Valhalla Reconstruction Zone. Sector Zero.
The sound of hammers ringing on stone fills the air. Not magical hammers. Just tools.
Hercules, bandages wrapped around his torso, lifts a massive slab of marble. He sets it down with a grunt. He is a god of strength, yet his hands tremble. He isn't tired. He is humbled.
Beside him, Ares is pushing a wheelbarrow filled with rubble. The God of War has stopped screaming. He has stopped boasting. He wears a reflective safety vest over his armor.
"Lift with your knees, Ares," Hercules says quietly.
"I know," Ares mumbles. He dumps the debris into a pile. He looks at a jagged piece of purple rock—a remnant of the dimension Saitama shattered. "Heracles... do you think he's watching?"
"Who?"
" Him. The Bald One. The Yellow Cape."
Hercules pauses. He looks up at the sky. The hole Saitama punched in the reality ceiling has been patched by Odin's runes, but a scar remains—a faint discoloration in the blue, like a coffee stain on a painting.
"No," Hercules says. "He is not watching. We are not interesting enough for him to watch."
The Infirmary of the Gods.
Apollo sits by Zeus's bedside. The God of the Sun usually radiates arrogance, but today his light is dim, flickering like a dying bulb.
Zeus is awake. He is staring at a bowl of grapes.
He picks up a grape.
It is round. Smooth.
It reminds him of a head.
Zeus drops the grape. He shudders.
"Father," Apollo says softly. "The pantheons are demanding answers. The Egyptian delegation wants reparations for Anubis's depression. The Hindus are asking why Shiva is currently orbiting Mars. We need the King to speak."
Zeus pulls the sheets up to his chin. The King of the Cosmos. The Father of Gods. The Survivor of the Titanomachy.
"Tell them..." Zeus's voice is brittle. "...tell them the King is on sabbatical."
"For how long?"
Zeus closes his eyes. He sees the fist. The fist that stopped time. The fist that broke the narrative.
"Until hair comes back into fashion," Zeus whispers. "I will not rule in a universe where baldness equals absolute power. It is aesthetically displeasing."
Earth (One Punch Man Universe). Dr. Kuseno's Laboratory.
WHIRRRRR-CLICK.
Dr. Kuseno adjusts his goggles. He is sweating profusely. His scanners are screaming errors he hasn't seen since the Mad Cyborg incident.
On the examination table lies the piece of Golden Armor Genos scavenged, now fully integrated into his forearm.
It pulses. A faint, heartbeat-like rhythm. Green mana veins thread through the cybernetic steel.
"Genos," Kuseno says, wiping his forehead with an oily rag. "Where did you say you found this alloy?"
Genos sits on a stool, drinking tea with perfect posture. "A dimensional pocket universe designated 'Valhalla.' It was worn by a guard. The natives called it 'Orichalcum of the World Tree.'"
Kuseno taps the metal with a wrench.
DING.
The sound echoes for forty-five seconds, creating a harmonic resonance that makes the coffee in Kuseno's mug levitate.
"Incredible," Kuseno gasps. "This material... it responds to willpower. It converts determination directly into energy. It defies the law of conservation of mass!"
The old doctor looks at his cyborg creation with glistening eyes.
"Genos! With this, we can upgrade your Incineration Cannon to fire beams of concentrated magical density! You could vaporize a meteor! You could challenge a Dragon-level threat solo!"
Genos nods solemnly. "Doctor, can it be configured to improve rapid-heating functions?"
"Heating?" Kuseno blinks. "Well, yes, thermal output is a primary feature, but—"
"Excellent." Genos stands. He activates the arm. The gold glows warm. "Master mentioned he wanted toast. The toaster in the apartment burns the bread on one side. If I can regulate this divine metal to produce the perfect slice of toast... Master will be pleased."
Kuseno drops his wrench. "You... you want to use the metal of the gods... to toast bread?"
"Efficiency is paramount," Genos states. "The Dragon-level threat can wait. Breakfast cannot."
The Human Champion's Quarters. Valhalla.
Sasaki Kojiro sits on a tatami mat. His sword lies before him.
He hasn't touched it in twenty-four hours.
Okita Souji, the demon child of the Shinsengumi, is eating a rice ball nearby.
"You quit?" Okita asks, mouth full.
"No," Sasaki sighs. He picks up a cup of tea. His hands are steady now. "I did not quit. I realized I was playing the wrong game."
Sasaki looks out the window at the reconstruction. He watches Thor—who recovered surprisingly fast—practicing swings in the distance. Thor is trying to mimic the 'Normal Chop'.
"I spent my life perfecting the scan," Sasaki explains. "Predicting the opponent's next move. analyzing their breathing, their muscle tension, their intent."
He takes a sip.
"But that man... he had no intent. There was nothing to read. It was like fighting an ocean. You don't fence with an ocean, Okita. You just drown."
"Sounds scary," Okita says, grinning. "I wanna fight him."
Sasaki hits Okita on the head with his scabbard.
"Do not. We are lucky we survived watching him."
The door opens. Brunhilde enters. She looks exhausted. Her hair is messy. She smells of smoke and stress.
She holds a thick stack of parchment.
"What is that?" Sasaki asks.
"The Treaty," Brunhilde drops the stack on the table. It lands with a heavy thump. "The New Accord of Valhalla. Signed by Zeus, Odin, and the other survivors."
She opens the first page.
"Clause 1: Ragnarok is canceled indefinitely.
Clause 2: Humanity is declared 'Off Limits' for 1,000 years.
Clause 3..."
Brunhilde points to the bold text at the bottom.
"...Any bald human wearing yellow is to be given immediate VIP treatment, free food, and escorted to the exit. Under penalty of erasure."
Brunhilde sits down and pours herself a drink. She downs it in one gulp.
"We won," she whispers. She doesn't look happy. She looks traumatized. "We actually won."
"To the victor," Sasaki raises his tea cup. "And to the fact that he went home."
Deep Space. The Edge of the Narrative.
The void is quiet.
Usually.
But near the sector where the Author manifested, reality is thin. The tear Saitama created healed, but the scar tissue is weak.
Something approaches the scar from the outside.
Not a god. Gods exist within the system.
This thing exists in the white space between panels.
A giant, singular eye presses against the invisible wall of the dimension. It rotates. It observes the lingering energy signature of the Serious Punch.
Subject Identified: Saitama.
Universe of Origin: OPM-Alpha.
Status: Limit Broken.
A tendril of darkness touches the scar. It tastes the energy.
Delicious.
"He has transcended his narrative," a voice vibrates through the cosmos. It sounds like paper tearing. "He is becoming... Real."
The entity retreats into the darkness. But it leaves a mark. A tiny, black ink-stain on the fabric of the RoR universe. A marker.
Target Acquired.
Z-City Supermarket. 6:15 PM.
The florescent lights hum. The linoleum floor is sticky near the dairy aisle.
Saitama stands at the register.
He is holding a coupon. He is holding a carton of eggs.
The cashier, a teenage girl popping gum, looks at the coupon.
"Sir, this expired yesterday."
Saitama freezes. The world turns grey. The despair is deeper than when he faced Boros. Deeper than the crushing gravity of Gaia.
"Wait," Saitama says, voice trembling. "Check the date again. It says valid through Sunday. Today is Monday. That means... wait, no. Yesterday was Sunday."
"Yeah," the girl says. "So it's expired."
"But..." Saitama grips the counter. His glove squeaks. "We were in another dimension! Time dilation! Forty minutes there could have been... wait, forty minutes is less time! It should still be Sunday!"
"Sir, there's a line," the girl points to the person behind him.
"I punched the God of Time!" Saitama argues, desperation rising. "I literally slapped the guy who controls chronology! That should count for something! I earned this discount!"
"Did you punch my manager?" the girl asks, bored.
"No."
"Then the coupon is expired. Full price. 400 yen."
400 yen.
Zeus would kill civilizations for less power than Saitama holds.
Odin would sacrifice eyes for less wisdom.
Saitama stares at the eggs. 400 yen is too much. It breaks the budget. It ruins the savings plan.
"Fine," Saitama whispers. Defeated. Crushed.
He puts the eggs back.
"I'll just take the bean sprouts."
He walks out of the store. Shoulders slumped. Defeated by policy.
Genos waits outside, holding the bag of other groceries.
"Master? Did you secure the protein?"
"Let's go home, Genos," Saitama says, walking into the sunset. His cape flutters sadly. "I don't want to talk about it."
"Understood. I will prepare the bean sprouts with maximum thermal efficiency using the God-Slayer Arm."
"Yeah. Sure. Whatever."
Saitama walks down the street. A hero for fun. A god-slayer by accident.
And the brokest man in the multiverse.