One Punch Man in Baki's World

Tokyo Docks – Dawn

The sky was an ashen blue, painted with streaks of orange as dawn broke over the Tokyo Bay.

Cranes loomed like sleeping giants over shipping containers stacked like tombstones.

Seagulls cawed in the distance, circling the quiet waters. And in the center of it all, on the cold steel rooftop of an abandoned freight warehouse, Jack Hanma stood—shirtless, hulking, and breathing steadily.

His hands were taped, fresh bruises already forming over fading ones. His nose had been broken the night before. Now it was realigned. His shoulders were cracked like old stone. And he smiled.

Across from him stood his opponent. Shigure.

A woman in a black sleeveless gi, barefoot, her long obsidian hair braided into a single rope that fell down her back like a whip.

Her eyes were narrow, calculating, unmoved by Jack's monstrous physique. She was lean, like a blade drawn from scabbard, and still. Perfectly still.

"You're the one he sent?" Jack asked, voice a low rumble.

Shigure didn't respond. The only answer came when the wind shifted, and she moved.

Shigure dashed forward like a gust of wind, ducking low beneath Jack's first swing.

Her palm struck his liver with pinpoint accuracy—a chi-infused blow that sent a ripple through his torso.

Jack's knees buckled slightly. Her next move was already coming. A crescent kick aimed for his temple.

Jack raised his forearm just in time. The impact rang out like a bell through the empty docks. He growled and swung wide with a right hook, but Shigure bent backward, letting the fist pass above her nose by centimeters.

Her counter, an elbow jab to the chin, snapped his head back.

But Jack Hanma didn't fall.

He smiled wider. Blood dripped from his lip.

"Now you've done it."

He stomped. The steel roof beneath them shook violently. Shigure barely leapt back in time as Jack lunged like a beast unchained.

His hand grabbed a shipping chain and swung it like a flail. Shigure dodged left, then right, narrowly avoiding the devastating arcs.

She leapt high into the air, twisting mid-flight, her heel aiming for Jack's clavicle.

He didn't dodge.

Instead, he took the blow head-on, letting the bone crack slightly as he grabbed her leg mid-spin.

Then he slammed her.

Shigure's body hit the steel hard enough to dent it. She gasped, but recovered fast—flipping onto her hands and springing back like a gymnast. Jack charged again.

She ducked beneath him, placed a single palm on his chest, and shouted:

"Advanced Vacuum Strike!"

An invisible burst of compressed air erupted between her hand and Jack's chest. The air was colored green as if poisoned by a King Cobra.

Jack's massive body stumbled—momentarily dazed. She capitalized, hitting him with three more strikes to the abdomen, each targeting pressure points.

Jack dropped to one knee.

But then… he laughed.

"You hit hard," he said, blood bubbling from his mouth. "But you've never fought someone who likes pain."

He stood again, taller than before. "I know you bastards are using something with that Vacuum strike. But it doesn't matter. Keep them coming!"

Shigure knew what was coming. She darted left, trying to create distance. Jack chased her. She flipped off a metal beam, kicked off a pipe, and came in from above—driving both feet toward his head.

Jack caught her in midair.

And suplexed her.

The roof caved slightly beneath them. Shigure's back screamed. But even as pain overtook her nerves, she used the recoil to spin herself, lock her legs around his neck, and bring him down with a Hurricanrana.

Jack's skull hit steel.

Both fighters lay still for a second.

Breathing.

Waiting.

Shigure stood first, stumbling slightly. Her left arm hung useless, likely dislocated. But her stance was still firm. Still lethal. Jack pushed himself up with a groan. His eye was swollen shut, but his grin was feral.

"You're not weak," he said. "But you're not me."

He took a step forward. Then another. Then began running.

Shigure tried to dodge, but it was too late. Jack lowered his shoulder and rammed her into the side of a cargo container. The entire box slid several feet.

She coughed blood.

He pulled her off the wall, stared into her pain-glazed eyes, and said:

"Tell Kurozuchi he'll need someone better. And something different. I got bored of your twisted Vacuum palm."

And then he dropped her.

Not with a punch. Not with a kick. But with a single, open-handed strike to the solar plexus—a blow so precise, so heavy, that her consciousness flickered and faded.

Shigure collapsed at his feet.

Jack stood over her, chest heaving, one hand shaking violently from recoil.

He didn't kill her.

But he left her broken.

"If Kurozuchi wants to break me, then this much is clearly not enough. When will these guys learn. Huh..."

Shift – Hanayama Residence, Moments Later

The sun had fully risen over Tokyo by the time word reached Hanayama Kaoru.

He was seated in his home shrine, lighting incense in honor of a fallen Yakuza brother. The moment his second-in-command entered with a tablet showing Jack's fight… and Shigure's defeat…

Hanayama froze.

He said nothing for a long while.

Then he rose, towering and silent, sliding on his jacket.

"Where's Baki?" he asked.

"Downtown. Training alone."

Hanayama nodded. "Send word. Kurozuchi's attacking. Piece by piece. It won't be long before he comes after him as well."

The man bowed.

Hanayama turned to the shrine and bowed low.

"It's time I go and personally meet this Kurozuchi."

Shinagawa Industrial District – Abandoned Train Depot, Noon

The sun hung high, casting long shadows through the broken glass ceiling of the train depot.

Inside, a storm of silence built around a man sharpening a rust-colored blade with a whetstone that had seen too many deaths.

The man sat cross-legged on the cold floor, face obscured by a mask of scorched iron.

His left arm was covered in burn marks, his right—etched in crimson tattoos depicting ancient martial arts symbols. This was Renga, Kurozuchi's second disciple.

Not a master of chi, not a showman like Yanagi or Shigure.

He was a killer bred in the tunnels of war.

A killer trained to dismantle titans.

The doors creaked open behind him.

A figure approached through the haze of dust and metal.

Kurozuchi.

Renga did not look up.

"You saw the outcome?" Kurozuchi asked.

Renga nodded. "Shigure fell. Hanma survived."

There was no disappointment in his voice. No shame.

Kurozuchi stepped forward, his voice a calm echo in the vast emptiness.

"She was never meant to win. Only to make him bleed. Now it's your turn, Renga. But your mission is not Jack."

Renga paused. The blade stopped scraping.

"Who?"

Kurozuchi raised a small photograph and tossed it to the floor. It slid across the concrete and landed by Renga's foot.

It was Hanayama Kaoru.

"The gangster?"

"No. The wall," Kurozuchi said. "He's the last of the 'fixed' generation. An immovable force. Before I crush Baki, I must know the reach of his foundation. If Hanayama breaks, Baki weakens. And if Baki weakens… Yujiro starts to stir."

Renga set the blade down, rising slowly to his full height. His body was lean but packed with taut, explosive strength. No shoes. No gear. Just pain etched into every scar.

"He'll be waiting," Renga said. "He's not like the others."

"Exactly," Kurozuchi replied. "That's why you're going."

Renga picked up his blade, sliding it into the strap across his back. "Where?"

Kurozuchi turned away, his voice already fading into the shadows.

"Hanayama is holding a ceremony for his men tonight. He will not expect you. Do not kill him."

Renga blinked. "Then what?"

"Break something that never heals."

A beat passed.

Renga smirked beneath the iron mask. "His pride."

Kurozuchi vanished.

And the blade was already humming with hunger.

TO BE CONTINUED...