Dr. Genus cleared his throat with pointed authority. "Call him boss."
The armed gorilla, whose helmet was currently functioning as a sweat collection device, snapped its gaze between the two of them.
"This one lacks the appropriate fighting spirit," Genus said, directing a look of resigned exasperation at the gorilla. "My original assessment recommended decommissioning. However, given current staffing constraints at the facility, I've... reassigned it to sanitation duties in the interim."
Jordan nodded, processing this, and patted the gorilla's armored midsection in a way that conveyed both acknowledgment and mild threat assessment.
"Work hard for the doctor. If you cause any problems—" He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
The gorilla snapped to rigid attention. "ABSOLUTELY NOT, BOSS!!"
"Back to work."
The gorilla retrieved its mop with speed and purpose. Jordan turned his attention along the row of cultivation chambers and pointed.
"That one."
Dr. Genus examined the indicated specimen and nodded. "The Ground Dragon. I'll initiate the awakening sequence now."
Five minutes was enough time to drain the culture medium. The pale green liquid receded, and the creature in the tank opened small, triangular eyes with the shifty alertness of something that woke up ready to negotiate or flee, depending on which calculation resolved faster.
The House of Evolution's Ground Dragon.
It hit the floor in a blur—drill-tipped claws deployed, weight distributed low, presence disproportionate to its size. One look at those claws communicated a specific and extensive relationship with underground spaces and the things that could be accomplished there without anyone noticing.
Its eyes swept Jordan, dismissed him as an unknown variable, and found Dr. Genus.
"Doctor." The voice had the ingratiating quality of something that had spent years cultivating professional relationships it wasn't proud of. "Who are we assassinating? Or is this a kidnapping contract?"
Dr. Genus's expression performed several rapid iterations of emotion.
The documents. I was so focused on the boss's research materials that I completely forgot to brief the specimens on the organizational restructuring.
"Calm down, Ground Dragon." He adjusted his glasses. "You've been in suspension. There have been developments. The House of Evolution no longer handles that category of contract."
The Ground Dragon stared at him. "...What?"
The shock was genuine. Nobody had put this in the briefing materials because nobody had thought to write briefing materials.
Jordan listened to the exchange with the attentive air of someone whose threat assessment of a target was being usefully updated. Underground mobility, established network of morally flexible business contacts, demonstrated aptitude for covert operations. He noted these without judgment. What mattered for immediate purposes was that using this creature as training equipment would produce zero psychological friction.
He snapped his fingers. "Perfect. You'll do."
The Ground Dragon looked at Dr. Genus. Dr. Genus looked back with the specific expression of a man who genuinely sympathizes but cannot help.
The giant hand descended.
Biological instinct fired before conscious thought could intervene. Ten drill-tipped claws slashed outward in a crossed pattern—the Ground Dragon's signature technique, capable of gouging reinforced concrete, deployed against an unguarded palm.
Brush brush brush brush!
"Groundhog Claw Strike!"
The claw shadows connected.
The sound they produced was not the sound of flesh tearing. It was the sound of ten structurally significant claws snapping off at the base in rapid sequence, clattering across the laboratory floor like dropped cutlery.
The Ground Dragon stood in the ringing silence, hands now sporting ten blunt, smoking stumps.
...Is it too late to apologize?
Jordan chopped it across the back of the head, caught its unconscious body before it hit the floor, and held it up by the scruff with the casual grip of someone carrying a market bag.
"I'll be coming back regularly," he told Dr. Genus. "Don't worry about escort—I know the way now."
"Of course, boss." Dr. Genus adjusted his glasses elegantly. "You're welcome at any time."
The suburban wilderness outside M City bore the evidence of a productive week.
Seven days. A rotating roster of Dragon-level training partners—Asura Ground Dragon, Asura Frog Man, , Asura Mantis Man—each one a vessel carrying the Asura Kabuto's consciousness into a new host body. The Asura Kabuto itself, had it been capable of philosophical reflection, might have found something deeply ironic about becoming the foundational consciousness for an entire training curriculum.
It was not capable of philosophical reflection. It was capable of fury, and it had plenty of that.
King had found his footing with magnetic field power over the course of those seven days. Jordan guided the technical development—applications, refinements, the difference between brute electromagnetic output and precision field manipulation. King was, fundamentally, a technical fighter. He'd always processed combat spatially, analytically. Magnetic field power suited his natural approach in a way that electricity had only partially done. Within the week, he was matching Dragon-level opponents on something approaching even terms.
Saitama, by contrast, was getting bored.
The problem was calibration. Dragon-level resistance had been novel for approximately the first two days. After that, he had developed a working understanding of exactly how much force it took to end a Dragon-level fight in a single punch, which meant restraint was now a continuous active effort rather than a passive feature of the combat. Holding back, at length, against opponents he'd already categorized—it wasn't training anymore. It was maintenance.
He was squatting on a rock watching King finish his current round when a familiar presence appeared at his left shoulder.
"Saitama-sensei." Genos held his notebook in both hands, pen ready, expression carrying the specific earnestness of someone who has been waiting for the right moment and has decided this is it. "May I join the special training?"
Saitama turned his head slowly.
The money was still a fact. The handshake was still a fact. The toothbrush, which Genos had produced from his travel bag with the preparedness of someone who had packed for every contingency, was still a fact.
He rubbed the back of his neck.
Too much money. Way too much.
But a deal was a deal, and he'd shaken on it.
"You might be a bit underspecced for Dragon-level sparring," he said, which was an honest assessment rather than an insult. "Jordan suggested recording live battle footage to expand your combat database. That's probably the more—"
"I want to try." Genos's bow was clean and precise. "I want to measure the gap myself. Direct experience, not observation."
Saitama sat with this for a moment.
If something goes wrong I can get in the way before it reaches him. The reaction time is workable.
"Alright. Go in before King finishes his round."
Since Saitama had demonstrated he could reliably suppress Dragon-level threats with minimal effort, Jordan had fully delegated the refereeing function to him. This freed up the hours between arrival and card collection for shopping, police duties, hero activities, or the particular form of productive absence that kept Genos from directing all his discipleship energy at him simultaneously. He'd be back before the training wrapped up.
From above, Saitama called down: "Genos—you're up."
In the training field, King heard the call.
One more before the handoff.
The King Engine reached its operational peak. Gold light concentrated along his right arm with the focused intensity of something being poured into a very specific container. The Asura Crocodile Monster—current Dragon-level rotation—was already showing the involuntary physiological responses that the Engine reliably produced in opponents: elevated heart rate, disorientation, the particular horror of finding one's own body working against its survival instincts.
King closed the distance, magnetic field power fully condensed, and threw the punch.
The Dragon-level monster took it on the forehead and had no meaningful response to offer.
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