All the struggling, thrashing focal points of the monster's counterattack were concentrated right where Saitama stood.
He had become the center of every destructive storm on the battlefield.
Yet he didn't even bother to glance back at the monsters diving toward him in suicidal waves. His gaze remained fixed on the massive wound beneath his feet, where purple-black energy writhed and churned, desperately trying to stitch the torn flesh back together.
"Still trying to play?" Saitama asked calmly, raising his other fist. "Such a hassle."
The madness of this dying counterattack was powerful enough to instantly annihilate a fully equipped modern battalion.
But for Saitama, standing at the absolute summit of raw strength, it only meant one thing:
More cleanup.
"Tch."
A soft click of his tongue, tinged with impatience.
Facing the bat-things hurtling in from every direction and the giant spiders launching themselves like artillery shells in suicidal arcs, Saitama's movements were as if someone had hit the fast-forward button.
Both of his arms dissolved into blurred afterimages. Every afterimage that swept past left a pocket of vacuum in its wake.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang…!!!
The impacts came so fast and dense that even the air didn't have time to explode properly.
Any monster foolish enough to enter the ten-meter radius around his body—bat or spider, no matter the angle of approach or the contorted posture of its dive—was struck dead-on at a vital point the instant it touched that invisible "absolute domain" surrounding him.
Not a single monster managed to reach his gleaming bald head in one piece.
The space near him felt like an unseen meat grinder. One after another, monsters burst apart in midair, exploding into clouds of blood mist, reduced to fine, sticky black-red droplets raining down in sheets.
Every punch he threw erased one or several streams of frenzied attacks at once.
The trailing shockwaves of his blows spread outward, forming brief but stable pockets of vacuum that even forced back the deadly purple miasma for a moment.
And through it all, his main line of attack never changed.
Downward.
His right fist rose—and fell.
Boom!!!
Another Normal Punch slammed into the mushroom-cap main body's massive wound, precisely striking the purple-black core energy squirming deep inside.
A colossal explosive force erupted on impact, tearing that viscous mass of "healing" energy to shreds and scattering it, blasting the wound even deeper and wider. More filthy blood and torn tissue geysered into the air.
Then came his left fist.
Boom!!!
No pause.
That punch hammered into the already cracked, stubbornly resisting tissue at the wound's edge.
It was like dropping a ten-thousand-ton forging hammer onto a rotten log.
For dozens of meters around, the mushroom-cap tissue groaned under the strain, a sound on the brink of breaking apart, and then collapsed inward in an instant, crumbling and disintegrating.
This time, the massive body of the main host didn't just shudder; it jerked violently upward before slamming back down into the ground, making the earth tremble.
Saitama's face remained blank.
His fists rose and fell in alternating rhythm, like an efficient, precision demolition machine.
Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!
Punch after punch.
Every strike carried a frightening level of force, enough to tear the earth itself, and each one landed squarely on the main body's most critical, structurally weakest spots.
The pitch of the psychic shrieks pouring out of the creature had long since lost all coherence.
The roar of rage became a high, hysterical wail, then dwindled further into broken, ragged wheezing, like a bellows with holes torn through it, forcing out only shattered "khh… khh…" noises.
With every heavy blow, the core's eerie purple glow dimmed another shade.
With every thunderous impact, the entire bulk of the main body visibly shrank and sagged in on itself.
Its terrifying life force was being smashed apart, scattered, and utterly erased—
One punch at a time by Saitama.
(End of Chapter)
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