The entire drilling platform shook violently. Every cable extending outward dimmed at the same time. And up on the surface, the mechanical sharks still rampaging suddenly had the red light in their eyes go out in unison—their movements stopping as if someone hit a pause button. Then, one after another, they lost power and sank toward the seabed.
Saitama surfaced and wiped the seawater off his face.
At that moment, the distant sea split apart as a burly figure appeared, riding some kind of sea beast. He held a golden trident, with long hair and a thick beard
Arthur Curry, the Sea King.
Clearly, he'd sensed the abnormal energy fluctuations here and the mechanical sharks going out of control, and rushed over.
But when he saw Saitama floating on the water, the mechanical wreckage sinking rapidly, and the sea already returning to calm… Arthur froze.
He glanced at the trident in his hand—prepared to face a threat—then looked at the bald man in plain blue swim trunks who seemed utterly ordinary at a glance.
In the end, Arthur's eyes landed on the bottom of the drilling platform—violently punched through, still releasing little bubbles.
He fell silent for a few seconds.
Then he said nothing at all—only quietly slid the trident back behind him. He gave Saitama one long, deep look, turned his sea-beast mount around, and without a sound, sank back into the deep ocean.
Saitama blinked at the direction Arthur disappeared, then turned around and swam leisurely toward the beach.
"Alright, problem solved. Hope my sandcastle hasn't been completely trampled… Hmm, later I'll go eat some seafood fried noodles."
London at night was usually wrapped in fog and history. Big Ben stood in the darkness, casting a solemn silhouette.
But lately, this district had become a synonym for terror.
Every time the clock struck midnight, the gargoyle statues perched on nearby gothic buildings would animate, wrench themselves free from their bases, spread icy stone wings, and sweep through the moonlit sky. They used their claws to grab streetlights, sculptures, even chunks of wrecked cars as weapons—attacking anything that dared to be outside at night.
The police were helpless. S.H.I.E.L.D. had no choice but to intervene.
Saitama came here with a low-ranking S.H.I.E.L.D. agent—someone responsible for guiding him and filing reports afterward. Saitama wore a cheap tracksuit and stood on a rooftop, looking down at the wrecked streets and the uneasy tension hanging in the air.
The moon was bright, stretching the shadows of the gargoyles circling overhead into long, twisted shapes, like demons dancing.
"Those are the things?" Saitama pointed at the gargoyles, their screeching scrape echoing as they flew. "They look like pretty solid rock."
"Yes, sir." The agent gripped his gun nervously. "Their skin… or rather, their stone material, can withstand conventional weapons. They can also spit highly corrosive liquid. We've tried attacking a few times, but we failed."
As he spoke, several gargoyles noticed them. They let out hoarse shrieks and dove straight down. Their eyes flickered with eerie magical light, and thick green slime began to gather in their mouths.
Saitama shifted to the side, dodging a jet of corrosive fluid. The liquid splashed onto a rooftop water tank, instantly melting a large hole through it with a harsh sizzling sound.
He looked at the leading gargoyle's spread wings, then stepped forward and reached out—grabbing the edge of that wing, forged from stone and metal.
Then he swung his arm.
The gargoyle's huge body became weightless in his hand, and with a howling rush of wind, it was hurled sideways. Its flight path was so perfectly placed it cut straight through the other gargoyles flying in formation
(End of Chapter)
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