One Punch Man in Baki's World

Hidden Bunker, West Tokyo

Kurozuchi stood surrounded by his lieutenants, all gathered beneath the rusted beams of a decommissioned bunker that once served as a bomb shelter during the war. Now it housed chaos.

Screens lined the walls—live footage of various fighters across Tokyo. Hanayama. Baki. Katsumi. Even distant grainy angles of Orochi Dojo.

But it was the newest feed that drew his attention.

Jack Hanma.

Back in the wild. Training harder.

"He survived another wave," one disciple reported.

Kurozuchi didn't blink. "Of course he did. That was just another wind. Now we bring the storm."

He turned to the next screen.

Hanayama, staring at Kozue's picture.

"I don't need to beat Yujiro. I don't even need to beat Baki," Kurozuchi said. "I need to cut their pillars down… piece by piece."

One of the lieutenants stepped forward. "Shall I move the Kozue pawn?"

Kurozuchi smiled faintly.

"No. We let that move itself. If Hanayama steps in… then we know where Baki's heart truly lies."

He turned back toward the shadows.

Asakusa District – Late Evening

The smell of incense drifted from temples nearby, mingling with the heavy scent of rain on concrete. Hanayama Kaoru sat in the back of a quiet tea shop, still in his tailored black suit, sleeves rolled to the elbows, exposing his tattooed arms.

Before him on the table lay a small, delicate photograph of Kozue, smiling with a pressed flower in her hand. She looked peaceful. Untouched by the violence of their world.

Hanayama didn't smoke tonight. He wasn't calm.

The shopkeeper had long since left him alone, sensing something beneath the man's silence, like a dormant volcano.

Outside, thunder rolled over the rooftops.

Then the bell above the entrance chimed.

Hanayama didn't turn.

A figure entered, wearing a soaked black cloak, the hood casting a shadow over his face. But his aura bled through—sharp, irregular. A presence not of tradition, but of dissonance.

Kurozuchi's disciple stepped forward and dropped a coin on the table.

Hanayama finally glanced up.

The man bowed slightly.

"Your blood is required," he said.

Hanayama stood. No words. No hesitation.

He took off his jacket, folded it neatly, and set it over the photo.

Then, he cracked his neck.

Outside, the street emptied as if the city itself knew what was about to begin.

Ten Minutes Later – Alley Behind the Tea Shop

Rain poured in sheets now, but neither man noticed.

The disciple circled slowly, eyes wild. "Kurozuchi says you're a wall. But every wall crumbles when the right fault line is struck."

Hanayama adjusted his cuff.

The disciple struck first, faster than expected. A blur of elbows and knees, sharp like broken glass. He moved like a madman trained in precision.

Hanayama didn't flinch.

He took the first three hits directly to the chest—and didn't move.

The fourth strike—a spinning heel to the temple—landed.

Hanayama simply raised a hand and grabbed the attacker's leg mid-spin.

One twist.

A scream echoed through the rain as the leg snapped backward at the joint. The man crumpled.

Hanayama grabbed him by the collar and stared into his wide, shaking eyes.

"Tell your master…" he growled, voice low and guttural, "I am not a pillar. I am the mountain."

He slammed the disciple through the alley wall. Brick shattered like paper. The man lay twitching, unconscious, buried under rubble.

Hanayama didn't check.

He walked back into the rain, back toward the tea shop, back to the photograph.

Unbothered.

Unbroken.

Orochi Dojo – Dawn

The sound of birds returned to the bamboo forest. Sunlight danced on the koi pond as the smell of breakfast drifted through open doors.

Saitama sat in the courtyard, holding a rice cracker in his mouth, staring lazily at the sky.

Doppo entered, holding a newspaper. He looked more serious than usual.

"Hanayama was attacked."

Saitama didn't react immediately. He blinked. "By who?"

"Kurozuchi's disciples. One of them. Didn't make it back."

Katsumi leaned in from the hallway. "Was it a message?"

"No," Doppo said. "It was a test. They're measuring responses now. Seeing who stands, who wavers, and who runs."

Retsu entered next, arms folded. "Then Kurozuchi already knows. Hanayama didn't flinch."

Saitama took a bite of his rice cracker.

"I like that guy," he said. "He's quiet."

Oliva, now leaning against a pillar in the back, grinned. "Quiet until he decides to tear your skull off."

Saitama shrugged. "I'll try not to annoy him."

Doppo set the paper down. "This isn't stopping. Kurozuchi's playing a long game. And you…"

He looked at Saitama.

"…you're not on the board. You're the endgame."

Saitama sighed. "Great. I didn't even sign up for this tournament."

Katsumi sat beside him. "Neither did the rest of us. But now we all play."

Saitama squinted up at the sky again.

"It's cloudy," he muttered. "Storm's coming."

Yokohama – Underground Warehouse Gym, Night

The sound of steel slamming echoed through the rusted halls. Jack Hanma stood shirtless in the center of the concrete room, wrapped in thick chains, dragging two weighted sleds behind him. Sweat ran in rivers down his carved body. His breaths were like growls.

His knuckles were split. His jaw was stitched. His back was raw from friction burns.

But he smiled.

A few days ago, he had been ambushed. Kurozuchi's disciple fought like a ghost—twisting joints, rupturing tendons, vanishing into smoke before Jack could retaliate.

But he survived.

And that meant he was improving.

"Again!" Jack roared, slamming a wooden plank forward.

In the corner, his trainer—a retired underground medic and occasional chemist—winced.

"Jack… You've been at this for six hours. Your legs are bleeding through the wraps."

Jack turned, eyes wild but focused. "Pain is part of the cost."

"The cost of what?"

"Of being something he can't erase."

He walked over to a rusted locker and yanked it open. Inside was a photo—Yujiro, Baki… and a third man now added: Saitama.

Jack stared at it for a long time.

"He terrifies them without trying," Jack muttered. "Yujiro noticed him. Baki can't understand him. The world trembles… and he hasn't even fought yet."

He touched the paper.

"That's the kind of power I want."

The medic swallowed. "You want to be like him?"

Jack turned.

"No," he said, voice deep and heavy.

"I want to beat him."

And somewhere, in the shadows… a new eye was watching.

Hidden Tunnel Beneath Suginami Park – Kurozuchi's Lair

Kurozuchi stood before a massive, curved monitor—live footage of Jack training in silence. His cloak rustled behind him as he stepped away from the screen and approached a line of masked figures kneeling in the chamber.

Six of them.

All shaped like weapons.

"My first wave was wind," Kurozuchi said. "The second is a surgical strike."

He raised a hand, and one of the figures stood.

She was small. Slender. Barefoot. Her hair tied into a tight bun, her kimono black as ink. A long, flexible blade curled like a snake on her back.

Her name was Shigure.

Excommunicated from the Kure Clan. A master of the "Threaded Blade" technique—capable of slicing muscle between bones, leaving a body whole but useless.

"She will test the monster's adaptability," Kurozuchi whispered. "The brute trains for force. Let's see how he responds to finesse."

Shigure said nothing. She bowed once and turned.

As she stepped through the door, her movements barely displaced the dust in the air.

Another disciple leaned forward. "Jack is not a fool. He's evolved past pure strength."

Kurozuchi smiled.

"That's why she won't kill him."

He looked up at the monitors.

"She'll scar him. Deep enough to remind him—no matter how monstrous he becomes, he's still human."

A smirk formed on his face. "Besides, he won't be able to resist a few more doses of our secret poison. He'll break. Soon."

He reached toward another screen showing the Orochi Dojo, zoomed in on Saitama sitting lazily in the courtyard.

"And when he does," he muttered, "we'll see how long the bald god keeps watching."

Somewhere Between Cities – Moving Train Rooftop, Midnight

Shigure crouched atop a bullet train, wind whipping her sleeves as she meditated on the cold steel. The lights of Tokyo blurred around her like a dream. Her eyes never opened.

In her mind, she pictured Jack's movements, his anatomy, the angle of his shoulders when he lifted, the pattern of his breath between swings.

She knew how to move between his muscle fibers.

How to blind him without touching his eyes.

Her mission was clear.

Draw blood.

Break rhythm.

The blade on her back pulsed with intent.

And as the train roared into the darkness, Shigure vanished into the night, toward the beast that dared call himself Hanma.

TO BE CONTINUED...