Hours crawled by, marked only by the shifting positions of unseen stars somewhere beyond the suffocating canopy and the deepening ache in the escapees' bones. The Valgothian Deepwood at night was a relentless assault on the senses – the chilling dampness that seeped into their clothes, the phantom touches of unseen spiderwebs across their faces, the constant symphony of clicks, rustles, and drips that hinted at teeming, unseen life, and the oppressive darkness that seemed to have weight and texture, pressing against their eyes.
Gregor stumbled, catching himself against the rough bark of a colossal tree. His breath hitched, a ragged sound in the otherwise quiet progress. He leaned there for a moment, head bowed, the salvaged sword feeling like lead in his grip. Every muscle screamed in protest. His vision swam slightly, not just from the darkness, but from sheer, bone-deep exhaustion. They had been moving for what felt like an eternity since escaping the Labyrinth, with no rest, little water, and no food. Hope, sustained for a time by the sheer shock of Saitama's power and the promise of the surface, was beginning to fray, worn thin by the relentless trek and the gnawing emptiness in their bellies.
Lyra wasn't faring much better. Her steps were short, shuffling, her head bowed. The adrenaline that had carried her through the initial escape and the subsequent horrors had long since burned away, leaving behind a hollow ache and a despair so profound it felt like a physical weight crushing her chest. Tears tracked silently through the grime on her face, tears not of immediate fear, but of utter weariness and hopelessness. How much longer could they walk? Where were they even going? Was there truly an escape from this endless, hungry forest?
Renn was swaying on his feet, his eyes half-closed. He kept stumbling over roots Gregor and Lyra managed to avoid, only kept upright by sheer momentum and Lyra occasionally grabbing his arm. The psychic assault by the Phantasm Weavers had left him shaken, his mind raw and vulnerable. The darkness seemed to whisper to him constantly now, faint echoes of the Labyrinth's despair, and he flinched at every shadow.
Saitama, meanwhile, was poking a large, puffball mushroom growing on the side of Gregor's resting tree. "Is this one edible?" he asked, his voice startlingly normal in the tense silence. "Looks kinda like a giant marshmallow. Maybe if we toasted it?"
Gregor didn't even have the energy to reply. He just shook his head wearily.
Saitama sighed, withdrawing his finger. "Thought not. Everything interesting looking is always poisonous or explodes. Stupid nature." He kicked idly at a root, then seemed to get an idea. He walked over to another large tree nearby and, with no wind-up, delivered a short, sharp punch to its trunk.
Thwack.
The sound was muffled, solid. The colossal tree, thick as a watchtower, didn't shudder or break. But several dead branches high above, loosened by the focused vibration that traveled up the trunk, detached and clattered down through the foliage, landing near their feet.
"See?" Saitama announced, dusting off his knuckles. "Good way to get firewood. If we were camping. Which we're not. Because someone," he glanced pointedly at Gregor, "doesn't want s'mores."
Gregor just groaned, pushing himself away from the tree. "We… keep moving." His voice was cracked, barely a whisper.
But Lyra couldn't. She sank to her knees beside the log where she'd previously rested, burying her face in her hands. "I can't, Gregor," she sobbed quietly, her shoulders shaking. "I can't walk anymore. It's hopeless. We're just going to die out here."
Renn stopped too, looking down at Lyra, his own face crumpling. The despair was infectious. Seeing Lyra, who had remained relatively composed until now, finally break, shattered his own fragile endurance. He slumped down beside her, looking utterly defeated.
Gregor looked at them, then around at the hostile darkness. His own resolve wavered. Lyra was right. What was the point? They were lost, exhausted, hunted. Maybe stopping here, letting the forest claim them, was kinder than stumbling blindly towards an inevitable, likely violent, end. He leaned heavily on his sword, the fight draining out of him.
Saitama watched the tableau of despair unfold. He frowned slightly. "Hey, come on. Don't cry. It makes your face all sticky." He paused, seeming genuinely unsure how to proceed. Monster punching? Easy. Dealing with crying, exhausted people? Complicated. "Look, we just gotta find a town. Get some food. Maybe take a bath. Everything looks better after a bath. And food. Definitely food."
His attempt at encouragement, however well-intentioned, fell flat against the wall of their utter despair. They didn't respond, lost in their misery.
Saitama sighed again. "Man, tough crowd." He looked around the dark forest, then sniffed the air. His expression changed slightly. The boredom vanished, replaced by a faint hint of alertness. "Huh. Smells like… wet dog? But bigger. And angrier."
Gregor, jolted by the change in Saitama's tone, forced himself upright, straining his senses. He caught it too now – a musky, feral scent on the night air, carried on a sudden, cold draft. And beneath the sighing wind, a new sound: the heavy tread of multiple large creatures moving through the undergrowth, circling them. Low, guttural growls began to rumble from the darkness, vibrating through the ground.
"Get up!" Gregor yelled, adrenaline surging back, shoving Renn and pulling Lyra to their feet. "Something's here! Back-to-back!"
From the impenetrable shadows surrounding their small resting spot, pairs of eyes ignited – not the pale green of Cave Crawlers, but burning, malevolent crimson, like hot coals floating in the night. They were low to the ground, widespread, indicating large, powerful bodies. The growling intensified, a chorus of primal hunger and territorial rage.
Six… no, eight massive shapes began to resolve themselves from the deepest darkness, padding silently into the periphery of their exhausted awareness. They resembled immense wolves or hyenas, but grotesquely mutated, corrupted by the forest's dark influence. Their fur was patchy, revealing sickly grey skin stretched taut over knotted muscle and protruding bone spurs. Their maws dripped thick, black saliva, revealing multiple rows of jagged, oversized teeth. Their claws were thick, hooked things designed for tearing through flesh and armor. These were Corrupted Hounds, pack hunters known for their ferocity, unnatural resilience, and ability to coordinate attacks with terrifying efficiency. They were drawn by the scent of exhaustion and despair, predators sensing weakened prey.
The Hounds circled slowly, their crimson eyes fixed on Gregor, Lyra, and Renn, clearly identifying them as the primary targets, the source of the delicious fear-scent. Saitama, standing slightly apart, radiating only boredom and mild annoyance, seemed to barely register on their predatory radar.
"Gods preserve us…" Gregor breathed, his sword feeling pitifully inadequate against the sheer size and number of the beasts. Eight of them. Each larger than a pony. He braced himself for the inevitable charge.
The lead Hound, a massive brute with livid scars across its muzzle, lowered its head and let out a deafening, bloodcurdling howl – the signal to attack.
The pack surged forward simultaneously, a wave of muscle, teeth, and claws exploding from the darkness. They moved with terrifying speed, aiming to overwhelm, to tear their victims apart before they could even react.
Lyra screamed. Renn stumbled back, tripping again. Gregor thrust his sword forward desperately at the closest Hound.
But before the first Hound could reach Gregor, before its jaws could clamp down, Saitama moved. He hadn't seemed to be paying much attention, but the sudden coordinated attack, the sheer noise of it, apparently crossed some threshold of annoyance.
He didn't leap into the fray. He didn't deliver a flurry of punches. He just took one step forward, planting himself directly in the path of the main charge, and performed a single, seemingly simple action.
He punched the ground. Directly downwards. Again.
This time, it wasn't a stomp for illumination. This was pure, focused, downward force, delivered with the casual annoyance of someone swatting a persistent mosquito.
KR-THOOOM!
The sound was immense, terrifying – not just a thump, but the sound of the very bedrock groaning in protest. The ground beneath Saitama's fist didn't just compress; it visibly cratered, sending shockwaves radiating outwards not just through the earth, but through the air itself.
The effect on the charging pack of Corrupted Hounds was instantaneous and absolute.
The first three Hounds, closest to the impact, were caught directly by the primary ground shockwave. Their charge instantly became an uncontrolled tumble as the earth bucked violently beneath them. Before they could even register the upheaval, the concussive force traveling through the ground met the concussive force radiating through the air. Caught between these waves, their supernaturally tough bodies, designed to withstand immense physical punishment, simply… failed. Bones shattered, muscles tore, internal organs ruptured simultaneously. They didn't fly apart; they collapsed inward, reduced to mangled heaps of fur, bone, and gore in less than a heartbeat.
The remaining five Hounds, slightly further back, were hit by the secondary shockwaves. The ground lurched beneath them, sending them sprawling. The air pressure wave hit them like an invisible wall, staggering them, stunning them, bursting eardrums and causing internal hemorrhaging. They landed in tangled, yelping heaps, momentarily incapacitated, their charge broken, their pack cohesion shattered.
The entire attack, the terrifying coordinated surge of eight monstrous predators, was neutralized in the space of a single second by one downward punch into the dirt.
Silence fell again, thick and heavy, broken only by the whimpering of the injured Hounds and the ragged gasps of the three humans. Dust and pulverized leaves slowly settled.
Saitama looked down at the crater his fist had made, then at the mangled bodies of the first three Hounds and the stunned, whimpering survivors. He frowned. "Huh. Overdid it a bit. Meant to just knock 'em back, not… make a mess." He looked at his fist. "Guess I shouldn't punch downwards when I'm annoyed."
He walked over to the nearest whimpering Hound, which was trying feebly to drag its broken hind legs, its crimson eyes now wide with terror rather than rage. Saitama knelt beside it. The Hound flinched violently.
"Look, buddy," Saitama said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "You guys gotta learn to pick on someone your own size. Or, you know, find a hobby. Stamp collecting? Bird watching? Way less likely to get punched into next week."
He then delivered a swift, precise chop to the back of the Hound's neck. There was a soft crack, and the creature went still, its suffering ended. Saitama methodically moved to the other four injured Hounds and dispatched them with the same quick, almost merciful efficiency.
He stood up, wiping gore from his glove onto his already filthy jumpsuit. "There. All quiet now." He looked back at Gregor, Lyra, and Renn, who were staring at the scene – the crater, the dead monsters, Saitama standing amidst the carnage looking slightly bored – with identical expressions of numb shock. "See? No need to cry. Monsters are gone. Now, about that flat rock…"
Gregor finally found his voice, though it was weak, trembling. "You… you killed eight Corrupted Hounds… with one punch… into the ground?"
"Well, technically it only killed three," Saitama corrected, gesturing to the first mangled heap. "The others just got stunned. Had to finish 'em off so they wouldn't suffer. Or wake up grumpy." He shrugged. "Anyway, yeah. Ground punch. Pretty effective for crowd control, turns out. Though messy."
Lyra stared at him, then slowly pushed herself to her feet, Renn following suit. The despair that had crippled her moments before was still there, a deep ache of exhaustion and loss, but it was now overshadowed by the sheer, raw impossibility of Saitama. He wasn't just powerful; he was operating on a scale that made concepts like 'danger' and 'hopelessness' seem… relative. If he was with them, maybe… maybe there really was a chance.
"Okay," Gregor said, taking a deep, shuddering breath. He sheathhed his sword. Arguing seemed pointless. Survival seemed pointless unless they followed Saitama. "Okay, Saitama. We find… a defensible spot. We rest. Just until first light."
Saitama beamed, the first genuine smile they'd seen from him. "Awesome! See? Told you resting was a good idea! Now, anyone got marshmallows?"
Kristoph's team heard the terrifying howl echo through the night, followed moments later by the deep, earth-shattering KR-THOOOM! that vibrated up through the soles of their boots, even from a mile away. The ground itself seemed to groan.
They froze instantly, exchanging wide-eyed looks in the dim magical light Elara provided.
"That sound…" Kristoph breathed. "That wasn't thunder."
Elara's face was pale, her senses reeling from the sheer magnitude of the energy release. "Ground impact… immense kinetic force… far greater than the stomp that dispersed the shadows. The Tempest… he struck again. With significantly more power."
"Against what?" Zenon questioned, peering into the darkness ahead. "That howl… sounded like Corrupted Hounds. A large pack."
They pushed forward again, moving faster now despite the darkness, drawn by a mixture of duty and morbid curiosity. When they finally reached the site, the scene stopped them cold.
The crater in the ground was significant, easily six feet across and several feet deep, the earth around it pulverized. The mangled remains of the first three Hounds were horrific, testaments to unimaginable force. The other five bodies, dispatched more cleanly, lay scattered nearby. The smell of blood and gore hung heavy in the air.
Elara knelt, analyzing the residual energies, her expression deeply troubled. "Corrupted Hounds, yes. At least eight. Powerful Alpha among them." She looked at the crater. "This impact… the force required is… inconceivable by conventional means. It bypassed their unnatural resilience entirely."
Zenon examined the tracks leading away – Saitama's steady prints, accompanied now by the slightly less hopeless, though still weary, tracks of the three escapees. "They rested briefly here, then moved on. Southeast." He looked at Kristoph. "He is actively protecting them now, Commander. Not just removing obstacles from his own path."
Kristoph stared at the devastation, then into the darkness where Saitama had vanished. Protecting them? Or simply swatting annoyances? Did the motive even matter when the results were this absolute? "He grows… bolder? Or perhaps just more irritated," Kristoph murmured. "Whatever the reason, his displays of power are escalating." He felt a growing unease. What happened when Saitama encountered something that didn't crumple under a single blow? Would he simply hit harder? What were the upper limits of such power? Did they even exist?
"We're losing ground," he stated grimly. "But we keep tracking. We need to know where he's going. And pray we don't get caught in the crossfire when he decides to punch something else."
They moved on, the image of the crater and the casually slaughtered Hounds adding another layer of terrifying weight to the mystery of the One-Punch Man.