Z-City, Hero Association Branch.
Saitama and Tanktop Master stood facing each other in the wrecked lobby, the air still buzzing from their brief clash.
Tanktop Master wiped a trace of blood from his lip, his expression turning serious.
"I underestimated you," he admitted. "You don't look like much… but you handled seventy percent of my strength without breaking a sweat."
A vein pulsed faintly on Saitama's forehead.
"…Can you not lead with the 'you don't look like much' part?"
Tanktop Master didn't respond. He was already shifting his stance, muscles tightening as he prepared something heavier.
"This next hit—don't take it lightly."
Around them, the tension spiked.
"That's his serious strike…"
"You don't see that often…"
Most opponents never lasted long enough to force Tanktop Master to try.
Saitama sighed.
"You guys really don't listen, do you?"
Tanktop Master moved.
The floor cracked beneath his feet as he launched forward, fist driving ahead like a missile.
Fast.
Too fast for most to track.
But Saitama—
Saitama just raised a hand.
And slapped.
Boom.
It wasn't flashy.
It wasn't dramatic.
But Tanktop Master disappeared.
A second later, the sound caught up.
A series of explosive crashes echoed into the distance as his body punched through multiple buildings before finally stopping—embedded deep in concrete, unconscious.
Silence.
Everyone stared.
"…No way."
"That was… one hit."
"S-Class… just like that?"
Eyes slowly turned back toward Saitama.
He stood there, same blank expression, like he'd just brushed dust off a shelf.
Then—
"I get it now!" someone suddenly shouted.
All heads snapped toward the speaker.
"It wasn't him! Nemesis stepped in from behind and finished the fight before anyone could see it!"
The explanation spread like wildfire.
"Yeah, that makes sense!"
"No way that guy did it himself—he's not even ranked!"
"Nemesis must've intervened at the last second!"
In seconds, the narrative flipped.
Saitama blinked.
Looked around.
Listened.
Then just… accepted it.
He didn't argue.
Didn't correct anyone.
He simply turned to Noah with a small, almost relieved smile.
"So… when's the test starting?"
Noah stared at him for a second.
Then—
smack.
His hand landed squarely on Saitama's shoulder.
The smile on Noah's face didn't reach his eyes.
"Hey," he called out, voice cutting through the chatter. "What exactly are you all talking about?"
The room quieted.
"That tank top guy?" Noah pointed toward the distant hole in the building. "He got taken out by this bald guy. One hit. That's it."
A few people shifted uncomfortably.
"But—"
"No 'but.'" Noah's tone sharpened. "Don't dump someone else's fight on me. I don't need him waking up later and deciding I'm his problem."
That did it.
Doubt crept in.
People glanced between Noah and Saitama, uncertainty replacing confidence.
Could it really have been him?
There was no footage.
No clear evidence.
Just a gap—too fast for anyone to follow.
Noah exhaled slowly and rubbed his temples.
"…Forget it. Let's just continue the test."
The staff scrambled to comply.
Within minutes, the damaged area was partially cleared, and Saitama was led to the testing section.
The same place Noah's group had torn apart earlier.
Chunks of broken equipment still littered the edges.
A crowd gathered quickly.
Curiosity outweighed skepticism.
"Alright," a staff member called out. "Thirty-second agility test. Begin!"
Saitama moved.
Or rather—
He flickered.
Back and forth, side to side, his body blurring into afterimages that barely registered as human movement.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
"That speed…"
"Is he even touching the ground?"
Nearby, Noah casually raised his phone and started recording.
Saitama wasn't even trying.
This was a fraction of a fraction of what he could do.
If he let loose for real?
The city wouldn't survive the test.
But Noah didn't want that.
Not yet.
There was no point showing people something they couldn't process.
If the gap was too big, they wouldn't admire it.
They'd reject it.
Call it fake.
Dismiss it.
So instead—
You showed them just enough.
A glimpse.
Something they could almost understand.
The test ended quickly.
Scores came in.
Perfect.
Across the board.
Even the staff had to pause.
"…That's a full score."
"He broke multiple records…"
"He's definitely S-Class level…"
No one argued anymore.
Then Noah casually threw in—
"Oh, by the way, his written test is going to be terrible."
He slung an arm over Saitama's shoulders.
"Don't let the strength fool you. All his brainpower went into muscle."
A few people chuckled.
Others frowned.
How bad could it be?
He didn't seem stupid.
Maybe a little slow, sure—but nothing extreme.
Half an hour later—
The results came back.
21 points.
Out of 100.
The room went dead.
"…Is that real?"
"Did he even read the questions?"
"What kind of answers did he write?"
Saitama stood there, completely unfazed.
Noah, on the other hand, was curious.
"Mind if I take a look?" he asked.
The staff handed over the paper without hesitation.
Noah scanned it once.
Then—
click.
He snapped a photo.
For posterity.
Because some things deserved to be remembered.