Hot-Blooded Passion Boils Again

Saitama looked down at the mark beneath his feet.

Half a step.

A shallow scrape left by the sole of his shoe against the granite, branded into the arena like a mark.

This was the first time in three years since breaking his Limiter that he had been forced back.

His heart suddenly clenched.

Then—

Thump thump thump thump thump—

The violent pounding struck against his chest, making his eardrums ring.

His blood surged through every limb like molten lava. A long-forgotten numbness tingled in his fingertips, and even the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

He instinctively raised a hand to his chest.

A little bewildered.

And a little inexplicably exhilarated.

His eyes instinctively fell on his hands. He had not felt this way since that sweltering summer three years ago, when he punched the Crab Monster to pieces at an abandoned construction site.

No more nerves.

No more breathless anticipation before a punch landed.

Even winning did not make his heart beat any faster.

He had thought his heart had long fallen asleep along with his invincibility.

The audience was deathly silent.

For a full five seconds.

Genos's mechanical pupils were filled with red ERROR messages, his raised cannon frozen in midair.

Netero did not even notice that the tea in his hand had gone cold. His fingertips trembled, and the bottom of his cup tapped against the stone table. That faint, crisp sound was especially piercing in the dead silence.

The playing card between Hisoka's fingers fell to the ground with a slap. He did not even blink as his tongue ran over his cracked lips, his golden pupils shrinking to pinpoints.

Saitama did not look at anyone.

He slowly raised his head.

For the first time, his usual half-lidded, sleepy eyes opened