100-Type Guanyin Appearance

The sea wind made the sleeves of Netero's yukata flap loudly.

He stood barefoot on the volcanic rock, drew his right foot half a step back, lowered his center of gravity, and held his slightly open left hand before his chest. He had used this stance countless times over the past few decades—the most standard opening stance for dealing with enemies faster and fiercer than himself.

Saitama stood opposite him. His feet were together, his arms hanging at his sides. The hem of his yellow T-shirt lifted in the wind and fell again. His expression was exactly the same as when he had refused Netero's fifth invitation to spar aboard the airship.

Netero bent down, took off his wooden sandals, and neatly placed them beside a reef. He folded his yukata and set it on top, then rolled his shoulders. His joints gave off faint cracking sounds.

"I've lived to this age and seen countless opponents. Some unleash Nen right away and bombard everything in sight; others like to circle around, probing before they strike. My habit is—to start with the basics."

He raised his right fist and waved it in front of himself.

"Straight Punch Thrust. When I was young, I threw ten thousand punches a day for over a decade. At first, it took eighteen hours. Later, I cut it down to one hour. And after that, my fists became faster than sound."

Saitama looked at him.

"Wouldn't ten thousand punches every day get boring?"

Netero froze for a moment, then laughed. "No one has ever asked me that before."

"Genos is like that too. He writes reports every day, says he's recording combat data. I asked him if it wasn't annoying, and he said it was training."

"And then?"

"Then I just said, oh. I don't really understand training anyway."

Netero stroked his beard and resumed his stance. The young man across from him was not provoking him, nor was he being humble. He genuinely did not understand. Netero decided to try another approach.

"Saitama. I won't attack first—try hitting me once."

Saitama tilted his head. "Hit you?"

"Hit me however you like. No Nen. Just use your usual strength."

"My usual strength..." Saitama looked down at his fist. He had never really thought about that. When he punched monsters, it was one punch; when he swatted mosquitoes, it was one punch too. But the force was different. A punch for a monster could blow apart the clouds in the sky, while a punch for a mosquito only made the air wobble. The person in front of him was an old man. Which level of force should he use?

After thinking it over, he decided to use the force he used for mosquitoes. He walked toward Netero at an unhurried pace, like he was heading toward the discount counter at a supermarket. His right fist pushed forward flatly.

Netero watched that fist move toward his chest. It was not fast, the angle was not tricky, and there was no technique to speak of. He did not dodge—he wanted to test this man's basic strength. He crossed his arms before his chest and lowered his center of gravity.

The instant the fist touched his arms, Netero flew away.

Not knocked back. He genuinely flew away. His body traced an arc through the air, passed over three reefs, and plunged headfirst into a thicket. Momentum made him roll twice more along the edge of the brush before he finally came to a stop sprawled out in a volcanic depression.

Saitama looked at his fist, then at the distant thicket. "You said to use my usual strength. I already held back."

A rustling came from the bushes, and Netero rose from within them with several leaves stuck on top of his head. His eyes shone brilliantly, and an extraordinarily radiant smile bloomed across his wrinkled face as he hopped back onto the rocky platform in a few strides.

"That's the feeling—I've waited far too long for this." He plucked the leaves from his head one by one, unhurriedly examining each one as if confirming they had truly been shaken up there by that punch. When he reached the last leaf, he held it before his eyes for a look, then casually let the sea wind carry it away. "Again."

He rolled his wrist, and his figure suddenly vanished from in front of Saitama—not Nen, but martial arts. Footwork pushed to the absolute limit. The next second, he appeared behind Saitama and drove a Straight Punch Thrust precisely into the center of his back. Then another punch from the front, at the shoulder. He shifted to the side, striking the ribs. Every punch landed. Every punch was a Straight Punch Thrust, thrown from a different angle, faster and faster. He did not target vital points. He simply struck different large muscle groups with the most basic straight punches, testing Saitama's physical response—shoulders, back, chest, ribs, abdomen, neck. Every area that did not require avoiding the sharp edges of bone took at least one punch. His fist speed gradually stacked from tentative probing to supersonic, and crisp sonic booms ricocheted between the rocky platform and the reefs.

Saitama did not move an inch. This was not an exaggeration—his feet had not shifted even a centimeter, and his body had not swayed once. He simply stood there.

Netero's breathing had not yet grown ragged, but his punches were already beginning to slow. His final Straight Punch Thrust slammed heavily into the exact center of Saitama's chest. The rocky platform trembled beneath both their feet, while Saitama wore the exact same expression he had when waiting for hot pot water to boil in the cave earlier. Netero cocked his head at him. "Don't you find this boring?"

"It's okay. Better than waiting in line."

"Waiting in line?"

"Discount eggs at the supermarket. Last time, I waited forty minutes. The guy in front bought three cartons, and they sold out right when it was my turn."

Netero fell silent.

A moment later, he cracked his knuckles again and closed in from the other side—this time, not with straight punches. He circled to Saitama's flank, lowered his body, and attacked from different angles: sometimes a chain of straight punches, sometimes a whip kick, sometimes an elbow strike, sometimes a knee strike. Every attack used a different method, as if he were conducting an experiment. Knifehand, straight punch, spearhand, palm heel, elbow, knee, foot blade, sweeping kick—not a single move repeated, and every strike hit Saitama's torso with precision. Gravel on the rocky platform leaped and fell with each knifehand strike, while the wind from his palms howled sharply past the reefs.

Saitama stood there and took the hits. It was not that he could not dodge; he simply did not need to. Attacks at this level felt about the same as the automatic massage chair outside the supermarket. He had tried the strongest setting on one of those chairs once, after putting in three hundred-yen coins. It started at the shoulders, then moved to the back, and finally the waist. It was the same order now. Only he had to insert the coins himself.

Netero landed and switched feet. This time, the style of his attacks suddenly changed. Just moments ago, he had been using standard straight punches and knifehand strikes. Now, he no longer attacked in sequence—his fingers suddenly opened into a pecking strike, a fist that had not fully extended turned into a horizontal palm chop, and the instant his left foot landed, he twisted at the waist and spun, driving his right elbow back into Saitama's spine. He casually drew upon opening techniques collected from countless schools over decades, chaining ever-changing moves without repetition. He moved so fast that the hem of Saitama's yellow T-shirt kept drifting left, and before it could fall, another punch came from the right. Gravel scattered everywhere beneath his feet, and several pebbles rolled beneath Beans's clipboard.

Saitama stood still. Those last few strikes had changed the order. It started at the shoulders, then the back, then the waist—no, this time it was the waist first, then the back, then the shoulders. It was different from the massage chair's program. A massage chair would not start at the waist.

Netero threw another spinning kick, his wooden sandal scraping a shallow mark across the volcanic rock. He stopped and looked Saitama up and down. "You mentioned a massage chair—were you treating me like one?"

"No. Massage chairs need coins. You're free."

Netero pressed his knuckles again, clenched and loosened his fists, and the cracks between his joints sounded like chess pieces tapping against a board. He walked half a circle around Saitama, reassessing the young man's stance. From Straight Punch Thrusts to his chain of changing moves, he had thrown dozens of attacks in total. Every one had landed. Every one had done nothing. It was not a matter of speed, nor technique.

"I trained my speed for decades. At first, every punch was slow. Later, I could finish my daily practice in under an hour. After I descended the mountain, my punches had already surpassed the speed of sound."

He continued, "But in the Dark Continent, there are quite a few people faster than me."

Then he said, "But never has anyone let me stand here and throw dozens of attacks, only to still be thinking about the order of a massage chair."

Saitama thought for a moment. "So, are you still going to fight?"

"Yes." The smile on Netero's face suddenly changed. It was no longer the amused smile he wore toward a junior. "Next, I'll use Nen."

He folded his yukata and placed it on the reef. When he stepped barefoot onto the volcanic rock, his center of gravity sank a little deeper than before. Slowly, he pressed his palms together.

Something gathered in the air. Not wind, but Nen. Its density was so great that even Beans in the distance held his breath, his pen slipping from between his fingers. Every Bloodthirsty Butterfly in the crevices between the reefs flew away.

Behind Netero, the air began to distort. A silhouette gradually emerged, slowly condensing from a phantom into something solid—a gigantic, translucent Guanyin statue floating in midair, dozens of arms spread out like a fan. The first ray of light passed through the statue's fingertips, casting dense shadows across the volcanic rock.

The sea wind stopped. Across the entire rocky platform, only the Guanyin statue rose slowly, its arms opening in overlapping layers like lotus petals. Netero stood before it with his palms pressed together, his eyes half-closed and his lips moving soundlessly—not chanting scripture, but counting beats. The rhythm of his heartbeat.

Saitama raised his head and looked at the Guanyin statue. It was bigger than in anime. It had ninety-nine arms, all spread wide enough to blot out the sky. The statue's shadow covered his bald head, casting the layered silhouette of a hundred hands across the rock.