One Punch Man in Baki's World

Kurozuchi's Observation Chamber - Command Room

The command chamber was buried deep beneath the shattered layers of Tokyo's older districts, beneath sewer systems, beneath forgotten bunkers, beneath the bones of a city that no longer remembered what was built upon its own grave.

Kurozuchi sat on a chair that looked more like a throne of rust and wires, backlit by the green glow of dozens of outdated CRT monitors.

The hum of machinery was relentless. Thick power cables slithered across the floor like serpents, feeding the archaic systems surrounding him.

Steam hissed from overhead vents, casting his figure in and out of shadows like a phantom.

One screen showed Jack Hanma, bloodied and smiling over the broken bodies of the twin shadows. Another displayed Baki, staggering but alive, his spine stiff with resolve.

A third screen—centered, framed in red, showed Kozue.

"They made it," Kurozuchi murmured.

He wasn't angry.

He was fascinated.

Behind him, three of his core disciples waited in silence. Clad in patchwork combat robes, faces hidden by ceramic masks styled after extinct war gods, they didn't move or speak unless commanded.

"They were never supposed to win," one dared to whisper, voice distorted by the mask's modulator. "You said the shadows were… perfected."

Kurozuchi didn't turn.

"They were perfected," he said. "But so were our expectations. Jack Hanma is not merely a brute. He is obsession made flesh. And Baki…" He paused, as if tasting the name. "Baki is the chaos born from Yujiro. A contradiction. Love in the shape of fury."

He stood up slowly.

Around him, the ancient monitors flickered again—this time to reveal Saitama.

The bald hero wandered casually through another part of the labyrinth, inspecting a mossy wall like a tourist at a museum.

He seemed oblivious to the fact that just meters beneath him, a war of evolution was unfolding.

One of the disciples growled. "He's near the Omega Gate."

"He won't reach me yet," Kurozuchi said. "Not until I'm ready."

He walked toward the glass viewing wall behind his throne. Beyond it lay a suspended chamber filled with floating bio-solution.

Pills—red, black, and pulsating like veins—drifted inside a nutrient sphere. Mechanical arms clicked into motion, calibrating syringes and heat cycles.

"These," he said, "are not steroids. Not toxins. Not enhancements. They are transformations. Inspired by the Sea King Tournament's forbidden science… mixed with the marrow of fallen warriors."

Another screen clicked on—footage of Hanayama battling Renga before Saitama's flick ended it in one surreal instant.

"They're all converging," Kurozuchi whispered, placing a palm on the glass. "Hanayama. Jack. Baki. Saitama. Oliva. Even Doppo. Like insects drawn to the scent of fire."

He turned to his disciples.

"Let them reach her," he said, pointing at the Kozue feed. "It must feel like a victory."

The disciples bowed.

"And then?" one asked.

Kurozuchi smiled faintly. A tired, cruel smile.

"Then I take it from them. All of it."

Kozue's Pod – Moments Before Rescue

It was eerily quiet inside the chamber.

Kozue floated in a translucent pod, suspended like a porcelain doll trapped in time.

The nutrient mist swirled around her, glowing faintly under the light of bio-lamps overhead. Her breathing was steady. Calm. But her mind was not.

In her dreams, she heard echoes. Faint and broken.

Baki's voice.

Jack's fury.

Hanayama's silence.

And one strange, distant presence she didn't recognize, an easy, lazy voice saying something about getting lost and miso soup.

Her eyes fluttered behind closed lids.

Outside the pod, a red warning light blinked in silence, an alert disconnected from sound.

The sensors had picked up seismic activity: heavy footsteps. Shifting doors. Something—or someone—was getting closer.

A few meters from the pod, the narrow hallway stretched out like a frozen artery. On one end, past collapsing metal beams and flickering wall panels, was a jagged door, twisted by force, not opened.

A massive hand grabbed the bent edge.

Jack Hanma emerged, blood caking his shoulder, one arm dragging a large steel beam he had used as a makeshift weapon.

Beside him, Baki limped in, bruised but upright, eyes wild, knuckles still shaking with tension.

The sight of the pod made both freeze.

Baki dropped to his knees beside the tank. "Kozue…"

She didn't move. The mist coiled slowly around her like fog clinging to a cold mountain.

Jack reached up, punching the emergency release switch. Sparks flew. Nothing happened.

He grunted and stepped back. "Get behind me."

Baki shielded his face as Jack wound up and smashed the glass with his bare fist. The first hit dented it. The second cracked it.

The third—

CRUNCH.

Glass shattered. Mist exploded outward like a geyser. The nutrient solution soaked the floor, splashing over their boots.

Kozue's body fell forward, and Baki caught her just in time. She was cold, skin pale, but her eyes fluttered open faintly.

"Baki…?"

"I'm here," he whispered, pulling her close. "You're safe."

Kozue blinked slowly, adjusting to the dim light. "Jack…?"

The giant offered a rare, gentle nod. "Let's finish this."

But then the ceiling above groaned.

Jack stepped protectively in front of them as debris rained down. The walls trembled.

A section of the hallway crumbled, revealing another passage.

And standing in the middle of it…

…was Saitama.

Holding a paper bag of miso packets.

"Yo," he said, blinking. "Took a wrong turn. Is this the boss room?"

Baki looked stunned.

Jack's eye twitched.

Saitama walked up, peered into the broken pod, and nodded. "Y'all did the heavy lifting, huh? Nice."

Kozue blinked again, then whispered, "…is he the one?"

Baki didn't answer.

Because none of them knew what Saitama was—not yet.

But they were starting to realize that the real battle was still ahead.

And the strangest player… had just arrived.

Somewhere Else - Labyrinth's Southern Corridor

The air pulsed with tension.

The scent of scorched metal hung thick, and the dim emergency lights flickered along the cracked ceiling, casting warped shadows.

The echoes of footsteps, calm, deliberate, yet thunderous, signaled the approach of the two most seasoned hunters now roaming Kurozuchi's maze.

Mr. Oliva adjusted his vest, which had long since been torn at the seams. The muscles underneath glistened with sweat and grit, but his grin hadn't faded since he entered.

Next to him, Doppo Orochi walked barefoot, his gi darkened with dirt and torn at the sleeves. His one eye scanned every crevice, like a predator accustomed to ambushes.

"Feels like the place is watching us," Oliva said, brushing dust off his shoulder. "But I'm not seeing anyone worth watching back."

Doppo stopped, narrowing his eye at a branching tunnel.

"They're letting us in. That means they're prepared," he muttered. "Or overconfident."

A faint hum rose around them. The walls seemed to breathe.

Suddenly, a panel shifted—a hidden door sliding aside without sound.

The two men turned.

From the opening emerged three fighters—Kurozuchi's disciples, dressed in strange hybrid martial uniforms.

One bore the insignia of a disgraced judo master.

Another had the marks of a Muay Thai killer.

And the last… wore nothing but wraps around his fists and a blank, stitched leather mask.

"Target identified," the lead one hissed, crouching into stance. "Oliva. Orochi. Terminate."

Oliva smiled and cracked his neck. "I was hoping we'd get to the appetizer before dessert."

The fight was immediate.

The Muay Thai fighter rushed Doppo, leading with a flying elbow.

Doppo ducked and swept his leg in one smooth motion, knocking the man into the wall with bone-breaking force. But the judo master was already on him, grappling for a chokehold.

Oliva, meanwhile, took a punch to the chest from the masked fighter, and barely flinched.

"That tickled," he said, then slammed his open palm into the man's gut with the force of a battering ram.

The fighter was airborne before he even felt the pain.

The corridor trembled with the clash.

Lights burst overhead.

Cement cracked.

Oliva hurled one body into the others, clearing space.

Doppo rolled out from a lock and delivered a precise hammer fist to the side of his attacker's skull—knocking the man out cold.

"Done playing?" Doppo asked.

Oliva tilted his head. "Just warming up."

From the corner, one of the disciples, bloodied but still conscious, whispered into a communicator.

"They're stronger than expected. Sending location now…"

Doppo crushed the device with his heel.

"Time to end this," he said.

Oliva nodded. "Let's find the core."

They marched forward, now covered in sweat, bruises, and the blood of others—but with purpose.

Far ahead, they didn't know that Saitama had already stumbled his way toward Kurozuchi's hidden chamber.

And that Baki, Jack, and Kozue were close behind.

The players were converging.

The final door… was near.

TO BE CONTINUED....