New York, five-star hotel, 88th floor.
The morning sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows onto the hallway carpet, and the air was filled with the scent of expensive fragrance.
It should have been a peaceful morning, until an arrogant voice exploded through the hallway like thunder.
"Xia Yuan, get out here!"
That shout nearly scared Mo Shiyu, who was doing yoga next door, right off her mat.
She rubbed her ears and muttered to herself, Who the hell is making such a racket this early in the morning?
Meanwhile, inside the presidential suite at the very end of the 88th floor, Xia Yuan stood before a full-length mirror, calmly examining himself.
The man in the mirror was around 175 centimeters tall—not exactly tall or imposing.
His looks... how should one put it? Completely ordinary. So ordinary that if you tossed him into a crowd, you would lose sight of him in three seconds.
His features had nothing special about them. His eyebrows slanted downward, and his eyes had the dull look of dead fish.
His whole body exuded the aura of someone who had just returned home from buying groceries.
The most eye-catching thing was his bald head.
It was polished and gleaming, practically usable as a mirror beneath the sunlight, reflecting a sacred halo around it.
That was right. The template Xia Yuan was using today was the One-Punch Man Saitama template he had drawn from the system earlier.
He looked down at the yellow superhero suit with its white cape. The cape was thin as paper and fluttered in the air-conditioning breeze, making him look especially... tacky.
"Seriously, this sense of style is a complete disaster," Xia Yuan muttered, though his face remained expressionless.
Whatever. A strong man's heart did not need looks to support it.
Ding-dong.
The