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I am Saitama - Chapter 32: Rebuilding
🕑 Added 2025-08-15 06:51:01 +0000 UTC“Okay, come on, raise it!!” shouted a worker from the Hero Association, extending his hands several times in quick motions, signaling Tatsumaki to lift several massive pieces of rubble at once.
With a flick of her wrist, the green-haired esper sent the debris floating effortlessly into the air, her expression one of mild annoyance rather than exertion. The twisted metal and shattered concrete hovered for a few seconds before she guided them neatly into a waiting transport truck.
---
After the destruction of the alien spaceship—now ominously referred to as the “Tooth of God” by the Association—and the battle with Boros, A-City was officially gone. Not damaged. Not partially ruined. Gone.
The Association wasted no time. The moment Boros’s death was confirmed and the alien threat neutralized, they took advantage of a rare miracle: almost every S-Class hero was in one place, something that hadn’t happened in years. They immediately organized them into reconstruction efforts, pushing the city toward recovery at a pace that left even seasoned workers speechless.
Weeks’ worth of labor was being completed in days. Heavy lifting, demolition of unstable ruins, and even precise tilework were being handled by the best superhumans in the country. The Association’s headquarters buzzed with efficiency.
Only seven days had passed, and A-City was almost fully rebuilt. It could have been finished even sooner, but monsters didn’t exactly take vacations, and many heroes had to break away from reconstruction to return to their regular duties.
Only two S-Class heroes stayed behind from start to finish: Saitama, Genos and Tatsumaki.
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And speaking of him…
“Wow!!”
“How long has he been doing that?”
“Five minutes.”
“What? And he already finished the entire street?”
The workers whispered to each other in awe, watching Saitama crouched at the far end of a newly tiled stretch of road. His movements were so quick and efficient that some workers swore they couldn’t even see his hands move—just the tiles snapping into perfect alignment, one after the other.
Phew! That was slower than I thought, he mused internally, straightening up and stretching his back. Could’ve finished in less than a minute if I went full speed… but the material probably wouldn’t survive that.
Since the invasion, Saitama had been a constant presence in the reconstruction efforts. Officially, he was helping in cooperation with the city government, under the Association’s name. Unofficially… he was here for one reason.
Guilt.
After the battle with Boros, he learned the truth. The alien ship’s fall—and the aftershocks of their fight—had taken a heavy toll. Despite the Association ordering a full evacuation, some civilians had remained in the city. Between the wreckage crashing down and the collateral damage from the battle itself, the toll was brutal:
623 dead.
1,403 wounded.
50 still missing.
He’d seen disasters in anime and manga before—entire cities erased in an instant, bodies scattered like debris, worlds collapsing under the weight of some final battle. But those had always been drawings, pixels, scripted tragedies made to stir an audience for a few minutes before the hero inevitably fixed everything.
Reading numbers on a screen was one thing. Hearing the names, seeing the lists, realizing that each and every one of them had been alive—breathing, talking, laughing—before he set foot on that battlefield… that was something entirely different.
Before reincarnating into this world, he had been just a man. A normal man. His only brushes with tragedy had been through the distant filter of news reports or documentaries—things that happened in places like war-torn countries, the Congo, or the Gaza Strip. Horrors that existed in black-and-white headlines, always a continent and several time zones away.
But now… he wasn’t just a witness.
He was part of it.
And whether people wanted to admit it or not, whether they called him a savior or a hero, a part of the destruction would always be because of him. Even if everyone said the opposite, he couldn’t shake the thought.
Sigh…
"I feel like crap. I just want this day to be over," he muttered inwardly, leaning his back against the cold wall of a random building while he enjoyed his break. His eyes wandered without focus, catching the faint flicker of streetlights and the way dust still floated lazily in the air, like the battle had left the whole place bruised and reluctant to heal.
The soft whump-whump of displaced air reached his ears. Someone was coming down from above. He didn’t even bother looking—there was only one other person here who could fly besides Genos, and the cyborg was still busy repairing the skeletal remains of the building down the street.
“Hey, baldy,” Tatsumaki’s voice came, sharp but oddly… normal. Her usual tsundere tone carried less bite than usual, almost casual.
“Hey,” he replied, his voice low, almost muffled.
“What’re you doing?” she asked, floating down until her boots touched the cracked pavement.
“Nothing. You?”
“Same.”
From her coat pocket, she produced a juice box—somehow still intact—and stuck the straw in. The tiny slurp was absurdly loud in the tense quiet.
Several seconds passed in silence. Neither of them felt the need to fill it. The air between them wasn’t awkward, just… heavy.
Sip!
She finished the last of the drink, then spoke without looking at him.
“I never said thank you… for having my back when I faced that monster.” Her voice was steady, but he could tell she was talking about Boros.
What surprised him wasn’t the memory—it was her saying thank you at all.
She’s… thanking me? Did I wake up in another world again? he thought, almost amused despite himself.
“You’re welcome,” he said, shrugging. “But don’t thank me. You didn’t rat me out to the cyclops about me being the one who trashed his ship. I just made sure I didn’t owe you one.”
“Heh. Sure.”
She looked away with that faint smirk she always wore when she didn’t want him to see she actually meant it, not that Saitama knew that, obviously.
“Why are you here?” Saitama asked flatly, his arms still crossed against the wall.
“What do you mean?” Tatsumaki’s brows furrowed, her tone holding genuine confusion.
“I mean,” he said, tilting his head toward her, “why’d you fly all the way over here? I know you were helping on the other side of town. You didn’t just come here to say thanks.”
A small smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. “You’re right. There’s something more.”
She turned fully toward him, her green curls bobbing with the motion. Then, to his surprise, she extended her right hand—open, steady, and pointed at him.
“I wanna apologize for all the trash talking I did to you,” she said without hesitation. “I’m sorry.”
Saitama blinked.
Okay, seriously—what’s happening here? The Tatsumaki I knew would never apologize… right?
“…Why?” he asked.
“Why what?” she replied, her tone slightly defensive.
“Why do you apologize? It’s not that I don’t like it, but you don’t seem like the type to do it. And frankly, I’m in a shitty mood, so why don’t you just spit it out?”
Her expression faltered for a moment. Something in his bluntness caught her off guard, and for a heartbeat, her usual sharp eyes softened.
“Someone once told me,” she began slowly, “not to rely on others to save me—and to become strong enough to protect myself and my family. That’s the only way to be a real hero. But this time…” Her gaze dropped for the briefest second. “I had to rely on you. Which means I failed as a hero. That’s why I apologize.”
And then, she bowed.
Tatsumaki—the Tornado of Terror, the walking definition of stubborn pride—bowed to him.
Ah, right… that must be something Blast told her, Saitama thought. He’s the one who saved her when she was a kid in the manga. Guess she really took his words to heart. But man… it’s not healthy to think like that. Well…I wouldn’t bother to do this, but I guess helping other heroes with their problems is also part of the job.
“That’s bullshit,” Saitama said suddenly.
Her head snapped up, eyes widening. “…What?”
“That’s bullshit. You don’t fail as a hero when you need other people’s help. You fail when you give up.”
Her eyes widened further as he stepped closer, his tone firm but not unkind.
“Tatsumaki, you are a real hero—and one of the most powerful out there. I don’t care who told you that or why you’ve been carrying it around like some sacred rule, but get this through your head: it’s not a sin to ask for help.”
For once, Tatsumaki didn’t have a sharp retort. She just stood there, looking at him, the wind gently ruffling her hair as if the world itself had gone still.
Saitama waved his hand in front of her face. “Uh… hello? I think I broke you.”
Her gaze flickered, not quite meeting his, but something had clearly shifted behind those green eyes.
However the moment was interruped when Saitama heared someone was jogging towards them.
“Heeeyyy, loveee.” Said a well-known feminine voice.
It was Mizuki.
She stood out even before her face came into focus—tall, toned, and carrying herself with the effortless confidence of an athlete at the peak of her game. Her sun-kissed skin caught the fading light, highlighting the definition in her legs and the trim curve of her waist beneath her casual workout gear. The sleeveless sports top she wore did nothing to hide her rock-hard abs or the smooth lines of her shoulders or the firm muscle in her arms, and her shorts allowed a glimpse of the explosive strength in her thighs. Her dark orange hair, was as usual, tied back in a high ponytail and swayed with each step, framing a face that combined cheerfulness with a quiet determination.
Even at a distance, she radiated energy—the kind that made heads turn without her even noticing.
Sometimes I forget that this chick is my girlfriend. He thought as he silently observed her and her attire.
She slowed to a stop in front of him, still a little out of breath, her ponytail swaying with each movement. “There you are! I’ve been trying to call you all day.”
Saitama blinked. “Huh? What do you mean I didn’t heard any calls from..oh… right.” Then it hit him—his phone. He’d left it charging back in his apartment that morning and never picked it up before heading out.
Shit, I knew I forgot something.
“Soooo, I figured if you weren’t answering, I’d just come find you,” Mizuki continued, a faint smile on her lips that mixed casual familiarity with something almost… relieved.
“Uh… yeah, sorry about that,” Saitama said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess I forgot my phone.”
“Well,” she said with a playful tilt of her head, “since I went through all the trouble of tracking you down, you owe me. Coffee?”
He hesitated for a fraction of a second. The fight was over, but there was still work to be done—clean-up, a debrief… and keeping an eye on the wreckage in case anyone of Boros’s crew was found on the wreckage. Still, a quick coffee wouldn’t hurt.
“Alright, but just for a bit. I gotta get back to work after that.”
Mizuki grinned. “Deal.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Saitama noticed Tatsumaki. She was still standing exactly where she’d been a moment ago, her eyes distant, lips slightly parted. She looked… frozen. Not in the literal sense—no psychic barrier or injury holding her in place—but in thought, as if the gears in her mind had suddenly jammed.
Mizuki followed his gaze and her expression lit up in recognition. “Wait—hold on. Is that… Tatsumaki? The S-Class hero?”
Saitama glanced back at her and shook his head. “Yeaaahh, but she froze, so let’s go.”
Mizuki frowned, confused. “Froze? What do you mean?”
Instead of explaining, Saitama reached out, took her by the hand, and started walking toward the nearest coffee shop. “I said let’s go. Come on. We’ll be late.”
Mizuki stumbled slightly at the sudden tug, still looking over her shoulder toward the green-haired esper. “But—”
“No buts, let’s go.” He said, his tone casual but firm.
Behind them, Tatsumaki remained rooted to the spot, her mind still replaying Saitama’s earlier words in an endless loop. She hadn’t even processed the arrival of the athletic woman who’d called out to him. All she could hear was his voice, calm and absolute, cutting through the chaos: You froze.
It wasn’t an accusation. It wasn’t even a taunt. It was a simple statement of fact—and somehow, that made it worse.
The battlefield around her might as well have been silent, because in her head, nothing else existed. Not Boros. Not the wreckage. Not the bystanders staring from a distance.
Just those words.
Comments
firerock laser
Thanks for the chapter
