The wind hit harder up here.
Jordan stood atop a barren hillside, Z-City visible as a distant sprawl at the forest's edge. No witnesses. No collateral damage. Perfect testing ground.
He raised his hand. Blue flames ignited, and the purple SR card materialized between his fingers.
"Kennen. Equip."
The card shattered.
Miles away, in a mountain temple:
A silver-haired old man paused mid-sip, teacup hovering at his lips. His ears twitched—martial artist's instinct detecting something wrong in the air.
He set the cup down with practiced precision.
One moment, he sat hunched and elderly in his meditation pose. The next, his form blurred—afterimage dissolving as he reappeared atop the temple roof, one hand shading his eyes as he scanned the horizon.
The sky had changed.
Leaden storm clouds boiled out of nowhere, swallowing the clear blue expanse. Wind howled. Lightning split the darkness—not natural forks, but violent bolts that hammered a distant mountain peak in rapid succession.
Thunder rolled like artillery fire.
The world plunged into premature twilight, apocalyptic and furious.
The old man stroked his mustache, expression thoughtful. "Such powerful lightning... but something feels off about this storm..."
Elsewhere, on a jogging trail:
A black-haired young man stopped mid-stride, chest heaving. Sweat poured down his face as he bent over, hands on his knees, gasping for air.
He'd been running for—what, an hour? Maybe two? His legs felt like lead.
The young man straightened, wiping his face with his sleeve, and froze.
The horizon had gone dark. Storm clouds gathered with unnatural speed, and lightning hammered the mountains in a relentless barrage. The distant peaks looked like they were under siege.
"Weird," he muttered between ragged breaths. "Is it gonna rain again? Might as well... run the last five kilometers back..."
He turned around, still panting heavily, and forced his exhausted legs into motion.
Ha... ha... ha...
Each breath was labor. Each step, agony.
But he kept running.
Beneath the thunderclouds:
The moment the card dissolved, electricity exploded through Jordan's body.
His eyes blazed silver-white, pupils drowned in lightning energy. Power surged through every nerve, every muscle fiber, overwhelming and absolute. His entire nervous system rewired itself in an instant, adapting to conduct voltages that should've killed him.
Blue flames mixed with crackling electricity, and Jordan's silhouette disappeared into a column of pure lightning.
The storm answered.
Thunder detonated overhead. Bolts struck the hilltop in continuous bombardment—some natural, some called by the power now coursing through him. The boundary blurred. Jordan couldn't tell where the storm ended and he began.
Lightning erupted from his body in wild arcs, earthing through the ground and scorching stone black.
He raised one hand.
Electricity coiled around his fingers like living serpents, dancing between his knuckles, hungry and violent and his.
Jordan grinned through the chaos.
"Now this... this is what I'm talking about."
Two days later.
Monday morning. New week, same routine.
Jordan arrived at the station early, dropped off his incident report from the Lizard Monster attack, exchanged pleasantries with colleagues who had no idea their rookie patrolman could call down lightning storms.
Business as usual.
He clocked in, grabbed his equipment, and headed out on his scooter to start the day's patrol.
Nobody noticed the tiny sparks that occasionally leaped from the tips of his hair—brief arcs of electricity that flashed into existence and vanished without a trace.
Z-City's recent spike in Mysterious Being activity had stretched police resources dangerously thin. As one of this year's top-performing recruits, Jordan had earned authorization to patrol solo.
Small victories.
He cruised through his sector munching on a pineapple bun he'd grabbed from a convenience store, while a cup of hot milk floated beside him—held aloft by telekinesis—creating what had to be the most relaxed work commute in the department.
The writing was on the wall, though. Police effectiveness was declining. The Hero Association's private force had better funding, better equipment, and—most importantly—people who could punch buildings in half.
Cops were being relegated to cleanup duty. Post-incident documentation. Yellow tape and witness statements.
Jordan had no illusions about changing the system. But he was considering a side gig.
If I'm going to fight Mysterious Beings anyway, might as well get paid twice.
The department's disaster reporting network was efficient—he'd give them that much. Being plugged into the system meant immediate alerts whenever something weird went down in his jurisdiction.
As long as he responded fast enough, he'd almost never have to worry about someone stealing his—
Jordan's train of thought derailed.
He choked on his milk, nearly swerving into a lamppost.
No. No way. Not already.
Up ahead on the sidewalk, a black-haired young man in a blue and white tracksuit staggered forward like a zombie. Sweat poured off him in sheets. His chest heaved like a broken bellows, each breath a rattling wheeze.
Jordan's brain automatically edited out the thick black hair.
The mental image of a bald head with dead-fish eyes overlapped the struggling jogger.
Saitama.
It was definitely Saitama.
Speak of monster-stealing, and the champion arrives.
Jordan sighed, parking his scooter. An inexplicable sense of crisis settled over him.
At this rate, my police job might not be as stable as I thought.
Huff... huff... huff...
Saitama clutched his thighs, lungs screaming, vision swimming. His legs trembled with every step.
Honestly, if someone keeled over dead right now, it would be him.
Jordan tossed his empty breakfast wrapper in a trash bin and watched as Saitama stumbled into a nearby park with the determination of a man marching to his execution.
Then the squats started.
Saitama's face twisted into a mask of pure suffering. Down. Hold. Up. His legs shook violently. Sweat dripped onto the pavement. Kids played around him, oblivious to the torture unfolding.
Jordan counted silently. One hundred squats. Then one hundred push-ups. Then one hundred sit-ups.
For a normal person, this was brutal. For Saitama—whose eyes were already bloodshot, whose muscles screamed in protest—this was borderline suicide.
And yet.
He kept going.
Jordan watched in silence, something between respect and pity stirring in his chest.
The radio on his belt crackled to life. "All units, purse snatcher fleeing eastbound, three blocks from Sakura Park—"
Jordan glanced at the map display on his bike, then back at Saitama's agonized squats.
Time to work.
Blue flames ignited around Jordan's body. His feet left the ground.
He rose straight up, gravity releasing its hold as telekinetic force lifted him skyward. The city spread out below—streets, buildings, crowds moving like ants.
Flying as a psychic should be pretty reasonable, right?
Spider-Sense extended his perception. Enhanced vision swept the streets, filtering movement patterns until—there.
An alley, three blocks east. A man in a dirty jacket crouched behind a dumpster, rifling through a stolen purse.
Target acquired.
Jordan angled downward and dropped.
Wind screamed past. The ground rushed up. At the last second, he channeled telekinetic force into a compressed field and slammed it down like a hammer.
WHAM.
The thief looked up just in time to see reality crush him flat.
He collapsed instantly, unconscious before his face hit the pavement. The stolen purse tumbled from his hands.
Jordan touched down beside the sprawled form, already pulling out handcuffs. Click. Click. Wrists secured behind his back.
He scooped up the purse, hoisted the thief over one shoulder, and walked to the nearest station.
Entire operation: ninety seconds.
Back at the park:
Saitama had moved on to push-ups.
Down. Hold for thirty agonizing seconds. Up. Collapse. Repeat.
His arms trembled like overcooked noodles. His breathing sounded like a dying engine. But he didn't stop.
One hundred. Every single one.
Jordan returned just as Saitama finished the final rep, rolling onto his back with a groan that sounded like his soul leaving his body.
Run while you can, Jordan thought, mentally addressing the Mysterious Beings who didn't know what was coming. This guy's going to murder all of you.
He approached.
"Officer?" Saitama pushed himself into a sitting position, blinking sweat from his eyes. "Is something wrong?"
Jordan pulled two bottles of orange soda from his jacket—telekinetically chilled—and tossed one over.
Saitama caught it on instinct. He stared at the ice-cold bottle, confusion flickering across his exhausted features.
His body—desperately dehydrated—made the decision for him. The cap twisted off. Carbonation hissed.
He drank half the bottle in one pull.
"Thank you!" Saitama gasped, wiping his mouth. "That's a huge help!"
"No problem." Jordan cracked open his own bottle. "Saw you training pretty hard. Takes serious willpower."
Saitama glanced at the half-empty soda. Orange flavor—his favorite.
Gratitude welled up, simple and genuine. "Thank you, officer. Seriously."
Jordan clapped him on the shoulder. "Keep it up." He raised his bottle in a small salute, then turned and walked back toward his scooter.
Saitama drained the rest of his drink, watching the tall cop disappear around the corner.
"That officer's a good person."