Shuri paused, beautiful eyes dimming with a hint of reluctance. She understood, though. Saitama wasn't of Wakanda. For the one hailed as Earth's strongest man to leave… it was only natural.
"Leaving so soon? I'll see you off,"
King T'Challa walked over and said.
"Onii-chan? Aren't you going to your celebration banquet?" Shuri asked, curious.
The whole of Wakanda was reveling—celebrating that T'Challa had ascended the throne and would continue the governance of the late king, his father.
"Mother is handling it,"
T'Challa smiled, then looked at Saitama with gratitude. "Thank you, Saitama."
"This has nothing to do with me. It's what you deserved, T'Challa,"
Saitama replied.
"Then let's head to New York first. I've got this feeling something big's about to happen there."
Some sixth sense tugged at him—maybe because he'd broken his "biological limiter," Saitama's intuition had grown razor sharp. He felt New York was about to face something serious. He had friends there—Stark, Pepper, and the others—so he needed to swing back.
"Alright, no problem. I'll drive,"
T'Challa chuckled—Wakanda's king personally acting as Saitama's chauffeur.
"Then… when will you come back next time, Saitama?"
Shuri couldn't hide her reluctance. The time they'd spent together wasn't long, but this straightforward girl—
"Uh… maybe, if there's a chance,"
Saitama hedged. He really didn't know when he'd be back. After all… even salted-fish have a busy life.
New York.
Stark's underground lab.
After Saitama left, Tony Stark threw himself into developing an all-new Mark suit. Thanks to a weekend flash-sale haul, JARVIS's data-processing grunt had leveled up, pushing simulation and R&D forward by leaps and bounds.
"Perfect."
Like an electrician setting down his tools, Stark finally straightened. Before him stood a set of Mark armor that looked just like ordinary clothing.
Mark IX!
Strictly speaking, it could no longer be called "armor." It was a "nano-material unified offense–defense system."
After witnessing Saitama's absurd, broken combat power, Stark had taken a real hit. Without Saitama in the picture, he'd be the nation's shining star—adored by countless beauties, courted by political bigwigs. But now…
There's always a taller mountain. For a proud man like Stark, the pressure was real.
He swore to build a super-suit that could contend with Saitama. And now, at last, he'd pushed the Mark line to its ninth generation—nano armor.
"Perfect. Let's see how you run."
Grinning, Stark tossed aside his tools.
Previously, he'd used a subdermal micro–energy emitter injection system—he had to strike specific poses to trigger nerve signals and summon the Mark. But now—
Stark stepped forward like a gentleman, lifted the Mark's "garments," and felt the hand of a tailor's finest work; the texture was barely different from real clothes.
Soft. Clean. If you didn't look closely, you'd swear it was just… clothing.
He slipped it on and gave the mirror a cool, stoic look.
"Not bad."
He snapped his fingers.
The Mark IX outfit instantly went transparent, making it look like Stark wore nothing but a black work vest.
"Buddy, give me something flashier."
Pleased with the nano-coating's stealth effect, Stark snapped again—
and the "clothes" shifted in a dazzling cascade…
(End of Chapter)
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