bone.
But the Roach had used the distraction. Ignoring its injury, it scuttled forward with shocking speed, its remaining mandible aiming to shear King's leg from behind.
King's Eyes had seen it. He didn't turn. He simply dropped his weight and drove a backward, armored elbow into the Roach's already fractured thorax.
CRUNCH.
The follow-through was a twist, grabbing a shattered plate of chitin, and using Royal Acceleration for a micro-burst, he slammed the multi-ton monster into the ground, then yanked it upward and over his shoulder, hurling its mangled form directly into the dissolving, headless corpse of the Doom-Scale.
The ruins shook with the impact. Dust and debris rained down.
Silence returned, broken only by the fading sizzle of poison and the slow, powerful THUD… THUD… THUD… of the King Engine.
King stood amidst the carnage, his clothes splattered with viscous, multi-colored blood, steam rising from his armor where droplets of poison had tried and failed to eat through the golden light. He was breathing deeply, but steadily. Not a scratch on him.
The system chimes were a satisfying melody.
[Demon-level Threat: Venomous Doom-Scale - DEFEATED]
[Demon-level Threat: Giga-Roach - DEFEATED]
[BP Awarded: +66,000]
He surveyed the obliterated remains. Three Demons. A clean, dominant victory. The power was real. The demonic strength, the speed, the perception—they were no longer separate tools. They were a unified weapon, and he had just proven it could cleave through a pack of catastrophes.
[Total BP: 280,250]
The numbers were significant, yet as he surveyed the shattered chitin and cooling viscera, a cold, analytical assessment took over. These were Demons in name and power level, yes. But they were not equal. The Goliath Cyclops he had fought weeks ago had been a fortress of malice and focused energy, a battle that had pushed him to the brink of annihilation. The Elder Centipede had been a force of nature, a calamity against which his greatest attacks were mere pinpricks.
These three, for all their coordinated fury, were lesser. Brutes and specialists. Their defeat was not a desperate struggle but a tactical execution. A clean, dominant victory.
If I faced the Cyclops now, with this body, this strength… The mental simulation ran in a flash. He saw himself not just dodging the purple beam, but closing the distance before it could fire. He saw his Demonic Super Human Condition fist meeting the Cyclops's granite fist head-on, and not shattering. He saw his Royal Acceleration allowing him to dictate the pace, not just survive it. The conclusion was clear, solid, and filled him with a profound sense of grounded certainty. I would win. More than that. I would dominate.
He was no longer the scrambler, the lucky survivor. He was the predator in these ruins.
He shook his head, the motion dislodging a drying splatter of amber Roach ichor from his collar. The coppery-sweet scent of monster blood was thick on his clothes, a stark contrast to the mundane task that had begun this evening. He looked down at his stained, ruined shirt and pants. He was a mess.
Instead of activating Royal Acceleration and becoming a golden streak home, he chose to walk. The frantic energy of the fight needed to settle. The cool night air on his face, the gradual quieting of the ruined zone into the softer sounds of the sleeping city, was a necessary decompression. Each step was a conscious act of re-centering. The power thrumming within him was no longer a terrifying, foreign guest; it was his to command. The walk was a meditation on that ownership.
He arrived at his apartment building as the first hints of dawn lightened the eastern sky. The peaceful normalcy of his street felt like a separate world from the alley of carnage just miles away. His key was almost in the lock when a polite, nervous cough came from the shadows near the building's entrance.
Two men in the crisp, dark suits of Hero Association internal affairs stepped forward. They were professionals, but their eyes widened almost imperceptibly as they took him in. King, the legendary S-Class hero, stood before them not in majestic repose, but looking like a butcher who had just finished a shift in an abattoir. His clothes were stiff with drying, multi-hued blood—violet, green, amber. His knuckles were raw. The faint, metallic scent of ozone and alien life clung to him.
"K-King, sir!" the lead agent stammered, snapping into a deep bow. "Forgive the intrusion at this hour! We were instructed to wait for your return and escort you immediately to Association Headquarters. An emergency council of all available S-Class heroes has been convened."
The other agent couldn't tear his eyes from King's stained clothes. "Sir… your attire… were you… engaging monsters all night?"
King followed their gaze. He saw the story they were writing: The mighty King, ever vigilant, spent the dark hours patrolling the hellish border of Z-City, personally culling the monstrous tide, alone and unyielding until dawn. The truth—a trash run interrupted by a profitable skirmish—was far less epic, but the evidence before them was undeniable. He decided to let the legend do the work.
"There were… disturbances," King rumbled, his voice a low gravel of fatigue that was only half-feigned. He made no move to clean up or change. "The night was not quiet."
The agents shared a look of pure awe. To them, this was confirmation of his boundless dedication. They imagined a relentless, night-long war against untold horrors, from which he had emerged splattered but unbowed. Their respect deepened into something near reverence.
"Your commitment is an inspiration to us all, sir," the lead agent said, his voice thick with emotion. "The car is this way. The council awaits your wisdom."
King gave a single, slow nod. He could have insisted on changing, but there was a strategic value in this appearance. Let them see the cost. Let them see the proof of labor. In the political theater of the Hero Association, the blood on his clothes was a more powerful argument than any words he could utter.
He followed them to a waiting black sedan, leaving faint, dusty footprints on the sidewalk. He sat in the plush backseat, a monument of grim solidity amidst the luxury, watching the sleeping city flow past the window. The meeting was a formality, he suspected. The declaration of war had been issued. The kidnapping of Waganma was the casus belli. This council would be the muster of forces before the assault on the Monster Association's lair.
His mind, ever tactical, began to run scenarios. Underground labyrinths. Multiple Dragon-level threats confirmed. His 280,250 BP was a massive reserve, but he would not spend it blindly. He needed intelligence from the meeting first. He needed to know what they were walking into.
The car slid smoothly into the underground vault of the massive, gleaming Hero Association headquarters. The agents rushed to open his door, their eyes still darting to his battle-stained form. As he stepped out, the sterile, bright lights of the garage gleamed off the drying gore on his shoulders.
He walked between them, not as a man going to a meeting, but as a warrior returning from the front lines, summoned directly to the war room. The King Engine, quiet during the ride, began a low, implicit thrum of readiness, echoing faintly in the concrete cavern. The agents flanking him walked taller, infused with the gravity of escorting a force of nature.
The elevator doors opened to the private council floor. The agents gestured down a hushed, opulent hallway towards a set of imposing double doors. "They are assembled inside, sir."
King nodded, dismissing them with a glance. He stood before the doors for a moment, a solitary, bloodied figure in the silent hall. He took one last, deep breath, the scent of conflict still on him.
Then, he pushed the doors open and stepped inside, ready for wathever was to come.