Chapter 7: Throne of Broken Heroes
The map Saitama brought back wasn’t paper. It was a large, cracked touchscreen display ripped from a newsroom wall downtown, its edges still sparking faintly. He held it up before Do-S like an offering, its glow painting her pleased expression in pale light.
They were no longer in the broadcast station. Do-S had wanted a throne room, something with symbolic weight. Saitama had carried her, the two broken heroes dragged behind him by psychic bands Tornado was forced to maintain, to the most obvious place.
The Hero Association Headquarters was a tomb. The grand lobby was a canyon of shattered marble and toppled pillars. A giant, bronze statue of some forgotten S-Class hero lay facedown, its head severed. The air stank of damp concrete, ozone from fried electronics, and underneath it all, the coppery tang of old blood. Banners hung in tatters, their motivational slogans—“Plus Ultra!” “Justice Prevails!”—now mocking in their ragged state.
Do-S surveyed it from her new seat.
She wasn’t on a chair. She sat cross-legged on Saitama’s back as he knelt on the dirty floor, his face pressed into the grit and ground glass. Her whip was a loose, possessive coil around his neck, its tip resting between his shoulder blades. She traced a finger across the map display, zooming in on different continents.
“Here,” she murmured, tapping a coastal city. “They tried to form a resistance pocket. Annoying.”
Saitama tensed slightly under her, a faint tremble of anticipation.
“Not yet, my pet,” she said, patting his head. Her boot, still stained with the dust from the roof and other, darker substances, shifted beside his cheek. “First, we establish the new order. Here. In this… monument to failure.”
She looked over at Tatsumaki and Bang. They were forced to kneel a few yards away, held in place by a combination of Tornado’s own weakened power—directed by Do-S’s will—and the sheer, looming threat of Saitama’s stillness. Bang’s arms were still bent wrong, his face gray with pain. Tatsumaki’s defiance had hardened into a seething, silent hatred, her small body vibrating with suppressed energy.
“You built your little clubhouse on the idea of strength,” Do-S said to them, her voice echoing in the cavernous space. “That strength could be measured, ranked, put on little plaques.” She laughed. “It was always a lie. Real strength isn’t about lifting buildings or moving fast.” She leaned forward, her weight shifting on Saitama’s back. “It’s about this. The will to erase anything that displeases you. The freedom to do it.”
To demonstrate, she pointed at the toppled bronze statue. “That eyesore. Remove it.”
Saitama didn’t get up. He simply turned his head, glanced at the multi-ton statue, and blew a short puff of air.
The statue didn’t just shatter. It atomized into a fine, metallic dust that billowed out in a cloud, then settled over the nearby rubble like bronze snow.
Tatsumaki flinched. Bang closed his eyes.
“See?” Do-S said, her voice sweet. “No fuss. No dramatic poses. Just… gone.” She scratched Saitama’s scalp with her fingernails. “Good.”
She shifted again, swinging her legs off his back. She stood, her boots crunching on the debris. “Up.”
Saitama rose, dust falling from his jumpsuit. He stood at attention, his eyes fixed on her face with a devotion that was terrifying in its emptiness.
“The problem with your old world,” Do-S continued, pacing slowly in front of the broken heroes, “was its insistence on names. On identities. ‘Silver Fang.’ ‘Tornado of Terror.’ It gave you something to cling to. A story to tell yourselves.” She stopped in front of Saitama. “But what’s left when the story is over? When the power is stripped away?” She reached up and cupped his chin. “What are you, really?”
“I am yours,” Saitama said, the words immediate and toneless.
“Yes. But ‘Saitama’… that was a name for a man. A man who shopped for bargains and paid rent. That man is gone.” She tapped a finger against her lips, pretending to think. “You need a new name. Something that reflects your true essence. Your function.”
She let the silence hang, the only sound the distant creak of the dying building.
“From now on,” she announced, her voice carrying, “you won’t be named Saitama. That’s too grand for what you are.” She smiled, a cruel, bright thing. “Dog Shit.”
Tatsumaki let out a choked sound of disgust. Bang’s head bowed lower.
Saitama didn’t react for a moment. Then, he slowly nodded. “Yes, Goddess.”
Do-S’s smile widened. She was delighted. It wasn’t about the insult; it was about the act of renaming, of unmaking the last shred of what he was. “Say it.”
“I am Dog Shit.”
“Good.” She turned back to the map, but her enjoyment wasn’t finished. She looked down at her boots, at the dried, rust-colored flecks that stained the leather. She remembered the moment on the broadcast roof, forcing Bang’s submission. That had been satisfying. This would be purer.
She walked back to Saitama. “My boots are dirty.” She held out a foot. “The blood of heroes is such a stain. Clean it.”
He dropped to his knees without hesitation. He didn’t use his hands. He leaned forward and began to lick the leather clean.
The sound was soft, wet, obscene in the vast quiet of the ruined lobby.
Tatsumaki looked away, her small fists clenching until the knuckles were white. Bang kept his eyes shut tight, a single tear cutting through the grime on his cheek.
Do-S watched, one hand on her hip, the other idly playing with the whip. She watched the focused, earnest motion of his head, the complete submission in every muscle. This was better than any throne. This was power made flesh, the ultimate force in the universe reduced to a cleansing tool for her footwear.
When he was done, the boots shone. She placed the sole of one against his forehead, pushing gently until he leaned back onto his heels, looking up at her.
“Good, Dog Shit,” she said softly. She turned, her gaze sweeping over her broken kingdom—the shattered lobby, the defeated legends, her ultimate weapon kneeling in the dust. She pointed to the map screen, now showing a glowing dot over a major city. “Now. We’ve made our point here. Let’s go collect our first proper tribute. That city by the bay. I want its leaders kneeling in the town square by sundown.” She glanced back at Tatsumaki and Bang. “You two will come. You will watch. You will understand how complete this is.”
She walked toward the blasted-open front of the headquarters, the late afternoon sun casting long, skeletal shadows through the wreckage. Saitama rose to follow, a silent, obedient shadow.
“Come along, Dog Shit,” she called over her shoulder, not bothering to look back. “We have a world to break.”
And he followed.