"I… I'm sorry," the staff member said, visibly uneasy as he handed over the results. "Your written score is quite low—twenty-one. But your physical performance more than makes up for it."
He hesitated, then added:
"After combining both results… your current rank is C-Class, number 388."
Saitama stared at the paper.
"…The written test counts that much?"
He scratched the back of his head, genuinely confused.
I answered everything honestly…
"It's not a problem," the staff member quickly reassured him. "Hero rankings can improve through field performance. With your strength, you should rise through the ranks very quickly."
He smiled, though internally he had already labeled Saitama as extremely powerful, but intellectually… limited.
Assuming no one steals his credit, Noah added silently from the side.
Outside the building, the air felt lighter.
Saitama stretched slightly, then looked at Noah.
"Hey… thanks for today. I didn't even know something like the Hero Association existed."
"No problem," Noah said, waving it off. "I did it because I felt like it."
Then he paused.
"There's one more thing you should know."
Saitama blinked.
"What is it?"
"C-Class heroes have quotas," Noah said. "There are too many of them, so if you don't log at least one completed case per week, you risk getting removed from the registry."
Saitama's face immediately shifted into mild despair.
"…That sounds like a hassle."
"It is," Noah said. "Try to get to B-Class as soon as possible."
He gave a small wave and turned to leave.
"See you around."
Saitama watched him go.
"…You're leaving already?"
"I've got things to do," Noah replied without looking back.
Making Saitama famous wasn't something that would happen overnight.
This was just the opening move.
That night—
The internet exploded.
Headlines flooded every major platform, pulling global attention toward Z-City.
[Multiple Demon-Level Incidents Strike Z-City — Massive Destruction Reported]
[Hero Association Breaks Records — Four New S-Class and Dozens of A-Class Heroes in One Day]
But among all the major headlines—
One stood out.
[S-Class Hero Tanktop Master Defeated by C-Class Rookie — Scandal or Cover-Up?]
It spread like wildfire.
Curiosity did the rest.
People clicked.
Watched.
Argued.
The footage showed Tanktop Master stepping forward—
Then, in the next instant—
He was gone.
Blasted through buildings.
No clear attacker visible.
And then came the follow-up.
A second video.
Saitama's test footage.
Blurs of motion. Impossible speed. Strength that made even trained eyes struggle to keep up.
"…No way," a commuter muttered on a packed train, nearly dropping his phone. "That's a C-Class hero?"
He scrolled down.
And saw the explanation.
Two images.
One—Saitama's score sheet.
The other—his written answers.
Question 1:
You encounter a highly destructive monster in a crowded city center. What do you do?
Answer: Rush in and take it down with one punch before it causes damage.
Question 2:
You encounter a stronger enemy holding hostages in a remote area. What do you do?
Answer: Fight it head-on and rescue the hostages.
Question 3:
You encounter a weaker monster in a public space. What do you do?
Answer: Rush in and take it down with one punch before it causes damage.
The commuter leaned back, speechless.
"…Yeah. That tracks."
The comment sections lit up.
"This guy's insane."
"He thinks everything can be solved with one punch?"
"He beat one S-Class hero and now he thinks he's invincible?"
"Zero strategy. All ego."
"Deserved that C-Class rank."
But beneath the criticism—
Something else took root.
Because no matter how people mocked him—
They couldn't ignore the footage.
That strength was real.
That speed was real.
Which led to a strange, reluctant conclusion:
He might actually be that strong…
He's just… not very bright.
And from that contradiction—
A nickname was born.
It started as a joke.
A throwaway comment.
But it spread.
Fast.
One Punch Man.
In a newly assigned luxury residence—
Noah leaned back in his chair, boots resting on the edge of the desk, scrolling through the chaos he'd set in motion.
Comments.
Arguments.
Speculation.
The narrative was forming exactly the way he wanted.
A smirk tugged at his lips.
"Nothing I set out to do ever fails."
This was just the groundwork.
Now that people were paying attention—
They'd start watching.
And eventually—
They'd see.
Elsewhere.
Night had settled over Gotham.
A figure moved through the alleys, dressed in dark clothing, purposeful but inexperienced.
Bloom Gavin.
He stopped abruptly.
Because someone was already there.
Waiting.
A man in black armor, only his jaw and eyes visible beneath the cowl.
Silent.
Immovable.
"Batman…" Gavin said, eyes lighting up like he'd just met a legend.
Excitement spilled out immediately.
"Can I work with you? I want to be a hero too."
Across from him, Bruce Wayne said nothing at first.
His gaze lingered.
Evaluating.
Because he already knew who this was.
Bloom Gavin. Employee at one of his subsidiaries. Recently came into unexplained wealth. Relocated his family. Physical condition improving at an abnormal rate.
And now—
This.
"You've been busy," Bruce said finally, voice low and rough. "I've been watching."
Gavin straightened slightly, encouraged.
"I figured you might have."
Bruce didn't react.
"I don't think you're ready for this," he said. "What you're feeling right now? It's momentum. Not commitment. That burns out faster than you think."
Gavin waved it off, completely unfazed.
"Maybe," he said casually. "But I've got time now. No financial stress. No pressure."
He smiled.
"Feels like the perfect moment to try something bigger."
Bruce studied him.
Gavin met his gaze without hesitation.
"I think I can do this."