The Undying Iron Wall of the 170th Floor: The Harder You Hit Him, the Harder He Gets

At exactly nine in the morning, just as the second hand ticked onto twelve, Genos's hand landed precisely on Saitama's shoulder.

"Master, it's time to get up. There's one hour until the match. Breakfast is a soft-boiled egg sandwich you like, and the milk has been heated to 42 degrees, just right for drinking. The lunchbox contains beef rice and two pork cutlets, which you can have as a snack after the match."

Saitama sat up with his messy bedhead, his eyes not fully open yet, and groggily reached out to take the sandwich, biting down on it. Genos handed him a neatly printed note. The key information was marked in bold black type: 3:30 p.m., low-fat high-calcium milk at the corner supermarket was half price, limited time and limited stock, a seven-minute walk away; cart position reserved in advance.

"Remember," Saitama said indistinctly as he chewed his sandwich, "don't buy the skimmed kind. You got the wrong one last time. It tasted like dishwater, no flavor at all."

"Yes, Master. I've noted it down three times already." Genos pushed up nonexistent glasses and stuck the note onto his control panel.

When the two went downstairs, Gon and Killua were already waiting at the entrance. Gon held up a crooked piece of cardboard with "Mr. Saitama Will Win!" written on it in colored pencil, along with a lopsided bald little figure. Killua had a strawberry lollipop in his mouth and leaned against the wall, kicking pebbles boredly.

"Mr. Saitama! Mr. Genos!" Gon ran over excitedly, waving his hands. "We came half an hour early on purpose!"

"Was that necessary?" Killua rolled his eyes. "He's just some small fry who's guarded the 170th Floor for three years. One punch should be enough. I even bet Gon the match definitely won't last