One Punch Man in Baki's World

Roppongi Hills, Oliva's Hotel Suite

The walls barely contained the sound of sizzling steak on a portable grill. Mr. Oliva, shirtless and grinning, flipped a slab of wagyu with comical ease.

His phone buzzed.

Text from Doppo: Jack Hanma just vanished from satellite surveillance. Reports of a fight near Yokohama Docks.

Oliva scrolled.

Another message from the U.S. Department: Proceed with caution. Subject: Kurozuchi may be active.

He leaned back, frowning.

"So this little dojo war's becoming a city-wide phenomenon now, huh?"

He grabbed a second steak and muttered, "Might be time to meet the bald guy after all."

Orochi Dojo – Morning

Saitama was brushing his teeth, his head leaned out the window, staring at pigeons. Katsumi walked in, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"You heard?"

Saitama spat into a cup. "What?"

"Jack Hanma's gone. Might be in a fight. Possibly ambushed."

Saitama yawned. "He'll be fine. Guy looks like he could bite a tank."

Retsu entered. "It wasn't just any ambush. Kurozuchi might have made his first move."

That name again.

Saitama furrowed his brow. "What's with that guy?"

Doppo, behind them, handed over a dossier. "A former prodigy. Once meant to represent China in the Sea King tournament. Defeated by Retsu—humiliated, actually. But he never stopped training. Now… he's gathering outcasts. Broken fighters. Calling them his army."

Saitama flipped through the file. "So he's like a martial arts villain?"

"He's dangerous," Retsu said quietly. "He understands pain. He learns from it."

Saitama closed the file. "If he's picking fights to test us, he'll be back."

Katsumi glanced at the door. "What if he doesn't stop with Jack?"

Everyone went quiet.

Saitama stretched. "Then I'll just have to meet him sooner or later."

He walked outside into the sun.

Yokohama – Docks, Sunrise

The aftermath was brutal.

Crates were shattered. Blood painted the floors. Jack stood breathing heavily, face bruised, one eye swollen, but smiling.

Kurozuchi was gone.

Vanished before the final blow.

Jack stared into the broken sky.

"You'll need more than tricks," he whispered. "If you want to break me… bring something bigger."

The war had started.

And Saitama had yet to throw a single punch.

Elsewhere - Orochi Dojo

The first light of dawn spilled over the mountaintops, casting a golden hue across the old wooden dojo. The dew on the stone garden shimmered like tiny stars, and a thin fog curled through the bamboo stalks beyond the courtyard. Birds chirped lazily, unaware of the storm approaching.

Inside the dojo, Retsu knelt in quiet meditation, steam rising from a cup of jasmine tea beside him. Katsumi stretched slowly beneath the rafters, his bruises from Sikorsky's ambush healing well but still sore reminders. The atmosphere was peaceful. Still.

Then, the birds went quiet.

A deep, rhythmic thudding echoed through the trees.

Each step was heavier than the last.

Retsu opened his eyes.

Katsumi stood up, eyes narrowing.

The front doors rattled slightly before sliding open—not kicked or slammed, but with deliberate weight.

There, standing tall against the light of the rising sun, was a man so massive he seemed carved from living stone.

Mr. Oliva.

Dressed in a sleeveless black jacket that barely contained his mountainous frame, pilot glasses perched on his nose, and a duffel bag slung casually over one shoulder, the "Unchained" had arrived.

He didn't speak at first. Just took one step forward onto the polished floor.

Katsumi felt the boards creak under the pressure.

Retsu rose and bowed slightly. "Mr. Oliva. Welcome."

Oliva nodded. "Nice view you've got here."

Behind them, Saitama stepped out of the side room, holding a half-eaten rice ball.

He blinked. "Oh. It's you."

Oliva turned.

The tension in the dojo shifted instantly. Like a vacuum pulling in air.

Retsu felt it—the moment when two monsters recognized each other.

But instead of aggression, Oliva smiled.

"You're real," he said, walking forward. "I saw footage. Read the files. Thought maybe you were an overhyped cosplayer."

Saitama scratched his cheek. "A what?"

Oliva chuckled. "Doesn't matter. You're him."

He reached into his duffel and pulled out a neatly wrapped package—a slab of prime U.S. steak.

"Brought breakfast," he said. "American style."

Saitama's eyes lit up just a little. "Nice."

Retsu raised an eyebrow. "You came all this way to bring meat?"

Oliva shrugged. "And to look into the eyes of the man who made Yujiro Hanma hesitate."

Katsumi inhaled sharply.

Saitama looked unimpressed. "He hesitated?"

"Just once," Oliva said. "And that's once more than he ever has before."

A silence passed between them—not hostile, but profound.

Saitama finally extended a hand. "Wanna eat?"

Oliva took it. Their handshake was brief… but seismic.

Two living weapons. One forged in discipline. One in ease.

Somewhere above them, the rising sun crowned the dojo roof with gold.

Retsu said quietly, "History might remember this moment. The day muscle met mystery."

Katsumi chuckled. "And it all started with steak."

Orochi Dojo – Courtyard, Moments Later

The steak sizzled over a makeshift grill. Katsumi crouched nearby, fanning the coals with a folded paper fan, sweat on his brow. Retsu stood with arms folded, watching silently like a sentinel. The scent of roasted meat filled the air, merging strangely with the crisp dawn breeze.

Oliva sat on a large stone slab like it was a throne, legs spread, back straight, arms resting on his knees.

Saitama squatted beside the grill, poking the meat with a pair of chopsticks.

Neither said much.

Yet the silence between them was loud.

"So," Oliva finally said, "you're not what I expected."

Saitama glanced at him. "You expected someone taller?"

"No. I expected… more tension." Oliva leaned forward slightly. "Most strong men, they exude pressure. Like boiling water."

He smirked.

"You're more like still ice. Cold, quiet… dangerous."

Saitama chewed a piece of steak. "Maybe I'm just not trying hard enough."

Oliva chuckled. "That's the part that messes with me. I've been in war zones. Ripped men apart. But when I look at you, my instincts don't scream 'danger' — they just stop working."

Retsu spoke. "Perhaps that's what makes him so terrifying."

Katsumi muttered, "He's strength beyond comprehension. Like gravity. You don't fight it… you endure it."

Saitama blinked. "I think you guys are overthinking this. I'm just a guy who trained hard. Sit-ups. Squats. Running. That kind of stuff."

Katsumi squinted. "You're lying."

"I'm not," Saitama replied blankly.

Oliva narrowed his eyes. "You're saying that routine made you strong enough to scare Yujiro?"

Saitama shrugged. "Yes, however, no one believes me."

The grill popped. Fat hissed over fire.

For a moment, the sun glinted off Saitama's dome-like head. Oliva squinted and leaned back with a thoughtful grunt.

"At first, I considered challenging you," he finally said, voice low. "But after thinking it through… and seeing you, just for a moment, I realized the time isn't right. Not yet."

Saitama didn't reply.

"I want to watch," Oliva continued. "I want to see how the world reacts to you. How the pillars of strength in Japan crumble just by your existence."

Retsu asked, "And then?"

Oliva grinned. "And then I'll decide whether I need to evolve… or become extinct."

A hush settled again, broken only by Katsumi cutting up the steak and offering a plate.

Saitama took it. "Thanks."

Oliva bit into his portion and let out a satisfied growl. "Damn. That's good."

Katsumi, wiping his hands, looked toward the rising sun.

"There's another one coming, isn't there?"

Everyone looked up.

Retsu nodded grimly. "Yes. Kurozuchi."

Oliva raised a brow. "I did get a message from the department earlier. But I think I never saw him. Personally."

"You weren't supposed to," Retsu said. "He's a ghost from our past. Exiled. Forgotten. But not dead. And now he's gathering disciples like it's war season."

Oliva snorted. "Let him come."

But his voice lacked certainty.

Retsu added, "His current target is Jack Hanma."

Oliva's eyes sharpened.

"The big guy?"

"Yes," Retsu said. "And unlike most, Jack will chase that fight."

Saitama asked, "Who's Jack again?"

Oliva finished his steak and stood, brushing his hands. "Yujiro's other kid. Not Baki. The first one. A brute with something to prove."

Saitama blinked. "Huh. Didn't know he had two."

"He has many," Retsu said quietly. "But only two monsters."

The courtyard quieted again.

Somewhere, far off in the Tokyo streets, a news chopper roared past. The world was beginning to stir.

And in the wake of the last convict's fall, a new storm was already forming.

Oliva picked up his duffel bag.

"I'm staying nearby. I'll be back tomorrow. I want to see what kind of storm you cause without even moving."

Saitama nodded slowly, watching the clouds float above the dojo roof.

"They move fast," he muttered.

"Who?" asked Katsumi.

"The clouds," Saitama said.

Oliva chuckled. "So do the strong."

And with that, the strongest man in America turned and left through the dojo gates.

The others stood in silence.

As the morning sun climbed higher, the shadow left behind by Oliva's presence merged with the one cast by Saitama's calm.

One was muscle.

The other, a mystery.

And somewhere beneath that sky… Jack Hanma's rage was stirring.

TO BE CONTINUED...