Chapter One: The Genesis of Power

  The sky above twisted into a smear of celestial ink, the stars themselves warping in ways that should have defied comprehension. The city, though it lay beneath the weight of unimaginable destruction, was a mere flicker compared to what had just transpired in the air above. The truth of the world had bent itself to a new rhythm—the kind that existed before creation, where time was but a fleeting illusion, where matter itself trembled at the thought of its own existence.

  Saitama, the singularity of existence, stood at the center of this chaos—a figure not just of muscle and will, but a living testament to the futility of power. His body, now an amalgamation of 3000 universes, defied the very concept of time. He was faster than the echo of light itself, his presence stretching through the realms of reality like an infinity of tendrils. No force in the cosmos could outrun him, and no mind could comprehend the labyrinth of his thoughts.

  His eyes, once empty, now gleamed with a dark amusement—a sadistic pleasure in the suffering of others. This was no longer a hero. This was a being so far beyond humanity, so far beyond the confines of morality, that the fabric of the universe itself screamed for release. And yet, he reveled in the game. A game of power, of control. A game where his opponents were merely pawns, to be toyed with, to be made to believe they were equals for just long enough to savor the final, inevitable moment of their destruction.

  He stood in the midst of a battleground, a city reduced to nothing more than a memory, his senses alive with the shifting energies of the universe. He could feel the remnants of his most recent fight—the hero who dared challenge him, a man who had once thought himself the pinnacle of strength, now reduced to a smear across the space-time continuum.

  Behind him, a new player emerged from the wreckage. A figure—human, still fragile, still clinging to the old concepts of power—stepped forward from the ruins. Genos, the cyborg, his body a monument to vengeance, marched toward Saitama. His eyes, as cold as steel, fixed on the back of the man who had obliterated all that he held dear.

  “You... are you truly the one?” Genos’ voice rang out, sharp, filled with righteous fury. His body, though composed of circuits and flesh, trembled. He was standing in the presence of a force he could not even begin to understand.

  Saitama didn’t turn to face him, his gaze still locked on the horizon, where reality seemed to collapse in on itself like a dying star. “The one?” Saitama repeated lazily, his voice carrying a hint of mockery, though it was as soft and unimpressed as the wind on a calm day. “Yeah, I guess. But you’re not ready to comprehend what that means.”

  Genos faltered, taking a step back, confusion and fear rippling through his mechanical mind. “What are you? No man… no god could possess such power—such speed.”

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  “You still think this is about power?” Saitama’s tone was almost affectionate, like a parent humoring a child. “You’re so cute. But no, it’s about control. About knowing exactly how far you can push someone before they break.”

  He finally turned, his expression inscrutable, an abyss of knowledge and malice hidden behind the simplicity of his face. “You, Genos, are a joke to me. A tragic one, but a joke nonetheless. You think you're seeking vengeance, but all you're doing is playing into my game."

  The words hit Genos like a punch to the chest. His breath caught in his throat as he realized—this was no mere man. This was a being that had long surpassed the limits of humanity, long beyond any semblance of what he had understood as reality. A being who controlled the very fabric of existence for his own amusement.

  “I will destroy you, Saitama,” Genos spat, his voice hoarse with anger. “I will not be made a fool of.”

  Saitama smiled, a cruel, knowing smile that seemed to stretch far beyond the limits of his face. “Go ahead, try. I’ll even let you have your fun first. Ten minutes. Just ten minutes to pretend you're my equal.”

  Genos charged, his mechanical limbs whirring as they propelled him forward with the force of a thousand winds. His body was a weapon, a living engine of death, and he aimed it all at Saitama, letting his rage guide him.

  But Saitama didn’t move. He didn’t need to. The ground trembled beneath Genos’ feet, the air itself trembling in the presence of Saitama’s true nature, a force that existed both within and beyond this universe.

  “You think you stand a chance?” Saitama asked, his voice now cold, his amusement apparent. “You don’t. But don’t worry. You’ll learn soon enough. Play your part, Genos. Play it well.”

  The battle was nothing but a game for Saitama. He stood, still as a statue, allowing Genos to come at him with all his might. And Genos did—his punches were fast, calculated, precise. But they were nothing. Every blow passed through Saitama as if he were made of smoke, displacing reality around him but leaving no trace of injury.

  Time itself seemed to warp. The very space around them trembled, bent to Saitama’s will, and in that moment, Genos realized: this was no longer a fight—it was a lesson. A cruel lesson in the futility of power. The speed with which Saitama dodged was beyond his comprehension. No cyborg, no man, could move that fast. And yet, Saitama did not break a sweat. Every punch Genos threw only served to highlight the vast chasm between them.

  And then, as promised, the moment came. Ten minutes passed in a blur, but to Genos, it felt like eternity. His body ached, his circuits screamed for rest, but his heart—still human in its longing—refused to stop.

  Finally, Saitama lifted his hand. A casual gesture, like a flick of a finger.

  “Time’s up,” Saitama said, his voice almost playful.

  The next moment, reality shattered.

  A wave of energy, so powerful it couldn’t be measured by anything human, swept through the air. Genos felt his body collapse in an instant, his senses overwhelmed by the force of Saitama’s true power. He saw the world bend and twist around him, time warping and breaking into countless fragments before it all went dark.

  And in that dark void, the last thought that crossed his mind was simple.

  He had never truly understood what power was until now.

  Saitama stood, his figure silhouetted against the collapsing universe, a god of infinite proportions, his smile growing wider as the destruction unfolded around him. The world had become his stage, and every fight was just another performance.

  He had no equal. No challenger. And he reveled in it.