Consecutive Normal Punches

Boros's figure vanished from the spot.

He transformed into a dark-golden streak of light and shot straight at Saitama. He moved so fast that three solid afterimages were pulled from the air—not visual remnants, but traces left behind by energy tearing through space.

The first punch slammed toward Saitama's chest, the energy compressed around the fist into a supernova core.

Saitama raised a hand and held his palm before his chest.

Boom—

A ring-shaped shock wave exploded outward. The tiles beneath Saitama's feet instantly cracked, the fractures radiating more than a dozen meters. His yellow T-shirt billowed backward under the force of the punch, its hem snapping loudly in the wind.

"A little heavier than last time," Saitama said.

Boros did not stop.

Second punch, third punch, fourth punch... Dark-golden fists poured down like a torrential rain, each punch heavier than the last and faster than the one before it. Twenty years of traveling across the sea of stars, countless nights spent waiting alone in the darkness, a fighting spirit that even death could not extinguish—all of it was compressed into this barrage.

Saitama blocked every attack with one hand.

His palm shifted before his chest, at his side, above his head, precisely intercepting Boros's fists each time. Now and then, he leaned aside to evade a punch or two. Those missed punches slammed into the arena, melting one bottomless pit after another.

"Not bad speed," Saitama said as he blocked. "Your angles are trickier than last time, too."

Boros landed, and dark-golden energy exploded around him.

He did not answer. He merely adjusted his breathing slightly, then charged again.

This time, his punches changed.

They were no longer simply fast and heavy. The angle of every punch shifted subtly, as if he were precisely calculating Saitama's blocking habits and