Another pig charged out.
It was a little smaller than the first and ran with a limp, favoring its left front leg. It burst through the bushes and came straight at Saitama's feet, nearly stepping on his heel.
Saitama looked down at it. Small, nothing special, and lame to boot. It would do fine for his own meal. It wasn't as if the examiners were going to share theirs with him.
"One to eat, one to turn in," he muttered. "If I mess up the roast, I'll turn in the little one and keep the big one."
He reached out and pinned the second pig down too.
Its hooves scrabbled twice against the ground before it gave up. Its tail flicked, slapping the mud. Saitama tied it up with another vine, using exactly the same motions—fold the legs, wrap the vine, tie the knot. Easy.
Every candidate nearby stopped what they were doing.
"He caught two?"
"Two, all by himself?"
"We can barely manage half a pig."
Gon called to him from the pig's back. "Saitama! How did you catch two?"
"If I burn the first one, I need a backup."
Gon tilted his head and thought it over. The logic seemed sound, and he broke into a grin. "That's so smart!"
Killua leaned against a tree, twirling the kunai in his hand as he frowned at Saitama's back. That big pig had to weigh several hundred kilograms, yet the bald guy carried it in one hand with another pig tucked under his other arm. His breathing hadn't changed once.
"What's smart about it?" Killua muttered. "There's something seriously off about that guy."
Saitama emerged from the forest with a pig under each arm and headed toward the exam grounds.
Menchi was still standing there with her arms crossed. Her gaze swept from the first pig to the second, then lingered for two seconds on Saitama's perfectly steady arm. As he walked past her, she turned her head to follow him.
"The rules didn't say I couldn't catch two."
The examiner didn't answer.
Saitama reached the grills and set both pigs on the ground. The big one went to the left of a grill, the little one to the right. He crouched to check the vines. The big pig's left front leg had a slipknot around it, so he retied and tightened it. Everything was secure.
He stood and dusted off his hands. The two pigs lay side by side at his feet like meat on a supermarket shelf, waiting to be checked out. Flames danced in the grill, and the firewood crackled softly.
From a distance, Buhara gazed at the two pigs and licked his lips.
In front of the TV, Genos stared at the screen.
His teacher had caught two pigs. The entire time, he had done only two things: reached out and tied vines. He had wrapped those vines exactly the way he'd tied up plastic bags after grabbing discounted beef at the supermarket last week.
Conclusion: when allocating ingredients, Teacher prioritizes his own share over the examiners'. This matches his usual behavior when buying eggs on sale—secure his own portion first, then worry about fulfilling his obligations.
He glanced at the darkening sky outside, got up, and went to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator.
Half a head of cabbage, a small piece of tofu, and two wilted scallions. Only one egg remained in the carton.
Three days ago, his teacher had stood in front of the empty refrigerator for a minute before saying, "Let's eat out." That meal had cost 3,200 yen. With ingredients in the fridge, they could have saved the money and bought two cartons of eggs and three bunches of scallions instead.
He picked up a shopping bag and went out.
The supermarket would close in twenty minutes. He headed straight for the meat section. A few packs of discounted pork sat on the sale shelf, but after picking one up to inspect it, he put it back. Too thin for tonkatsu. His teacher had said last week that he wanted tonkatsu. That was the highest praise he'd ever given a dish.
At the butcher's counter, his gaze shifted three times between the wagyu and the imported beef round. The last time his teacher had eaten wagyu was at a hotpot dinner two weeks before the transmigration. He'd eaten two bowls of rice that night, one more than usual.
He put a pack of premium wagyu in his basket. Then he added two cartons of eggs, a bunch of scallions, and a head of napa cabbage. Passing the condiments aisle, he picked up a bottle of medium-thick tonkatsu sauce with no sweeteners. Last time, he'd bought the wrong kind, and his teacher had said, "Genos, this isn't right."
He paid and walked home with the shopping bag. The evening breeze was cool, and the plastic bag swayed gently in his hand. When his teacher returned, there would be wagyu, eggs, and napa cabbage in the fridge. He could make tonkatsu, egg drop soup, and chilled napa cabbage salad. They wouldn't have to spend 3,200 yen.
He reached the apartment building and rounded the vending machine. Someone was standing by the entrance in a long green dress and heels, arms folded. Hellish Blizzard.
"Good evening." She lifted her chin. "I came specifically to thank you for what happened last time."
Genos remembered. Three days ago, monsters had surrounded her during a mission. He had passed by while buying soy sauce and dealt with them. He'd pulled two Blizzard Group members out of the rubble, then burned the remaining monsters to ash.
"You're welcome." He squeezed past her, took out his key, and opened the door. He set the shopping bag on the shoe cabinet in the entryway, then turned and blocked the doorway. "Teacher Saitama is busy."
"He's home?"
"He's on TV. Teacher is taking the Hunter Exam. He's on the second test and has caught two Great-Nosed Wild Boars."
"...What?"
"Please leave." He started to close the door.
"Wait—" Fubuki pressed a hand against it. "I came all this way, and you're going to leave me standing in the hallway?"
"Teacher isn't home. I can't let you in."
"You just said he was on TV!"
"He's busy even if he's on TV."
A vein throbbed on Fubuki's forehead. "I came to thank you. At least let me finish."
"You've already thanked me."
"I haven't said what for!" She took a deep breath. "I brought a cake—"
"No need. There's premium wagyu in the fridge. Teacher doesn't like cake."
Fubuki fell silent for two seconds. "Then what do you want me to do? Stand out here in the hallway?"
"When Teacher isn't home, I don't have permission to let anyone inside." He pushed the door closer to its frame, nearly catching her fingers. Fubuki snatched her hand back.
"You—"
"The wagyu needs to be refrigerated."
Fubuki's lips moved twice. At last, she shoved the gift into his hands. "Take it. Do whatever you want with it."
Genos looked down. A limited-edition cheesecake. Like the strawberry cake last time, it would last three days.
"Thank you."
"Don't mention it." Fubuki turned away, her heels echoing down the hallway. After a few steps, she stopped and glanced back at the door, which had already closed.
Genos put the cake on the bottom shelf of the fridge. His teacher didn't eat sweets, so he would have it for breakfast tomorrow. Then he put away the wagyu and napa cabbage, arranged the eggs in the carton one by one, and stood the scallions in a cup of water. He closed the fridge. Every ingredient was in its place.
He returned to the sofa. On TV, his teacher was setting the two pigs beside the grill, the big one on the left and the little one on the right. Flames danced, and the firewood crackled.
Genos opened a bag of potato chips. There was wagyu in the fridge and his teacher on TV. Everything was as it should be.
Crunch.
Before you continue