"Crap, crap! These black things are way too hard to deal with!" Peter landed on a billboard and panted. His suit provided great protection, but against an enemy this invasive, this weirdly strong, he still felt helpless.
S.H.I.E.L.D. troops had set up a quarantine perimeter on the outskirts, but for the symbiotes that had already penetrated downtown, they were stuck. They didn't dare use large-scale sonic or high-heat weapons, afraid of hurting innocent civilians who were being possessed.
Right then, Peter spotted a familiar bald figure walking slowly down the chaotic street.
The man wore a yellow tracksuit and a white cape, completely out of place in this end-of-the-world scene.
It was Saitama.
"Saitama!" Peter shouted like he'd just seen salvation. "Be careful! Those black things are dangerous! They're afraid of heat, but punching doesn't work!"
Saitama stopped and looked at a "person" not far away—completely wrapped in black symbiote slime, body twisted as it smashed cars like a maniac. Then he looked at the ground, where more black ooze writhed like it had a life of its own, hunting for new hosts.
He frowned. "These things look gross. Like… rotten mud."
One symbiote detached from its host like a black viper, silently springing up from the ground and whipping toward Saitama's calf, trying to latch onto him.
Saitama seemed to sense it. He glanced down and casually lifted his foot, stepping on it like he was squashing a bug.
Splaat.
The symbiote was crushed flat. Slime splattered outward. It twitched twice, then went limp—like it had lost all activity.
"Huh?" Peter froze in shock from a distance. He'd tried kicking them before, but they were insanely tough—impossible to crush. They'd just bounce away. And Saitama… did it with one step?
But more symbiotes immediately noticed Saitama as a "hard target." They converged from all directions, some still riding hosts, others moving as pure ooze—surging toward him like a black tide.
"Saitama! Move! There are too many!" Peter yelled anxiously, firing webs as fast as he could to try and pull some away.
But Saitama didn't show any intention of dodging. He glanced around, then his eyes settled on a red fire hydrant on the corner.
"They're afraid of heat, right?" he muttered to himself.
Then, under Peter's stunned gaze—and the dumbfounded stares of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents watching through surveillance feeds—Saitama walked up to the hydrant, grabbed the solid cast-iron body, and gave it a light tug.
Crack!
With a crisp metallic snap, he tore the intake pipe clean off. The high-pressure water instantly burst free like an enraged water dragon, blasting straight up into the air.
Saitama held the broken opening with one hand and used the geyser like a giant water gun, sweeping it across the incoming black tide!
Hiss—!!!
The high-pressure water column slammed into the symbiotes—and it worked.
The moment the black slime touched the icy water (it wasn't "hot," but compared to the body temperature the symbiotes were adapted to, it counted as low temperature), it let out a sizzling sound like it was being burned. It violently shuddered and shrank, as if in extreme pain.
The symbiotes attached to hosts were forced to peel off as well, curling into tight clumps as they desperately tried to avoid the spray.
In an instant, the street erupted in flying water and fleeing black ooze. Possessed civilians collapsed to the ground one after another—weak, but their eyes gradually clearing, as if their consciousness had returned.
(End of Chapter)
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