The Hero Association had not originally planned to notify Amai Mask.
The reasoning was sound, from a certain angle: this was fundamentally an S-Class operation, and Amai Mask was A-Class. More practically, certain senior executives had long since filed him under a specific mental category—idol asset. A hero who drove sponsorships, filled stadiums, and kept the Association's public profile gleaming without costing a single operational yen. You didn't deploy an asset into a war zone. You deployed it at press events.
Capital's judgment of people, it must be said, is frequently accurate. Frequently, and not always.
As a top-tier idol and de facto hero advisor, Amai Mask's influence within the Association extended well past his official rank. He had ears everywhere—a function of being beautiful, famous, and paying meticulous attention. And so, less than an hour after the executive meeting adjourned, someone with a loose conscience and a private phone made a call.
Amai Mask listened. His eyes, reflected in the makeup mirror he was still sitting in front of, went very still.
Apart from Super Cop, he thought, his voice gentle and cold as winter glass, I can't trust those other S-Class fools with something like this.
He didn't say that aloud. He simply made a mental note, filed it in a very particular category, and returned to getting his face ready for the evening's concert.
The sky over Q-City was clear and clean, the kind of afternoon that made municipal heroics look almost pleasant from a distance.
Twenty-one monster incidents. Six minutes, thirty-eight seconds, total elapsed response time. Eighteen seconds per incident, on average.
That was the "Police Dog Hero"—Watchdog Man—doing his job.
By the time two Association staff members in sweat-soaked black suits arrived at his designated post, all twenty-one incidents were already resolved, filed, and forgotten.
They found him in his usual spot, the white dog mascot costume somehow conveying a bone-deep sense of relaxation. He was yawning—or at least, the expressionless dog mask made the motion look like a yawn—and his head lifted as they approached, sniffing the air left, then right.
"Emergency?" The voice that emerged from the costume was unexpectedly ordinary. Flat, alert, faintly puzzled. "Where? I don't smell anything."
The staff member assigned to explain opened his mouth, closed it, reconsidered his life choices, and tried again. "I— my apologies, Lord Watchdog Man. I wasn't clear. The emergency is in Z-City."
"Z-City." Watchdog Man considered this for a full two seconds. "Not Q-City."
"...No, sir. Not Q-City."
He nodded, apparently satisfied, and lay back down.
"Then I won't go."
The air achieved a specific quality of silence.
Both staff members looked at each other. Something profound and unspoken passed between them.
"...We're sorry to have disturbed you," one said at last, and they bowed deeply, and they left.
Hamster Revolving Hot Pot Restaurant, F-City.
The establishment had been fully reserved for the morning—the bodyguards in black suits posted at either entrance had seen to that before their charge arrived. A reasonable precaution, as it turned out, because Pig God occupied five seats, and had arranged his trajectory through the revolving conveyor belt with the quiet efficiency of a man who had optimized this particular activity over many years.
Five hot pots running simultaneously. Perfect individual timing on each. Ingredients scooped the moment they reached optimal doneness, consumed before the next batch needed attention. Not a second wasted.
The two Association staff members who jogged up from the car outside verified their credentials with the door guard, stepped inside, and found themselves confronted with the unmistakable physical reality of an S-Class hero at rest.
Pig God's standing height was roughly two meters. Seated, he was approximately the same width as two ordinary people combined, with a density of presence that went beyond mere size—something about the sheer accumulated mass of him created a localized gravity. Not metaphorical. The air near him simply felt heavier.
He heard the commotion at the door before they reached him. He finished a full portion in one clean motion, turned around, and regarded them with an expression of genuine mild interest.
"Looking for me? Something I can help with?"
The waitress by the wall—shoulder-length hair, black maid uniform, the professional mask of someone who thought she'd seen everything—revised her professional mask. He had, by her private count, been eating for nearly two hours.
"Excuse us for interrupting your meal, Lord Pig God."
"Snoring—" He cleared his plate before they could blink. "It's fine. What do you need?"
They relayed the briefing quickly: Monster Association, underground beneath Z-City, confirmed Dragon-level and Demon-level threats throughout the structure, Hero Association requesting all available S-Class support.
Pig God put his chopsticks down. He stood up.
The staff member in glasses watched a dark cloud descend toward him and realized with some alarm that the cloud was a man.
The pressure was immediate and physical—not aggressive, just present, the way a mountain is present. Sweat broke across both their foreheads before either one spoke.
"Is the situation urgent?" Pig God asked. "Should I go right now?"
"It's not—" The man in glasses breathed carefully. "—it's not immediately urgent. Super Cop and the S-Class team are already above the target location. The situation is currently under the Association's control."
"Oh." Some of the mountain-tension released. Pig God sat back down. The wooden bench welded to the floor let out a sound like a small, structural complaint. "In that case."
He reached for his chopsticks.
"Is there a time requirement?"
"We were told to get you to Z-City before dark."
He nodded, already rotating to the next pot. "That's enough time. Give me a moment to finish eating."
The staff members exchanged a glance, settled in to wait, and watched an S-Class hero at work.
The deepest floor of the women's correctional facility was a different country.
The standard prison sounds—shouting, the distant rhythm of institutional life—faded well before you reached this level. What replaced them was something closer to a held breath. The kind of silence that had earned its reputation over time.
A thin prisoner in gray correctional clothes shuffled down the corridor, one trembling step at a time. He was trying very hard not to look at anything. He was failing.
The Absolutely Forbidden Zone for Men.
Even among the general population of hardened death-row inmates—men who had stared down futures ending in a needle—this particular block had a reputation. The kind of reputation you shared in whispers. The kind nobody walked into voluntarily.
He was only here because of the bet. Three rounds of dice, a week ago, and now here he was, personally delivering a Hero Association request to the most terrifying occupant of the most terrifying cell in this building.
He could still hear the laughter as they'd handed him the envelope.
Good luck.
His footsteps echoed. His throat was very dry. Sweat prickled at his collar.
At the far end of the corridor, the last cell waited.
He stopped a respectful distance away. Gathered every fragment of courage he possessed. Opened his mouth.
"Um... Boss? ...Boss?"
A sound like something massive colliding with something structural detonated from inside the cell. The entire corridor shuddered. The prisoner's calves performed an involuntary test of his structural integrity.
The cell door swung open.
The dark beyond it held very still for a moment.
And then, slowly, something moved inside it.
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