It was, Saitama had decided, a truly mediocre monster.
This one was a bipedal rhinoceros with (for some reason) dragonfly wings that were far too small to actually lift its bulky frame. It was currently monologue-ing about the "Rhino-Dragonfly Tribe's" vengeance upon City-Z for building over their ancestral mud puddle.
"And with the power of my--!"
"Okay."
Saitama's fist, held in a casual, disinterested pose, connected with the creature's armored stomach. The resulting explosion of force didn't just obliterate the monster; it atomized it, carving a perfectly clean, kilometer-long trench through the abandoned city sector behind it. The shockwave parted the clouds.
Saitama sighed, lowering his smoking fist. "I missed it."
He'd been trying to end the fight with a single, non-lethal (but still fight-ending) tap. Instead, he'd used too much power, again, and now his glove was ruined. Another pair gone. Worse, the monologue had dragged on for ten whole minutes.
"Man..." he grumbled, digging a finger into his ear. "If I don't hurry, I'm going to miss the 'Buy One, Get One Free' cabbage sale at the supermarket. Genos is out, so no one's making dinner..."
He was so lost in thought about hot pot versus a simple stir-fry that he almost missed the strange sensation.
It wasn't a monster. There was no killing intent, no sound, no smell. It was a feeling... like the world had suddenly become wrong. The air pressure in his left ear felt different from his right. He looked down at his gloved hand—the one that wasn't smoking—and saw the yellow fabric seem to stutter, like a bad video feed.
"Huh?"
The "huh" was the last sound he made. A feeling of absolute, crushing vertigo seized him. It wasn't like being punched, or thrown, or even teleported. It felt like the universe had reached in, grabbed him by the soul, and was now pulling.
There was a moment of profound, existential dread. He was losing. Not a fight, but... something. He was being moved against his will by a force he couldn't see, punch, or even comprehend.
Then, nothing. The cabbage sale was forgotten.
Far away, in a place of wisteria and quiet recovery, Tanjiro Kamado sat in the sun.
He was practicing his Total Concentration Breathing, Constant, feeling the warm air fill every cell of his lungs. The fight against the Upper Moons had been brutal, and though he was healing, his body still ached. But the sun felt good. It was peaceful. Nezuko was nearby, sleeping safely inside her box in the shade of the engawa. Zenitsu was, thankfully, also asleep. Inosuke was... somewhere, probably trying to headbutt a tree.
Tanjiro allowed himself a small, fragile smile. It was moments like this he fought for. He let his breath out slowly, the scent of the wisteria blossoms mixing with the faint, comforting smell of his sister in the box.
That's when a new scent hit his nose.
It was sharp, sterile, and utterly wrong. It smelled like ozone, burnt metal, and something he couldn't place—a cold, empty smell, like the air at the very top of a mountain where nothing lives. It was a scent of nothingness.
He shot to his feet, hand instinctively grabbing for the hilt of his Nichirin blade. "Who's there?!"
The world didn't answer. Instead, the smell grew stronger, overwhelming all other senses. The sunlight on the engawa seemed to bend around a specific point in the air, as if reality itself were a fabric being pinched.
"Nezuko!" he yelled, turning to snatch her box.
He never made it. The nothingness was no longer just a spot; it was everywhere. It felt like he was being pulled backward through a tiny, invisible hole. He saw the engawa, the wisteria, his own hands—all of it stretch and distort. His lungs, so full of air just a moment ago, felt as though they were being squeezed by an invisible giant.
Nezuko! Zenitsu! Inosuke! he screamed in his mind, but no sound came out. The scent of nothingness was the last thing he knew before his world went black.
Satoru Gojo was bored.
"And this," he said, holding up a struggling, four-armed Cursed Spirit by one of its legs, "is why you don't monologue about your 'master plan' when your opponent is just so much stronger than you. It's tacky. T-A-C-K-Y."
The Special Grade Curse, which had just five minutes ago been boasting about devouring a subway station, gurgled a mix of curses and blood. Gojo, blindfold on and a jaunty whistle on his lips, was casually holding it upside down. His other hand was in his pocket.
"Rule number one," Gojo continued, spinning the Curse in a slow circle. "If you see me, just... run. Don't fight, don't talk. Just run. It saves us both so much time. And I, for one, have a very important date with a limited-edition cream puff from--"
His words stopped. His whistle died. The casual, arrogant spin of his hand ceased.
The Curse, sensing a change, tried to struggle. Gojo's grip didn't loosen, but his entire focus was elsewhere.
Through his Six Eyes, the world was a hyper-detailed tapestry of Cursed Energy. He saw the flow of power in the buildings, the residue on the street, the terrified spikes of energy from the civilians Ijichi was keeping half a mile away, and the chaotic, dying energy of the Curse in his hand.
Now, he saw something new.
It was not Cursed Energy. It was not Reverse Cursed Technique. It was not a Domain. It was, for lack of a better term, a hole.
A pinprick of wrongness had appeared in the world, and it was fixed directly on him. The Six Eyes, which could process and analyze everything, were screaming at him. They were feeding him terabytes of information about this... thing, and none of it made sense. It had no origin. It had no energy signature. It was an effect without a cause.
He dropped the Curse. "Okay, that's new."
He raised his hand, pulling down his blindfold to get a clearer look. His blue eyes, infinite and absolute, stared at the "hole." He prepared to use Red, or maybe even Blue, to see how it would react.
He was too late.
The "hole" became an "event." The infinite calculations of the Six Eyes were overwhelmed. The feeling of being pulled was absolute.
"Well, this is--"
His technique, Infinity, which should have stopped anything from touching him, was bypassed. It wasn't an object, or an attack, or energy. It was a concept. It was a rule. It was the universe saying, "You. Come here."
And Satoru Gojo, the strongest Jujutsu Sorcerer, was reeled in like a fish.
"I AM NOT DYING AGAIN! I REFUSE!"
Satou Kazuma was clutching a bag of gold, a very heavy bag of gold, and running for his life.
"Why are they always giant toads?! Why isn't it ever, like, giant bunnies that drop a ton of gold?! Aqua! Do something! Darkness! Get in front of it! Megumin! I swear, if you say you can't use Explosion because it's 'not dramatic enough'..."
His party was, as usual, useless. But the quest was done, he had the money, and all he had to do was get back to the guild hall before the enraged mother toad slimed him to death.
He ducked behind a rock, panting. "Useless. All of them. Why am I, the brains and talent of the group, forced to work with those three--?"
His tirade was cut short by a very familiar, and very dreaded, sensation. A faint, white light was beginning to glow around his hands.
"No... NO! Not now!" he shrieked, clutching his head. "I didn't die! I didn't get eaten! I'm not... Wait."
This was different. There was no Eris. There was no pitch-black room with a smug goddess.
The light wasn't coming from him. It was... on him. Like a spotlight. He looked up, past the toad, past the clouds. The light was coming from everywhere.
"Hey! What gives?! Is this one of your tricks, Aqua?! Did you piss off another god?!"
The ground beneath his feet vanished. The screaming toad, the blue sky, the sounds of Megumin preparing an ill-advised spell—all of it faded. He felt... light. Weightless. And very, very annoyed.
"This is so unfair!" he wailed. "I was just about to buy so much booze..."
His complaint was swallowed by a void.
Darkness. Silence. A feeling of falling, then... a hard stop.
Saitama groaned. His first thought was, Crap, the floor is... really clean.
It was a smooth, white, seamless material that was cool to the touch. He pushed himself up, his red boots squeaking on the polished surface.
He wasn't in City-Z. He was in a room. Or maybe a hall. It was... huge. Impossibly huge. The walls were so far away they were hazy, and the ceiling was a blinding, uniform white light. There was no source, just... light.
"What a weird dream. Must be from that monster's monologue."
"H-Hello?"
Saitama turned.
A few yards away, a young man in a green and black checkered haori was climbing to his feet, his hand on a katana. He looked terrified, confused, and was sniffing the air like a bloodhound.
"Wh... What is this smell?" Tanjiro Kamado whispered, his eyes wide.
"Oh, hey. A kid. You seen a grocery store around here?" Saitama asked.
Before Tanjiro could answer, a new voice, dripping with an irritating amount of self-confidence, cut through the air.
"My, my. Now this is a situation. Definitely not a cream puff."
Both of them looked over. Leaning against an invisible wall, as if he'd been there the whole time, was a tall man with white hair and a black blindfold. He had his hands in his pockets and was grinning. "So, who are you two? The welcoming committee?"
"Gah! A ghost!" a fourth voice shrieked.
A kid in a green track-suit was on his hands and knees, hyperventilating. "I'm dead! I'm dead! I'm dead again! Oh, this is the worst!"
Saitama just stared. A kid with a sword, a blindfolded weirdo, and a crying guy in a tracksuit.
"Yep," Saitama said, picking his nose. "Definitely a weird dream."