The crater in Z-City had gone quiet.
Not silent—never that—but the feverish excitement from before had drained away, replaced by fear. The same spectators who had crowded in for a better view now huddled along the edges, clutching each other, desperate to stay out of the center.
At the heart of it, two figures blurred in constant motion.
Every collision between them sent tremors through the already shattered ground, sinking it further, bit by bit, like the earth was giving up.
Bang's expression had changed.
What began as focus had turned into disbelief.
Noah Vale wasn't just keeping up anymore.
He was learning.
Adapting.
Perfecting.
Each exchange sharpened him. Techniques that would take years to refine were being absorbed in seconds. His movements grew smoother, cleaner, more efficient with every strike.
Bang could see it happening in real time.
And there was nothing he could do to stop it.
Noah, meanwhile, looked almost bored.
Each punch he threw carried less brute force than before, but more precision. Less effort. More control. He was shifting the balance, leaning into technique instead of raw strength.
His body hadn't grown stronger.
He didn't need it to.
He was getting better.
Fast.
Within moments, he was parrying Bang's full-power attacks with only a fraction of his own strength. His movements echoed Bang's style now—fluid, adaptive, redirecting force instead of meeting it head-on.
It was like watching a reflection… one that was quickly becoming superior.
This is fascinating, Noah thought, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
To him, Bang wasn't an opponent anymore.
He was a blueprint.
The fight tipped.
No longer even.
Noah began to move first.
Before Bang could act, Noah was already there, intercepting, countering, shutting him down at the source. Every motion predicted. Every strike neutralized before it could fully form.
Bang felt it.
The pressure.
The frustration.
He's using my own techniques against me…
There was no pride left in the realization. Just a bitter edge.
Time stretched thin.
In less than a minute, Noah had stripped away decades of mastery and made it his own.
Then he stopped.
Bang threw everything into one final punch, his body pushing past its limits.
Noah met it with two fingers.
A light pinch.
The attack froze.
Bang strained, muscles trembling, but his fist didn't move an inch. The gap between them wasn't just skill anymore—it was absolute.
Noah tilted his head, studying him for a moment.
"You've been surpassed," he said casually. "Time catches everyone."
Then he flicked Bang's forehead.
It looked harmless.
It wasn't.
Bang's body shot backward like a bullet, tearing through layers of rock before vanishing into the distance, sent flying for miles.
Noah dusted his hands off, as if finishing a trivial task.
"Done."
He bent his knees and leapt out of the crater, leaving the trapped civilians behind.
Minutes later, inside the Hero Association's headquarters in New York, tension coiled through the upper levels like a tightening wire.
Executives stood around a long table, faces pale as reports came in.
"Confirmed," one of them said, voice unsteady. "Silver Fang… Bang… has been defeated."
The room went still.
Someone swallowed hard. "Do we approve the request? The S-Class heroes want him officially listed as a top-priority threat."
Another executive glanced at the satellite feed—the massive crater carved into Z-City's center.
"…Or we pretend this never happened," he muttered.
A third shook his head sharply. "We still have heavy hitters. Tatsumaki is still active. And there's Blast. And King. We don't fold just because things get difficult."
Murmurs of agreement followed.
"Call Tatsumaki," someone said quickly. "If even Bang lost, she'll take this seriously."
The decision barely had time to settle.
The building shook.
Not a tremor.
A violent, bone-rattling impact.
"What was that?!"
"Are we under attack?!"
The executives grabbed onto the table, walls, anything stable. This wasn't an ordinary structure—it was reinforced to withstand disasters. Even major threats shouldn't have been able to shake it like this.
And yet—
The ceiling tore open.
Light flooded in, harsh and blinding.
Concrete and steel peeled back like paper, exposing the sky above.
For a moment, no one understood what they were seeing.
Then they saw him.
Noah Vale stood amidst the wreckage, one hand holding up a massive section of the building he had just ripped apart, like he'd casually peeled the lid off a can.
He stepped forward, boots crunching against broken concrete, gaze sweeping across the room.
The people inside froze.
Compared to him, they looked… small.
Soft.
Afraid.
Noah smiled.
"Let's skip introductions," he said. "What exactly did you think you were doing?"
An executive stammered, voice shaking. "Y-you… what do you want?"
Noah's smile sharpened.
"No," he said. "What do you want? Who gave you the nerve to put a target on my back?"
Fear twisted into something uglier in one man's expression.
"You've got some nerve showing up here," he snapped. "Back off while you still can. When King, Tatsumaki, and Blast get here, you won't—"
He didn't finish.
Noah exhaled.
A thin jet of compressed air—sharp as a blade—cut through the space between them.
The man dropped instantly.
The room erupted into screams.
Noah didn't look away.
He watched them.
Really watched them.
The panic. The desperation. The way they shrank when faced with something stronger.
It disgusted him.
This system.
These people.
They held authority without strength, power without responsibility. They commanded heroes, controlled resources, and decided fates—while never once standing on the front lines themselves.
To Noah, it wasn't just flawed.
It was rotten.
"The old game's over," he said, voice calm but absolute. "You've been running things your way long enough."
He stepped forward, the air itself seeming to tighten around him.
"The game continues," he went on. "But from now on… we play by my rules."
Somewhere below, alarms blared.
Inside the building, heroes began to move.
Dozens of them, racing upward.
The next clash was already on its way.