One Punch Man in Baki's World

Yokohama Docks – Crumbling Warehouse, Afternoon

The smell of rust, saltwater, and blood clung to the air like an unshakable fog. Sunlight pierced through holes in the shattered roof, cutting golden lines across broken shipping containers and twisted steel.

Jack Hanma sat atop one such crumpled crate, hunched forward, shirtless, his bruised muscles twitching from the aftermath. Dried blood marked his jaw like war paint, and his lips were split from too many punches taken willingly.

His fists—taped hastily after the last brawl—were swollen, pulsing with dull heat. He flexed them anyway, curling and uncurling each finger with slow satisfaction.

"They don't break like they used to," Jack muttered to no one. The faintest glimmer of disappointment danced in his voice.

He wasn't looking for glory. He was looking for pain. Something real. Something sharp enough to carve its name into his flesh. But the ambush earlier had failed to satisfy.

Around him, the warehouse still smoldered. Collapsed beams and shattered pallets bore testament to the battle—if it could even be called that. Kurozuchi's scouts were precise, fast, and unrelenting. But they lacked one thing.

Conviction.

They fought like they were already defeated. As if someone had whispered into their ears that no amount of teamwork would stop the beast in front of them. Jack had crushed them one by one, until the floor was littered with bodies, groaning and unconscious.

But Kurozuchi never showed. Only the pressure. A whisper in the shadows. A game of nerves.

Jack stood slowly, each motion dragging up the tension in his vast frame. His spine cracked with satisfaction, and his eyes—cold and feral—turned to the open sea beyond the dock.

He stepped off the crate, the floor creaking beneath his bare feet.

"Cowards," he growled. "Trying to end me when I'm weak?"

Salt wind blew against his face. His eyes never blinked.

"Send your whole damn army."

He didn't roar. He didn't scream.

He just walked toward the edge of the dock—shoulders high, chest wide, walking like a man who had nothing to lose.

"Vacuum Palm. When did it get so strong? What did that bastard do?"

Shibuya – Kurozuchi's Hidden Chamber

The underground chamber beneath Shibuya was colder than usual, lit by rows of ancient light panels humming like hornets. Dozens of monitors lined the walls, each flickering with static, recordings, and live feeds from across Tokyo.

Kurozuchi stood at the center, robed in black, his long hair tied back tightly, burn scars glowing faintly beneath his cheekbones. He stared at the largest screen—paused footage of Jack Hanma mid-punch. The victim, one of his own scouts, lay airborne in the frame, eyes rolled back.

"He doesn't hesitate," Kurozuchi said quietly. His voice was low, calm, without judgment. "Not like his brother."

Behind him stood disciples—rejects, outcasts, former champions discarded by the world. Each bore a unique insignia carved into their skin—some over hearts, others over eyes, tongues, or palms. These were not men of order. They were avatars of chaos.

"Jack Hanma is not the kind of wall you scale," Kurozuchi continued. "He's the kind you drown beneath."

A young disciple, barely more than 20, stepped forward. "Master… should we try again?"

Kurozuchi didn't turn.

"No. Not yet."

He tapped a separate monitor. A grainy image loaded: Hanayama Kaoru—immense, stoic, a titan in a three-piece suit—caught mid-stride in a crowded alley. Yakuza around him moved like waves parting for a ship.

"The Stone Wall," Kurozuchi muttered. "The most loyal ally of Baki Hanma."

He turned to his disciples.

"Let's see what happens when loyalty collides with legacy."

He waved his hand. The screens shifted again—locations, maps, symbols flashing like war plans. Every inch of Tokyo was slowly being marked.

And at the center… the dojo.

Somewhere in Tokyo – Yujiro's Private Lounge

Far above the city, behind bulletproof glass tinted blacker than night, Yujiro Hanma reclined in his penthouse. He was barefoot, shirtless, a glass of aged scotch resting in one hand while the other drummed slowly against the armrest of a leather chair.

He wasn't watching the city.

He was watching them.

On the massive television across from him, a paused frame showed Oliva and Saitama standing side by side near the Orochi Dojo grill, bathed in sunlight. No movement. Just the image of tension. Curiosity.

Yujiro's lips curled into a smirk.

"So he really didn't fight him," he murmured. "The American's finally grown some patience."

He leaned forward, letting the light reveal the intricate veins crawling up his back like tree roots.

"Jack's stirring," he muttered. "Kurozuchi's testing the water. And the bald one just sits there eating steak like it's a morning cartoon."

He placed the glass down gently.

The moment he stood, the ground beneath him creaked. His presence was unnatural. Even still, it was predatory.

Yujiro stretched once—arms wide, neck rolling side to side—then cracked his knuckles.

"The world's warming up," he said, eyes gleaming.

"I suppose I should stretch too."

He smiled—not for power, not for pride.

But because the game was finally getting interesting.

Shinjuku, Hanayama's Turf

The sun had barely risen above the skyline, but the streets of Shinjuku were already alive with noise. Neon signs flickered lazily from the night before, casting their colored haze on a sidewalk washed in rain.

Inside a quiet bar tucked beneath a pachinko parlor, the atmosphere was thick with cigar smoke and tension. Men in black suits stood guard at every corner—silent, still, eyes like dead cameras.

At the center table sat Hanayama Kaoru.

Unmoving.

His suit, freshly pressed, was stretched impossibly tight around his mountainous frame. The scars of his previous battle with Saitama lingered on his face.

Tattoos peeked out from under his collar, writhing like inked spirits on a monument. He sat alone, sipping green tea from a porcelain cup that looked laughably fragile in his fingers.

A single envelope sat on the table before him. No name. Just a wax seal bearing an ancient crest.

He hadn't opened it.

Because he already knew who sent it.

"Come out," Hanayama said aloud.

There was no answer. Only the sound of the sliding door behind him creaking open.

A figure stepped in.

Not Kurozuchi himself—but one of his new disciples. A scarred man with a dislocated jaw and knotted fingers, each bone deliberately broken and re-healed to serve a specific technique.

He bowed low. "My master invites you to the ring."

Hanayama didn't turn.

"I do not fight those without purpose."

"He said you'd say that," the man replied. "So he offered a gift."

Another folder was dropped on the table.

Hanayama opened it.

His eyes narrowed.

Inside was a photo.

Kozue.

A moment of silence.

Then, like thunder erupting without warning, Hanayama stood. The cup shattered in his hand. The table cracked down the center.

"You just declared war."

The disciple didn't flinch.

"That's the point."

Baki's Apartment, Afternoon

The world outside was loud—cars honking, trains rumbling across distant tracks, laughter rising from a nearby park.

But inside Baki's apartment, silence reigned like a temple.

Baki sat shirtless on the floor, his arms wrapped around his knees. Bruises still bloomed across his ribs, his knuckles raw with scabbing. The kind of wear only a warrior understood. And yet, today, he didn't feel like one.

Kozue moved quietly in the kitchen. She wasn't wearing makeup. Her hair was loosely tied back. A kettle hissed behind her. She poured two cups of tea—genmaicha, his favorite—and brought them over.

"Here," she said, setting one beside him.

He didn't lift his head. Only blinked, slow and blank.

"Thanks," he muttered.

Kozue didn't ask if he was okay. She knew the answer.

Instead, she sat beside him, letting the silence hang, letting the warmth of the tea drift between them. Her presence didn't press down on him—it lifted gently, like a hand reaching through water.

Finally, Baki spoke. Not in anger. Not in frustration. But with a voice cracked from confusion.

"I don't know who I am anymore."

Kozue tilted her head, watching him.

"I used to wake up with fire in my blood," he continued. "Everything was a goal. Train harder. Hit stronger. Be faster. Be better than my father. Be a man. Be… enough."

He paused.

"But after that night... after everything we shared... I feel like I took a step forward, but now I'm staring into a mirror I don't recognize."

Kozue leaned closer. "That's not weakness. That's growth."

Baki looked at her, almost desperately. "Then why does it feel like I've lost the thing that made me… me?"

She reached up and gently touched his cheek, her fingers soft but firm.

"Because you stopped trying to become a weapon," she said. "And started realizing you're a person."

He flinched—like she'd said the one thing he wasn't ready to hear.

"I saw you in the mirror this morning," Kozue added. "You looked scared. Not of dying. But of living."

Baki lowered his gaze. "What if I can't do both?"

"You can," she whispered. "But not if you're always chasing ghosts."

The tea had gone cold. Neither of them drank it.

After a long while, Baki spoke again—barely audible.

"Saitama's not chasing anything. Not even meaning. That's why he's terrifying."

Kozue nodded.

"And that's why he's free."

TO BE CONTINUED...