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I am Saitama - Chapter 38: The Funeral
🕑 Added 2025-08-24 04:16:23 +0000 UTC“This goddamn-shit thing!!” mumbled Saitama under his teeth, pulling at the fabric with the kind of irritation reserved only for his worst enemies, monsters and loading screens.
The reason for his anger? He was trying to put on a tie—but failing, miserably. The knot kept twisting the wrong way, the loop wouldn’t tighten properly, and every attempt left him looking like a salaryman halfway through a nervous breakdown.
Why, of all things, was the bald hero even trying to put on a tie?
Because after the fight with Boros—right before his defeat and the collapse of his grand invasion—Boros had killed one of the S-Class heroes. Tanktop Master.
The news shook everyone. Tanktop Master was the first S-Class hero to officially lose his life in duty. The shockwaves didn’t stop with the Association—media, civilians, politicians, everyone reacted with grief and disbelief. The Tank-Topper Army, especially, wept loudly and dramatically, organizing public gatherings in his memory.
But for the Hero Association? This wasn’t just grief—it was a problem.
Why? Because the impact was much bigger than they predicted. Questions spread fast, spiraling through talk shows, newspapers, and online forums: How did Tanktop Master die? Who killed him? Why was the Association so vague?
The truth was… messy. Only a handful inside the Association knew exactly what had happened. Tanktop Master had arrogantly mocked and provoked the enemy—and on response, he had been killed in a matter of seconds, without even managing to scratching the invader. For the Association, spinning that into a narrative of valor wasn’t exactly easy.
So the Marketing Division of the Association went to work. PR brainstorming sessions, coffee-fueled late nights, endless discussions of optics and messaging. Finally, the solution was clear:
They’d turn Tanktop Master into a symbol. A hero who had stood tall against the alien leader’s unstoppable forces, paving the way for humanity’s survival—even if it cost him his life. It was neat, tragic, inspiring. And all they needed was a nod from the one person who actually ended the invasion singlehandedly.
Saitama.
“Goddamn it!!” he cursed again as the tie unraveled, his veins popping slightly on his smooth head as he resisted the urge to rip it apart and toss it into orbit.
With a long, suffering groan, he finally gave up. Dropping down onto the floor, he sat cross-legged in his trousers, his stiff suit jacket draped awkwardly around him, the tie dangling uselessly from his hands.
He stared at it with the same disdain he reserved for mosquitoes.
Man, I don’t even want to go to this stupid funeral, he thought bitterly. They’ll all be crying and wailing for a version of events that isn’t even true. And me? I’m supposed to sit there, nod along, and let the Association milk it like some kind of PR cow.
His lips pressed into a thin line.
Sigh… how did I even let myself get convinced by those damn bureaucrats?
He thought back to the meeting in the Association headquarters. The suits and ties had circled him like vultures, carefully explaining the “importance of image,” the “role of symbolic heroes,” and the “need for the Association to project stability.” All words that made his brain itch.
---
“You want me to what?” he had asked, scratching his ear as they rambled.
“Just attend the funeral. Stand there, look solemn, maybe bow your head once or twice,” the PR manager had said, adjusting his glasses. “Your presence validates our official account. You’re the hero of the invasion. If you’re there, no one will question the details.”
At the time, Saitama had shrugged. “Fine, whatever.”
---
But now, staring at his tie like it was an alien parasite, he was regretting every second of that decision.
‘Back in my old world, when I was just a fan, I used to laugh at the background politics in stories like this. PR moves, media spin—it was all “eh, whatever, just show me the fights.” But living it? God, it’s annoying. I signed up to punch monsters, not to be a mascot at a funeral.’
He tugged at the tie one more time, half-hearted. The loop collapsed again.
Saitama flopped backward onto the floor, threw his tie aside, and stared at the ceiling with dead fish eyes. “Ughhhhhh…”
“Hey, stop complaining. What are you even wimping about? I know funerals are depressing, but he was a fellow S-Class hero. You should at least save your wimping for later,” Mizuki said as she appeared through the hallway. She was dressed in a simple, all-black traditional dress that hugged her figure modestly, her hair tied up neatly. Her expression carried a reprimanding edge, but her tone still had warmth.
“But…”
“No buts. We are going, and you are going to pay your respects for your fellow hero, ok?” she said in an unusually authoritative tone.
“Sigh… okay.” Saitama’s shoulders slumped as the frown on his girlfriend’s face instantly melted into a bright smile.
“That’s the spirit.” She knelt slightly, picked up the discarded tie from the floor, and in a few careful, fluid motions, adjusted it around his collar. Her fingers were deft, the knot neat and precise, something that Saitama had been failing to achieve for the last thirty minutes.
“There you go, much better,” Mizuki said, stepping back with satisfaction. She leaned forward and kissed him on the left cheek, making the bald hero blush faintly. “Let’s go, Saita!”
“Alright.” He pushed himself up, finally ready to face the day. “Wait a minute, where’s Genos?”
“Oh, he was just finishing the last details in the bathroom,” she replied. And almost on cue, the bathroom door creaked open.
Out stepped Genos.
For a split second, Saitama’s brain froze. His disciple stood tall, mechanical posture straight as ever—but the suit he wore was something out of a fever dream.
The jacket was jet black, yes, but designed with absurdly exaggerated broad shoulders that made him look like a walking triangle. The lapels sparkled faintly with embedded LED strips that pulsed faintly—because of course Genos thought a “mournful glow effect” was appropriate. His trousers were slim, but plated with metallic seams that clinked faintly with every step, almost like knight armor poorly disguised as fashion.
And the tie… oh, god, the tie. It wasn’t even a tie. It was a solid chrome band wrapped around his collar like a futuristic neck brace, reflecting light so aggressively it was practically a mirror.
To top it all off, his usual mechanical arms had been fitted with glossy onyx plating, polished to the point of showing reflections, and each fingertip glowed with a faint blue light like candles.
“….”
Saitama’s lips twitched.
Genos adjusted his LED-lapel jacket with absolute seriousness. “I apologize for the delay, Sensei. I wanted to ensure my formal attire was… perfect for the occasion.”
The bald hero’s vision blurred. His chest tightened, not from sadness, but from the sheer, overwhelming pressure of holding back a laugh.
Holy crap… he looks like a rejected villain from some third-rate tokusatsu show, he thought, his reincarnated fanbrain screaming inside. What funeral is this? Tanktop Master’s or disco night at the robot strip club?
Mizuki blinked, trying to keep a straight face but clearly at a loss for words. “Um… Genos… you… look… unique.”
Genos bowed his head slightly, entirely serious. “Thank you. I modeled this suit after ceremonial attire I studied from over two hundred cultural archives. I wanted to embody respect, dignity, and an aura of solemnity befitting the deceased.”
Saitama’s teeth clenched. A sound escaped his throat—a half-snort, half-choke. His whole body shook as he tried desperately to mask it as a cough. “Kh-hhhhhhkk… uh-hhhhhh…”
Genos tilted his head. “Sensei, are you unwell?”
“Pff—!!” Saitama slapped his hand over his mouth, his face contorting red as his entire being fought against the explosion of laughter that threatened to burst out of him. His inner voice screamed: Don’t do it! This is a funeral! Don’t! You’ll ruin the mood before it even starts!!
But god, the LED lapels blinked again, shifting from white to a dim blue glow, like a party mode. That was the last straw.
“Ghhhhhkkkk—!” Saitama wheezed, bending forward, his fists trembling at his sides. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes.
Genos, oblivious, straightened his chrome tie with pride. “Let us depart, Sensei.”
Saitama nodded stiffly, lips pressed into a thin line, the sound of suppressed laughter echoing like an earthquake inside his skull.
Genos, oblivious, straightened his chrome tie with pride. “Let us depart, Sensei.”
Saitama nodded stiffly, lips pressed into a thin line, the sound of suppressed laughter echoing like an earthquake inside his skull.
The three of them descended the apartment stairwell together, Mizuki walking just behind them, her heels clicking nervously against the steps. She tugged absently at her black dress, formal but modest, nothing like the athletic gear she usually wore. For her, the somber silence felt heavier than any weight she’d ever lifted.
At the foot of the stairs, the street was strangely empty, save for the sleek Association limousine waiting with tinted windows and a polished emblem gleaming under the streetlights. Standing outside, posture crisp and hands folded neatly behind his back, was Jinzuren. His sharp suit looked like it had been tailored by a scalpel, and his narrow glasses reflected the glow of the lamps as he inclined his head politely toward them.
“Genos. Saitama.” His voice was low, practiced, steady. “Thank you for coming. Your presence will be appreciated today.”
Saitama scratched his cheek awkwardly. “Uh, yeah. Morning.”
Genos bowed at once, his mechanical servos whirring softly. “Executive Jinzuren. It is reassuring to see you here to personally oversee matters. Sensei and I will conduct ourselves with utmost discipline.”
Saitama’s eye twitched, the suppressed laugh threatening to break free, but before he could betray himself, Jinzuren’s gaze shifted to Mizuki.
“And you must be Mizuki.”
She froze, blinking. “Y-Yes! I—I mean, yes, sir.” She straightened her posture, almost saluting by instinct, but stopped herself, hands clasped nervously in front of her. This was the first time she had ever spoken to someone of Jinzuren’s rank directly. She could feel her pulse racing—heroes like her didn’t often get such formal acknowledgment from the Association’s upper echelons.
Jinzuren gave her a faint but measured smile, nodding as if already satisfied. “Your record speaks well of you. I’m glad you chose to accompany them.”
Mizuki blinked again, her lips parting slightly in surprise. “You… know me?”
“Of course,” Jinzuren replied smoothly, adjusting his glasses. “I make it a point to know the people who matter.” His eyes flicked for half a second toward Saitama before returning to her, the subtlety almost invisible. “It will mean something to those gathered today that you’re present.”
Her face warmed, a mix of pride and bewilderment washing over her. “I… thank you, sir.”
Saitama, ever blunt, muttered under his breath, “Man, you sure do your homework.”
Genos elbowed him lightly, whispering, “Sensei, decorum.”
Jinzuren’s expression didn’t falter, though the corner of his mouth tugged faintly as if he’d overheard. With a gesture, he opened the limousine door himself, rather than waiting for a chauffeur. “Please. We shouldn’t be late.”
Mizuki hesitated for just a moment before sliding in after Saitama and Genos. She cast a last quick glance at Jinzuren as she entered, realizing that—whether he intended it or not—she suddenly felt the full gravity of the Association in his presence.
And though Jinzuren said nothing more, Mizuki couldn’t shake the strange sense that he already knew far more about her than she expected.
---
The limousine rolled through the polished avenues of A-City, its skyline once more standing tall and defiant after the chaos of the invasion. Fresh steel gleamed against the sunlight, banners of the Hero Association draped from new towers in solemn black. When the vehicle came to a slow halt before a marble hall built as a memorial, the atmosphere outside was thick with hushed voices.
Hundreds of heroes stood gathered in their formal attire—ranging from tailored suits to ceremonial uniforms, and even a few eccentric costumes that heroes refused to shed even on a day of mourning. Saitama, Genos, and Mizuki stepped out together. The sheer size of the crowd surprised even Saitama, who muttered under his breath, “Guess everybody showed up…”
Near the steps leading up to the memorial, familiar faces waited. The crowd of heroes parted ever so slightly as the group approached, and at the center of it all stood Atomic Samurai. His hand rested casually on the hilt of his katana, but the way his presence commanded space betrayed the sharp awareness behind his calm posture. Flanking him were his loyal disciples—Iaian, the top disciple of Atomic Samurai, who was standing with a straight posture and narrowed eyes; Bushidrill, restless and with a straight posture as he talked with Iaian; and Okamaitachi, whose sharp gaze usually carried a mischievous edge, though today it was softened by the gravity of the occasion.
Beside them, Bang carried a posture of silent strength. The aged martial artist had his hands folded neatly behind his back, his eyes lowered in respect yet still gleaming with that unyielding sharpness forged from decades of battle. His silver hair, catching the sunlight, framed a face that betrayed both weariness and wisdom.
The two S-Class veterans seemed absorbed in quiet conversation, but then—as though sensing an approaching shift in the air—they turned almost in unison. Atomic Samurai’s lips stretched into a confident grin, while Bang allowed a faint smile to curl at the edges of his stern expression. Both clearly recognized the newcomers.
The reaction from the disciples, however, was far less composed.
“Oh shit! They are…” Bushidrill muttered, his jaw falling open as he instinctively straightened his back.
“Yes,” Iaian replied, his voice grave yet tinged with awe. His eyes narrowed, as if he were measuring the weight of their presence. “The S-Class heroes One Punch Man and Demon Cyborg. Their strength… it’s palpable. Just their sheer presence disrupts the air around them.” He tilted his head slightly toward his comrade. “What do you think, Okamaitachi?”
But his words hung unanswered. Okamaitachi stood frozen, eyes wide, as though struck by lightning. Her mouth opened slightly, her breathing uneven.
“Oi, Okamaitachi? Don’t tell me you’re broken already.” Bushidrill leaned in, his brows furrowed, and snapped his fingers directly in front of her face. The sharp sound jolted her from her trance.
“I-I-I… that’s One Punch Man-sama!” she blurted out suddenly, her tone cracking and leaping into a pitch far too high for the somber atmosphere. Her hands balled into fists near her chest, and her cheeks burned a bright pink.
Her two partners exchanged glances, each with their own unique brand of disbelief. Iaian shook his head faintly, muttering something about discipline, while Bushidrill raised an eyebrow and muttered under his breath, “Unbelievable… she’s fangirling? Here? At a funeral?”
Okamaitachi’s gaze, however, never left Saitama. Her eyes practically sparkled with a mix of admiration and shock, as though she had just met a living legend she’d only ever dreamed about.
Meanwhile, Saitama—oblivious as always—scratched his cheek, his simple black funeral suit making him look even more out of place among the sharply dressed heroes. “Uh… hi?” he said flatly, giving a little wave that only seemed to intensify Okamaitachi’s reaction.
Bang cleared his throat softly, stepping forward with a slight bow of his head toward Saitama and Genos. “It’s good to see you both. Even under such circumstances.” His voice carried a solemn weight, but his smile lingered, a rare softness breaking through his otherwise disciplined demeanor.
Atomic Samurai smirked, his eyes narrowing with amusement as he took in the scene—Okamaitachi’s starstruck face, Bushidrill’s exasperation, Iaian’s silent assessment, and Saitama’s utter nonchalance. “Well, well,” he said, resting a hand more firmly on his blade’s hilt. “Seems like even at a funeral, you draw attention without trying, Baldy.”
Genos bowed his head politely, his golden eyes gleaming with respect. “It’s an honor to see you all again.”
Behind them, Mizuki lingered in silence, her gaze sweeping across the assembly of powerful heroes. The sheer density of S-Class power gathered in one place made her tense, and she bit her lip, unsure whether to step forward or remain at the fringes. She had never interacted with figures of this caliber before, and part of her feared saying something wrong.
Noticing this, Saitama glanced back at her, then back at the group. “Oh, right. Uh, this is Mizuki. She’s with us.” His tone was casual, but his words carried weight.
“Oh, right—uh, this is Mizuki.” He gestured toward her with a flat palm. “She’s… with us. She’s a uh B-Class hero but she grows very fast.” He said while trying to don’t make the situation uncomfortable, as he knew how much it mattered the class and ranks to heroes here.
Mizuki blinked, caught off guard, then gave a small bow, her cheeks flushed. “It’s an honor to meet you all.”
Bang’s expression softened immediately, his old martial artist’s intuition reading her nervousness. “So you’re the athlete girl I’ve heard about,” he said kindly, his voice like calm water. “I’m Bang. Don’t be intimidated—today, we’re just people remembering someone we lost.”
Atomic Samurai gave her a brief nod, sharp but not dismissive. “Another who fights. Good.”
His disciples followed suit, Iaian bowing respectfully, Okamaitachi flashing her a faint smile, and Bushidrill greeting her with a firm nod.
Mizuki straightened slowly, her nerves easing at the unexpected warmth of the introductions. Standing beside Saitama and Genos, she allowed herself to breathe again as she was worried to cause a good impression on two of the most legendary heroes of the Association.
However that would have to wait…
Before anyone could continue the exchange, a suited Association employee approached the steps, his voice carrying over the murmuring crowd through a small megaphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen, honored heroes—please, take your seats. The wake will begin shortly.”
Almost as if synchronized, the air shifted. The quiet chatter died down, and a ripple of movement spread through the masses. Heroes of every rank—from C-Class hopefuls to the veterans of S-Class—began making their way toward the rows of seats lined up beneath the white canopy. The staff coordinated with calm efficiency, guiding people while keeping the press at bay. Even so, several reporters and journalists who had been granted access quickly mobilized, cameras flashing, pens scribbling furiously as they whispered commentary on the gathering of nearly the entire Hero Association’s might in one place.
Genos kept his posture stiff and formal, while Saitama, with hands buried in his pockets, strolled casually toward the seating area. Mizuki followed, unsure of where to look, her eyes catching on the sheer scale of the event—the hundreds of heroes, the officials, the banners of the Hero Association, and the large black-and-white photograph of Tanktop Master set against the memorial stage.
Once everyone had taken their place, silence blanketed the area. The Association’s staff dimmed the background noise of the equipment, leaving only the soft rustle of clothing and the distant hum of the city.
Then, the first speaker was introduced. A middle-aged woman, dressed in black, with tear-streaked cheeks and trembling hands, stepped up to the podium. She was Tanktop Master’s wife.
She took a shaky breath before beginning, her voice low but steady enough to carry through the speakers.
“Thank you… thank you all for coming.” Her eyes scanned the sea of faces, pausing at the front rows where the Tanktopper Army sat huddled together. “My husband… was a man of unshakable conviction. He lived every day for his comrades, for his students, and for the people he swore to protect. Even in his final moments, he never wavered in his ideals. I know… I know he would have been honored to see all of you here today.”
Her lips trembled, but she pushed forward. “He was more than a hero to me—he was my partner, my strength. And though I can’t possibly fill the void he leaves behind, knowing that so many of you share his spirit, his discipline, his love for humanity… gives me hope.”
From the front rows came loud, unabashed sobs. The Tanktopper Army sat together in their black tank tops, each bearing the symbol of their master. Tanktop Black Hole hunched forward, head in his hands, shaking uncontrollably. Tanktop Doctor removed his glasses, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. Tanktop Girl clutched a black armband, tears rolling freely down her face, while Tanktop Rockabilly bit his lip hard, trying and failing to hold back. Tanktop Racer and Tanktop Swimmer embraced each other for support, while Tanktop Tiger let out a guttural cry that echoed across the solemn gathering.
Their grief was raw, unfiltered, and it filled the air heavier than any silence could. Even the most hardened of S-Class heroes lowered their gazes respectfully, acknowledging the depth of loyalty Tanktop Master had inspired in his disciples.
The wife bowed her head deeply, both in gratitude and mourning, before stepping back from the podium.
The weight of the moment lingered, the sobs of the Tanktopper Army serving as a painful reminder of the void left behind.
Meanwhile Saitama had a very different feeling than grief on that moment.
Where is this going to end?
Comments
finnikin finnikin
Thanks for the chapter it was awesome I can't wait to see what will happen next
