《One Punchman: I, Sneck a S-Class hero by pick attribute.》 Chapter 1: I Sneck? The world lurched into focus, a distorted kaleidoscope of garish colors and unsettlingly skewed architecture. My head throbbed, a relentless, insistent hammering that resonated deep within my skull. One moment I was Edward, a relatively unremarkable college student on Earth, rushing to class, the next¡­ this. This ludicrous, skin-tight green and yellow suit. Sneck. I was Sneck. Newbie Crushing Sneck. The name itself felt like a cosmic jest, a cruel twist of fate. Of all the heroes in that bizarre, overpowered world, I had to be him? The quintessential example of ineffective heroism, the perennial punchline of online forums, the very embodiment of everything I used to scoff at. The irony wasn¡¯t just thick; it was practically a physical entity, pressing down on me with the weight of a thousand failed hero attempts. Before, Sneck was just a character, a two-dimensional figure I¡¯d casually dismiss, filing him away in the mental drawer labeled ¡°Comic Relief/Utterly Incompetent.¡± I¡¯d rolled my eyes at his over-the-top pronouncements, his theatrical posturing, his signature move ¨C the ¡°Crushing Blow¡± ¨C which was about as effective as a gentle breeze against a brick wall. I¡¯d even, in my infinite, armchair-hero wisdom, lumped him together with Tanktop Tiger and Black Hole, those paragons of misplaced confidence and spectacular failure. They were the poster children for everything that was wrong with the Hero Association, a symbol of bureaucratic ineptitude and the triumph of style over substance. Then the Deep Sea King arc happened. Something shifted, a subtle but significant recalibration of my internal judgment. Sneck, despite his glaring limitations, his obvious lack of any real power, had stood his ground. He¡¯d faced an overwhelming, terrifying threat, fully cognizant of the likely outcome ¨C a brutal, humiliating defeat ¨C and yet, he hadn¡¯t fled. He hadn¡¯t cowered. He¡¯d faced the abyss, not with strength, but with something else. A flicker of genuine courage, a spark of something almost noble, amidst the bluster and bravado. I¡¯d grudgingly revised my opinion, mentally nudging him a few rungs higher on the ladder of respect. He was no longer in the same category as the Tanktop Brother. Now, that internal debate seemed utterly absurd, a trivial exercise in comparative analysis. I was Sneck. And I was facing a monster. A grotesque, oversized amphibian, pulsating with malevolent energy. Fighting Bull-Frog. The name echoed in the cavernous spaces of my mind, a chilling reminder of the precarious, absurd situation I¡¯d found myself in. Memories, alien and yet somehow intimately familiar, flooded my consciousness, a torrent of information crashing against the already strained walls of my skull.The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. These weren''t my memories, not the ones of Edward, the college student. These were Sneck¡¯s. I knew this monster. I knew its weaknesses, its attack patterns, the subtle tells that betrayed its next move. I also knew Sneck¡¯s fighting style. The ¡°Crushing Blow¡± was a joke, a theatrical flourish designed to impress rather than inflict actual damage. It was a distraction, a smokescreen. Beneath the surface bravado lay a more grounded, if still limited, skill set. The Biting Snake Fist. A martial art I¡¯d only ever witnessed through the detached lens of a screen, now surging into my very being, imbuing my muscles with a phantom memory of movement. The stances, the strikes, the fluid transitions between offensive and defensive maneuvers ¨C it was all there, being forcefully downloaded into my brain, a painful, overwhelming influx of information. But the memories weren¡¯t coalescing cleanly. They were fragmented, distorted, like shards of a broken mirror reflecting a chaotic, disjointed reality. The throbbing pain in my head intensified, each pulse a hammer blow against my cranium. It wasn¡¯t just a headache; it was as if my skull was too small, too constrained, to contain the sheer volume of information being crammed into it. Flashes of Sneck''s life flickered before my eyes: snippets of grueling training montages, moments of inflated ego and boisterous self-promotion, the fleeting glimpses of a life lived on the fringes of heroism, all overlaid with the constant, agonizing pain. I knew Sneck defeated this monster. I knew it from my obsessive, almost encyclopedic knowledge of the series, from countless hours spent dissecting every panel, every frame, every meticulously crafted fight sequence. But how? The crucial detail, the key to victory, eluded me, obscured by the throbbing, piercing pain that made me gasp for air. It was like trying to grasp a dream the moment you wake, the details slipping through your fingers, leaving only a vague sense of unease. I was trapped. Trapped in the body of a A-Class hero with a ludicrous name no right now i still a B-Class hero, a flashy but ultimately useless signature move, a limited and largely untested martial art, a mountain of misplaced confidence, a hazy memory of a future victory, and a splitting headache that threatened to incapacitate me entirely. I wasn''t Saitama. I couldn''t just obliterate the threat with a single, earth-shattering punch. I was Sneck. But I also possessed something Sneck didn''t, something that Edward, the college student, brought to this bizarre, terrifying reality: my knowledge of the future. My intimate familiarity with this world, its rules, its characters, its triumphs, and its tragedies. I might be inhabiting the body of a weak, often ridiculed hero, but I still had my wits. I still had the analytical mind of Edward, the student, the observer, the one who had spent countless hours dissecting the intricacies of this fictional world. I might not be able to punch like a god, but maybe, just maybe, I could think my way out of this. My survival, and the survival of whoever this monstrous frog was threatening, depended on it. Two moves, a fragmented memory of a future victory, a giant, pulsating amphibian, and a head that felt like it was about to explode. I had to make it work. I had to bridge the gap between Edward¡¯s knowledge and Sneck¡¯s limited abilities. I had to become Sneck, but a Sneck armed with the knowledge of what was to come. I had to find that flicker of courage within the bluster, the spark of ingenuity within the limitations, and somehow, some way, turn this ridiculous predicament into a victory. Chapter 2: I can pick attributes The stench of damp earth and something acrid, almost metallic, filled my nostrils. That hulking brute, the Fighting Bull-Frog, was everything I despised. Muscle-bound, crude, and predictable. He burst from the ground, a shower of concrete dust and debris marking his arrival. A Tiger-level threat, they called him. More like a Tiger-level target. I shifted my stance, feeling the familiar coil of power in my legs. The Biting Snake Fist was my art, my life. Speed, precision, the venomous strike. That lumbering frog wouldn''t know what hit him. He roared, a guttural sound that vibrated through the ground. A pathetic display of aggression. He charged, a clumsy, earth-shaking lunge. Predictable. I flowed like water, avoiding his clumsy advance. My hands, blurring into motion, lashed out. A strike to the exposed flank, mimicking the viper''s bite. He stumbled, surprised. Good. He was slow, so slow. I could dance around him all day. Another strike, this time targeting the grotesque horns protruding from his head. They might look intimidating, but they were just bone and keratin. Vulnerable. The Bull-Frog bellowed in pain, swiping wildly. I chuckled inwardly. His rage was his weakness. He was strong, yes, but strength without finesse was meaningless against the Biting Snake Fist. Then, something strange happened. As I danced back from another clumsy swipe, I saw it. A bulbous, fleshy thing, almost like a glistening orb, extruded from the Bull-Frog''s back. It pulsed faintly, then detached, floating lazily in the air. I frowned. What was that? Some kind of¡­spore? Gland? I couldn''t place it. But the Bull-Frog was still raging, still a threat. I couldn''t afford to be distracted. Whatever that thing was, I¡¯d deal with it later. For now, I had a giant, angry frog to dismantle. The fight was mine to control. It was only a matter of time before I sunk my fangs into his metaphorical throat and claimed victory. The Bull-Frog finally succumbed, crashing to the earth with a resounding thud. Its grotesque form lay still, the fight finally over. I circled the carcass cautiously, my senses on high alert. Even in death, these mutated creatures could possess nasty surprises. If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. But nothing stirred. The air, thick with the stench of blood and damp earth, was finally still. My gaze drifted back to the strange object I¡¯d glimpsed during the fight. The fleshy orb. I approached it cautiously, prodding it with the toe of my boot. It was¡­rubbery. And now, I saw there weren''t just one, but three of them, floating gently in the air. They pulsed faintly, an eerie luminescence emanating from within. Intrigued, I reached out and carefully grasped one of the orbs. It was surprisingly light. As I turned it over in my hand, I noticed markings on its surface. Strange symbols, at first glance. But then, they resolved into¡­words. The word on this particular orb was ¡°Strength.¡± I frowned. Strength? What did that mean? My eyes darted to the other two orbs. They too bore markings. I reached for one of them and read the inscription: ¡°Agility.¡± And the third? Another ¡°Agility.¡± Strength¡­Agility¡­Agility¡­ What were these things? Some bizarre byproduct of the Bull-Frog¡¯s mutation? Or something more? I felt a prickle of unease. This was far stranger than anything I¡¯d encountered before. As I touched the first orb, the one labeled "Strength," a voice echoed in my mind. It wasn''t a voice I heard with my ears, but something¡­internal.
Ding! You pick 1 Strength
The voice was clear, almost mechanical, and strangely¡­pleasant. Before I could process what had just happened, the orb in my hand seemed to dissolve, its faint glow fading as it was absorbed into my body. I felt a strange surge, a subtle but undeniable increase in¡­something. Power? I flexed my hand, surprised by the sudden feeling of¡­robustness. Then, I touched the first "Agility" orb.
Ding! You pick 1 Agility
The same sensation, the same internal voice, the same absorption. This time, the surge was different. A lightness, a sense of quickness, filled me. My reflexes felt sharper, my movements more fluid. I felt¡­faster. Finally, I touched the last "Agility" orb.
Ding! You pick 1 Agility
The final absorption, the final surge. This time, the feeling of agility was even more pronounced. I felt like I could move like the wind, strike like lightning. The echoes of the dings faded, but the Golden Finger¡¯s power remained, a thrilling hum beneath my skin. Standing over the Bull-Frog, the reality of reincarnation and my newfound abilities settled in. It wasn¡¯t just about the fight; it was about what came next. The Golden Finger wasn¡¯t just a gift; it was a responsibility. I had a purpose now. To do justice. To fight monsters, bring down villains, protect the innocent. But I knew this power, as incredible as it was, wasn¡¯t enough. Not yet. I needed to be stronger. Much stronger. The Golden Finger gave me a taste of my potential, but it was a start. I needed to hone my skills, master this power, push my limits. I needed to train, learn, grow. The world was dangerous, and I couldn¡¯t protect anyone if I wasn¡¯t strong enough. I closed my eyes, picturing those who might need help. The innocent, the vulnerable, the helpless. They were counting on me, even unknowingly. I wouldn¡¯t let them down. I would become their shield. A symbol of hope in a world that desperately needed one. Opening my eyes, determination surged. My journey had just begun. The Golden Finger was my key, but hard work, dedication, and resolve would be my tools. I would become stronger. A force for good. The hero this world needed. I looked around at the devastated landscape, the concrete shattered by the Bull-Frog¡¯s rampage. This was just one monster, one threat. How many more were out there? How many more innocents were in danger? The thought fueled my resolve. I needed to find a place to train, to hone my skills. I needed to learn more about the Golden Finger, its limits, its potential. I glanced down at my hands, flexing my fingers. The power was there, waiting to be unleashed. But it needed guidance, discipline. I would find that guidance. I would dedicate myself to becoming the protector this world needed. Starting now. My journey to true strength, to true justice, had just begun. Chapter 3: The real Sneck The setting sun painted F-City in hues of orange and purple, casting long, distorted shadows that stretched across the ravaged street. My boots crunched on shattered glass and twisted metal, remnants of the Fighting Bull-Frog''s rampage. The creature, thankfully, was now nothing more than a grotesque, deflated heap, courtesy of my Snake Biting Style. A sigh escaped my lips. Another day, another monster, another paycheck. It wasn''t glamorous, this hero business, but it was honest work. More importantly, it paid the bills. Also i can get orb when fight monster. As I walked home, the image of twenty-five faces, ranging from the mischievous grin of twelve-year-old Kenji to the innocent, wide eyes of six-year-old Hana, filled my mind. They were Sneck driving force, his reason for enduring the constant monster attacks and the often-absurd demands of the Hero Association. They were Sneck family.. no my family from now. My home wasn''t just a house; it was a dojo, a sanctuary, and a testament to Sneck rather unorthodox path to heroism. Behind it stood the older, equally large house where his disciples, his orphans, lived. Sometimes, a flicker of resentment, a pang of frustration, would surface. Why, ONE? I''d silently question, directing my thoughts towards the creator of One-Punch Man. Why Sneck, a A-Class hero, such an enigma? His background is a blank canvas, this story untold. Especially now, with the dramatic turn Sneck life has taken, I felt a desperate need to be seen, to be understood. And four years ago, this estate, Sneck family heirloom, became an orphanage. Before, it was simply his home, and Sneck was simply a loan shark. He, a man who dealt in debt and desperation and had become the guardian of twenty-five children, all victims of the very monsters he now fought. Their parents, snatched away by some grotesque creature, leaving behind shattered lives and empty spaces. Sneck knew their pain, not in the same way, but he understood the gnawing fear, the constant uncertainty. Sneck loan sharking income was¡­ sufficient, but barely. The orphanage was a money pit, a constant drain on my already limited resources. He needed more, and he needed it fast. The "Super Fight" martial arts tournament became his beacon of hope. The prize money was tempting. Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author. But to fight in Super Fight, Sneck needed a fighting style. Formal martial arts training was out of the question. It was expensive, a luxury he couldn''t afford and have time, he need take care all orphan. So, he did what any resourceful, albeit desperate, individual would do: he invented his own. The Snake Biting Style wasn''t born from some deep philosophical quest or a yearning for self-improvement. It was pure, unadulterated pragmatism. He watched snakes, observed their movements ¨C the lightning-fast strikes, the constricting coils, the ruthless efficiency. Snecj mimicked their actions, incorporating them into a fighting style that was as unorthodox as it was effective. It wasn''t pretty, but it was designed to win, to give him an edge in the Super Fight. He never won the tournament. But he consistently placed high enough to catch the Hero Association''s attention. They saw a fighter, skilled and dedicated, even if his style was¡­ peculiar. They saw potential, and, more importantly, they saw a reliable source of income. And I saw a lifeline. Four months. It had been four months since Sneck become hero. Four months since Snack life had taken a dramatic, and much-needed, turn. It wasn''t about the thrill of the fight, though he won''t deny he enjoyed the adrenaline rush. It was about providing for his disciples. The Hero Association salary was more than generous. It was a godsend. It allowed me to not only comfortably support the orphanage but to invest in its future. He hired tutors, ensuring the children received a proper education. He bought them better food, clothes that actually fit, and even started a small savings fund for their future. He renovated the dojo, replacing worn mats and purchasing new training equipment. The squeals of delight from the younger children when they saw the new punching bags were worth more than any medal or accolade. As I approached the dojo, the lights spilling out onto the training yard, I could hear the sounds of laughter and playful sparring. A wave of warmth washed over me. This was Sneck purpose, his reason for enduring the hardships, for facing down monstrous Bull-Frogs and whatever other bizarre creatures the world decided to throw at him. I stepped through the dojo doors, a smile spreading across my face. Nobita, ever the energetic one, immediately launched himself at me, a flurry of poorly executed punches aimed at my ribs. I chuckled, easily dodging his blows, and ruffled his hair. "Sneck-sensei! You''re back!" he exclaimed, his eyes shining with admiration. "Yeah, I''m back," I replied, my gaze sweeping over the room, taking in the faces of my disciples. They were my world, my everything now. Later, as I sat in my small office, the sounds of the children settling down for the evening drifting through the walls, I thought about Sneck story, or rather, the lack thereof. Would ONE ever delve into Sneck past? Would he ever reveal the man behind the mask, the loan shark turned hero, the guardian of twenty-five orphans? I wasn''t asking for much. Just a little recognition, a little understanding. Now i think Sneck at Mumen Rider level now about they character as hero. After all, everyone deserves to know that sometimes, becoming a hero isn''t about saving the world. It''s about saving your family. It''s about making a decent living so you can provide for those you love. And sometimes, a martial art isn''t created for enlightenment. Sometimes, it''s created for survival. And for a steady paycheck. Chapter 4: I be promoted to an A-class hero The fragrant steam of curry rice filled the training hall. Snek¡¯s memories, vivid and warm, guided Edward¡¯s hands as he recreated the dish. He could almost hear Snek¡¯s hearty laugh echoing as he meticulously ground the spices. His twenty-five disciples devoured the meal, their faces beaming. This was Snek¡¯s curry, his legacy, and it was perfect. These quiet moments, sharing a meal born of love and camaraderie, were precious. But even as he savored the warmth, a familiar itch for battle stirred within him. The insistent buzz of my phone shattered the peaceful atmosphere. I glanced at the caller ID ¨C the Hero Association. A knot tightened in my stomach, but a flicker of excitement danced in my eyes. Duty called. With a sigh, I excused myself from the table, offering a quick, apologetic smile to my students. ¡°Duty calls,¡± I mumbled, heading for the hallway. ¡°Sneck here,¡± I answered, my voice crisp. ¡°Sneck, it¡¯s Sitch,¡± the hurried voice replied, brimming with confidence. ¡°We have a situation ¨C a good one! We¡¯ve been observing your performance. The Hero Association is offering you a promotion. A-Class.¡± My stomach flipped. A-Class? Tougher opponents, bigger challenges¡­ bigger stat gains, more orbs. I glanced back at my students, their laughter now echoing with new significance. Responsibility, expectations, tougher opponents¡­ and the potential for growth. The orbs had seen to that much. ¡°What¡¯s the situation?¡± I asked, a hint of excitement creeping in. ¡°Tiger-level threats in F-City,¡± Sitch explained. ¡°Near you. Unusual activity. Honestly, Sneck, we wouldn¡¯t have called if we weren¡¯t sure you could handle it. This is practically a formality. Neutralizing these threats solidifies your promotion. A test, yes, but one we¡¯re confident you¡¯ll ace. Afterwards, come to Hero Association headquarters in A-City. Formalities regarding your promotion.¡± A-Class. It was a daunting prospect, but Sitch¡¯s confidence, the lure of greater strength, the promise of more orbs, was irresistible. This was my chance. My test. And Sitch, it seemed, already knew the outcome. I would face these Tiger-level threats, prove my worth, and claim my place among the A-Class heroes. My heart pounded. Tiger-level threats in City F? Near my home? I had to go, protect my students. My specially crafted beast-hide suit, a symbol of my strength, felt empowering as I donned it. Adrenaline surged. A quiet evening and a promised meal were forgotten. Tonight, I''d fulfill a different promise: to rise to the challenge, shield my students, and finally achieve A-Class status. And, if I was lucky, maybe, just maybe, I''d get a few attribute points out of it. And, of course, the orbs. S-Class wasn''t just a dream; it was a goal, a destination I was determined to reach. And the orbs were the key. I rushed back to the dining room, my face a mask of determination. Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. ¡°Kids,¡± I announced, my voice ringing with urgency, ¡°something¡¯s come up. I need to go out on patrol. Stay here, stay safe. I¡¯ll be back as soon as I can.¡± They looked at me, their eyes wide with a mixture of concern and understanding. They knew the drill. They knew I was a hero, that I had a duty to protect the city. ¡°Be careful, Sneck-sensei,¡± the eldest, twelve-year-old Nobita, said, his voice filled with worry. ¡°I will,¡± I replied, offering him a reassuring smile. ¡°And I¡¯ll bring back some extra dorayaki if I have time.¡± That last bit earned me a chorus of cheers, easing the tension slightly. I left the house, my heart pounding in my chest. The shopping district was a graveyard of shattered storefronts, a testament to the brutal efficiency of the insectoid monstrosities. Seven remained, their chitinous carapaces gleaming under the flickering streetlights. Two, larger and more menacing, pulsed with raw power ¨C Tiger Level threats. The others, Wolf Level, were still formidable, a swarm of armored beetles twitching their antennae, sensing my presence. My gut clenched. This was significantly more dangerous than I¡¯d anticipated. The orbs, the power they promised, were a tempting lure, but survival came first. I focused, channeling the Snake Biting Style, emphasizing precision over brute force. Against these heavily armored foes, finding weaknesses was key. The Tiger Level mantises, colossal and razor-limbed, moved first. One lunged, its forelimbs blurring in a strike that could cleave a man in two. I sidestepped, the air whistling where its blades had passed. Pop. A smaller orb than expected erupted from a Wolf Level beetle as I crippled its leg with a precise strike. The other mantis screeched, and the beetles swarmed, a chaotic flurry of chitin and buzzing wings. I became a whirlwind, dodging and weaving. Pop. Another orb, this time from a beetle whose head I¡¯d severed.
Ding! You Pick 1 Agility
Ding! You Pick 1 Strength
Ding! You Pick 1 Endurance
The surge of power was familiar, but Tiger Level mantises pressed in, their attacks relentless. Smarts over strength was key. Using the shattered market stalls as cover, I lured the mantises into a narrow alley. The less agile beetles struggled. One mantis lunged, and I ducked, using its momentum to slam it into rubble. Pop. Another orb.
Ding You Pick 1 Strength
Ding You Pick 1 Agility
The trapped mantis screeched in fury. I focused, channeling my newfound strength and agility. This was my chance. I lunged, a blur of motion, my Snake Biting Style finding its mark. Pop. The final orb, twice the size of the others, appeared.
Ding! You picked up 1 lifespan
I felt younger after absorbing it. The leaderless, panicked beetles were easy prey. I dispatched them, each strike precise, each orb fueling my growing power. The shopping district was silent, save for crackling embers and the hum of power surging through me. I pulled out my phone and dialed Sitch. ¡°The threats have been neutralized,¡± I reported, my voice hoarse but steady. ¡°I¡¯m ready for my promotion.¡± ¡°Excellent work, Sneck,¡± Sitch replied, his voice filled with admiration. ¡°We¡¯ll see you at headquarters tomorrow. Congratulations, A-Class Hero.¡± I hung up the phone, a wave of exhaustion washing over me. But beneath the weariness, a sense of accomplishment bloomed. I had faced the challenge, and I had emerged victorious. I had proven myself worthy of the A-Class rank, and I had collected many orbs today, making me stronger. Chapter 5: I Sneck, A-class hero now The air in the interview room hung thick, a stew of unspoken anger and barely contained frustration. The woman''s face, a rigid mask, screamed resentment. "Even Amai Mask won''t agree with this," she spat, her voice sharp and laced with a nasty little triumph. "He''ll see this as an insult to the A-Class." Sitch''s jaw tightened. "Amai Mask''s opinion is irrelevant," he stated, his voice firm and unwavering. "Irrelevant?" she scoffed, her eyes darting towards me with a look of pure disdain. "He''s the face of the A-Class! He won''t tolerate someone like... him." "Sneck has proven his worth," Sitch retorted, his voice unwavering. "He is qualified." "But Amai Mask¡­" she persisted, her voice laced with a subtle threat. "He has influence. He could make things¡­ difficult." "I am not afraid of Amai Mask," Sitch declared, his voice ringing with conviction. "And neither should Sneck be." I remained impassive, observing the exchange with a detached curiosity. Their petty squabbles held little interest for me. My focus was on the task at hand, the mission, and getting more orbs. "Sneck," Sitch announced, his voice ringing with authority, "you are promoted to A-Class, effective immediately. Congratulations." I nodded, a flicker of satisfaction in my eyes. I had overcome their resistance, their veiled threats. I was an A-Class hero. Just as I was about to leave, the third person in the room, a man who had remained silent throughout the entire interview, finally spoke. His voice was calm, measured, and carried an air of quiet authority. "Before we finalize the promotion," he said, his gaze fixed on me, "I have one question. Does Sneck have a formal hero name?" I paused, my reptilian eyes blinking slowly. I forgot that, right now, I was simply Sneck. "No," I replied, my voice flat. "I have not chosen a hero name." The man nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. "A hero name is important," he said, his voice gentle. "It''s a symbol, a representation of who you are as a hero. It''s how the public will remember you." The woman, despite her previous anger, looked at me with a small hint of amusement. She thought this was the perfect opportunity to make me look foolish. Sitch, however, looked at me with a look of concern. He knew that the public image was important. "Sneck is sufficient," Sitch interjected, his voice firm. "His actions speak for themselves." "Perhaps," the man conceded, "but a hero name can enhance one''s image, create a sense of identity. It''s a matter of branding, if you will." He paused, his gaze lingering on me. "Think about it," he said. "A hero name can be a powerful tool. It can inspire hope, instill fear, or simply become a memorable moniker. It''s up to you to decide what kind of hero you want to be." He looked at Sitch and the woman. "I believe that Sneck should have a hero name before the official announcement of his promotion." Sitch nodded slowly, conceding the point. "Very well," he said, turning to me. "Consider it, Sneck. Choose a name that reflects your strength, your dedication. Something that will resonate with the public." I nodded slowly, my mind churning. I had never considered this aspect of being a hero. I had always focused on the task at hand, on protecting the city. But perhaps, I thought, a hero name could be useful. Perhaps it could help me to be more than just a weapon, more than just a force of destruction. Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. As I turned to leave, the man spoke again. "Perhaps," he suggested, his gaze fixed on me, "you could use your martial arts style as inspiration. ''Biting Snake Fist'' has a certain¡­ ring to it." "Biting Snake Fist?" I repeated, my voice flat. I had always considered my martial arts style a tool, a means to an end, not a defining characteristic. "It''s your signature technique," the man explained, his voice gentle. "It''s what sets you apart. It''s a name that reflects your strength, your precision, your¡­ ferocity." The woman, despite her earlier animosity, nodded slowly. "It''s not bad," she conceded, a hint of grudging respect in her voice. "It has a certain¡­ menace to it." Sitch, who had initially been resistant to the idea of a hero name, seemed to consider the suggestion. "Biting Snake Fist," he repeated, his voice thoughtful. "It''s¡­ fitting. It''s direct, it''s powerful." He turned to me, his expression encouraging. "It''s your choice, of course. But it''s a strong name. It reflects your fighting style, your abilities. It could be a powerful symbol." I considered the suggestion because the real Sneck used it, and I didn''t want to change it. It was a name that spoke of my strength, my precision, my relentless pursuit of my objectives. It was a name that reflected my martial arts training, my dedication to honing my skills. "Biting Snake Fist," I repeated, my voice slightly louder this time. "It is¡­ acceptable." The man nodded, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Very well," he said. "Biting Snake Fist it is. It has a good ring to it, and will be a good hero name." Sitch nodded, a sense of relief washing over him. "Excellent," he said. "Then it''s settled. Biting Snake Fist, A-Class hero. It has a good sound." I nodded, a flicker of satisfaction in my eyes. I had a hero name. I was Biting Snake Fist. I was an A-Class hero now. I left the room, this name echoing in my mind, a symbol of the real Sneck''s strength, his dedication, his relentless pursuit of justice. The challenges ahead didn''t matter. And now I was Biting Snake Fist, and I was ready. The tension in the room remained, even after I, Biting Snake Fist, had departed. Sitch, his expression still firm, turned his attention to the woman, whose name, I vaguely recalled, was likely something bureaucratic and forgettable. "Now," Sitch began, his voice low and measured, "about this ''insult to the A-Class'' you were so concerned about." The woman shifted uncomfortably, her gaze darting away. "I was merely expressing my concerns," she stammered. "Amai Mask¡­" "Amai Mask is not the arbiter of the A-Class," Sitch interrupted, his voice sharp. "The Hero Association determines who is worthy, and Biting Snake Fist has proven his worth decisively." "But¡­" she persisted, her voice laced with a hint of defiance, "he''s¡­ unconventional. His methods¡­" "Effective," Sitch countered, his voice unwavering. "Brutally effective. He eliminated Fighting Bull-Frog, a Tiger-level threat, with efficiency and precision. A feat that many A-Class heroes would struggle to replicate." The woman''s eyes narrowed. "I''ve heard rumors," she said, her voice laced with suspicion. "Rumors of¡­ excessive force." Sitch''s jaw tightened. "Rumors are irrelevant," he stated, his voice firm. "We deal in facts. And the fact is, Fighting Bull-Frog is dead, and the city is safer because of it." He paused, his gaze fixed on her. "If you have concerns about Biting Snake Fist''s methods, I suggest you watch the footage of his encounter with Fighting Bull-Frog. It''s¡­ enlightening." He reached into his briefcase and retrieved a tablet, placing it on the table in front of her. "Watch it," he instructed, his voice flat. "And then tell me if you still have concerns." The woman hesitated, her gaze lingering on the tablet. She seemed reluctant, but the firmness in Sitch''s voice left her little choice. She picked up the tablet, her fingers trembling slightly, and pressed play. The video began, a grainy recording of Biting Snake Fist''s encounter with Fighting Bull-Frog. The footage showed the monstrous amphibian, its massive form rippling with muscle, its eyes glowing with predatory hunger. Then, it showed Biting Snake Fist, his movements fluid and precise, his strikes swift and deadly. The woman watched, her eyes widening in disbelief as she witnessed the sheer brutality of Biting Snake Fist''s martial arts. The speed, the power, the relentless ferocity of his attacks. Fighting Bull-Frog, a creature that could crush steel with its bare hands, was reduced to a mangled heap of flesh and bone in a matter of seconds. The woman''s face paled as she watched the final moments of the fight, the decisive strike that ended Fighting Bull-Frog''s life. She looked up at Sitch, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and awe. "He¡­" she stammered, her voice barely a whisper, "he''s¡­ incredible." "Indeed," Sitch replied, his voice calm and measured. "And he is now an A-Class hero. So, I suggest you adjust your expectations, and your attitude." He retrieved the tablet, Chapter 6: Im too late? The rain hammered against the corrugated iron roof of the ramen shop, a relentless rhythm that echoed the churning thoughts in my head. I drained the last of the spicy broth, the fiery liquid a welcome burn. "Another bowl, old man," I growled, tossing a wad of bills onto the counter. "And make it volcanic." "You''ve got the appetite of a demon, Sneck," the owner chuckled, his weathered face creasing into a smile. "Thirty-six years old, and you eat like you''re trying to fill a void." "Thirty-six," I muttered, flexing my arm beneath the tailored suit of hardened monster hide. "And reaching my peak. Rank 20 now. And climbing." I tapped my temple. "It''s not just food, old man. It''s fuel. Power. I''m building something¡­ substantial." Two weeks. Two weeks since the golden finger. Since the orbs. Shimmering, golden orbs of pure energy that appeared after a good fight with a monster. A secret. My secret. Strength, speed, a potential lifespan extension. "Who''d have thought punching monsters could be a¡­ calling?" I mused, the steam from the ramen swirling around me. The owner just shook his head, probably thinking I''d finally succumbed to the madness of this city. He wouldn''t understand. Nobody would. They saw the A-class hero, rank 20, the guy who kept the streets relatively safe. They didn''t see the orb collector, the power-hungry strategist, the man playing a game they didn''t even know existed. Yesterday, Sitch called. The Association''s suit. "F-city," he''d said, his voice clipped and efficient. "We need you to take charge." F-city. My city. "Home turf," I''d replied, a predatory grin spreading across my face. "Sounds like a plan." It wasn''t just about the hero points or the increased salary. It was about control. Resources. More money meant better gear, better training. And Z-city, that was about something else entirely. "Gotta keep those kids sharp," I muttered, a flicker of something akin to purpose in my voice. But F-city was¡­ stifling. Too peaceful. Just petty criminals and the occasional low-level monster. Not enough¡­ resources. "Sitch," I''d said, pushing my luck, "I''ll be checking on Z-city too." Z-city. The monster breeding ground. The place where the real fights were. "That''s where¡­ the real opportunities are," I thought, picturing the chaotic cityscape. "That''s where I need to be." Sitch had hesitated, predictably. "Z-city is¡­ volatile, Sneck," he''d warned, his voice laced with concern. "It''s not a place for solo excursions." "I work best alone," I''d insisted. "I''m not some team player." "We appreciate your¡­ dedication," he''d said, "but we can''t risk losing you." "I''m not going to be lost," I''d grunted, "I''m going to be found." I''d accepted the compromise: occasional patrols, checks on Z-city. But I wasn''t going to bring my disciples. This was my hunt. My secret. This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. Back at my dojo, I gave my disciples instructions. "Stay sharp," I told them. "I''ll be back." They looked up at me, their eyes wide with a mixture of respect and concern. "Be careful, master," one of them said. "Careful is for cowards," I replied, a predatory grin spreading across my face. "I''ll be fine." I packed my gear, the anticipation building with every passing minute. Z-city was calling, and I was ready to answer. Alone. The city was a wasteland, a labyrinth of twisted metal and crumbling concrete. Monsters roamed the streets, their roars echoing through the desolate landscape. "Alright," I muttered, my voice cutting through the din. "Let''s see what you''ve got." And, thankfully, no Saitama. A good change. If that bald menace was here, every monster would be reduced to dust before I even had a chance to throw a punch. I needed the orbs, and Saitama was a walking, talking monster-vacuum. The first monster was a hulking brute, its skin thick and scarred. It charged at me, its claws extended. "Come on then," I said, my voice low and dangerous. I met the monster head-on, my fist clad in a gauntlet of monster hide connecting with its thick hide. A satisfying thud filled the air, and the monster staggered back. Orbs began to appear, shimmering like golden motes. I absorbed them, feeling the familiar surge of power. "This is it," I thought, my blood pumping. "This is my domain." The fight was a brutal dance of blows and dodges, but I prevailed. The monster fell, and more orbs appeared. I collected them all, my body thrumming with newfound energy. "Again!" I shouted, my voice hoarse. "Bring me more." Z-city was my personal hunting ground, a never-ending source of power. And I was going to conquer it, one orb at a time. "Sneck''s hungry," I muttered, my eyes gleaming in the dim light. "And I''m not going to stop until I''m at the apex. And without that bald pest stealing my prey."
The acrid scent of dissipating monster flesh clung to the air, a metallic tang that did little to mask the bitter taste of disappointment. Another Tiger-level husk, dissolving into shimmering motes of nothingness. Another goddamn orb. I stared at the thing, its dim, lukewarm glow mocking me. "Just Tigers?" I growled, the words scraping against the tightness in my throat. My knuckles were white, clenched so hard they ached. I¡¯d felt it, that surge, that undeniable shift. The hours of brutal training, the relentless push past my limits ¨C it hadn¡¯t been for nothing. I was stronger, faster, a force to be reckoned with. I was ready. I was ready for Demons, maybe even¡­ higher. But this barren wasteland of a city offered nothing but these pathetic, low-grade scraps. I¡¯d carved a path through this ruined district, a whirlwind of fists and fury, and all I¡¯d gotten were these¡­ these toys. Mutated rats, hulking brutes with more bark than bite, all falling before my enhanced strikes like paper dolls. Each victory, each dissolving corpse, yielded only these mundane, useless orbs. A cold dread began to seep into my bones, a chilling whisper that threatened to extinguish the fire of my ambition. What if they were gone? What if the real threats, the Demons that had once haunted this city, had already been¡­ dealt with? My mind conjured an image, unwanted and infuriating: Saitama. Caped Baldy. That blank, emotionless face, that casual, effortless power. He¡¯d probably strolled through the city like it was a park, a light breeze ruffling his cape, and obliterated everything in his path. No fanfare, no struggle, just¡­ gone. The thought was a lead weight in my gut. All that training, all that sacrifice, all that burning desire to prove myself, and for what? To mop up the leftovers? To clean up after the guy who could kill a god with a single punch? I looked around at the desolate streets, the skeletal remains of buildings reaching towards a smoke-filled sky. It was too clean. Too quiet. Too¡­ safe. The city, perhaps, had been thoroughly cleansed.