Jordan's ear twitched.
The Mind Network did not care about the concept of conversational privacy. At the level his perception currently operated, even the softest, most secretive exchange between the Tornado sisters registered in his mind as clearly as if someone was speaking directly into his ear. He caught the shape and texture of Tatsumaki's quiet thought without actively intruding on it, filed the information away for later, and returned his full attention to the room.
So Saitama can see F-boy too, he thought. And Tatsumaki.
That made two people now. The pattern was becoming much clearer. It seemed that at a certain high threshold of either spiritual sensitivity or sheer raw power, his Stand's normally invisible form became fully perceptible. Both of his current examples, the bald hero and the psychic, had crossed that invisible threshold from very different directions.
It wasn't a problem, really. F-boy's combat capabilities and durability had advanced well past the point where Stand destruction represented a genuine, life-threatening danger to Jordan's main body. It was more of an interesting data point than an actual vulnerability.
Deep within the spiritual link that connected them, F-boy processed this cold assessment with the agitated energy of someone who had very strong opinions about being described as a mere 'data point.'
That's right, F-boy projected, his mental voice dripping with sarcasm. I'm very brave.
Jordan did not dignify the comment with a response.
Saitama had settled back against the wooden wall with the easy, slouched posture of a man who was simply waiting for his dinner. He was currently working backward through his memory of the chaotic afternoon.
"Oh, right," Saitama said, pointing a finger toward the kitchen. "Genos isn't alone in there. There's also that kid. White, pointy hair."
Jordan went entirely still for a fraction of a second.
The mental image arrived unbidden and felt immediately, profoundly wrong: The Hero Hunter, Garou, standing in a kitchen. Wearing a crisp black and white apron. Washing vegetables in a sink.
The sense of cognitive dissonance was significant.
Jordan looked across the room at Bang. The old martial arts master was in the middle of an unhurried, polite conversation with King. Bang was smiling serenely, every single line of his relaxed posture suggesting that absolutely nothing unusual had occurred this afternoon, and he had certainly not applied any particular physical or psychological pressure to persuade anyone of anything.
The old man, Jordan thought, genuinely impressed. He somehow convinced a self-described monster candidate and full-time training obsessive to wash vegetables for a hot pot dinner.
However he managed to do it, Jordan decided, he respected the result completely.
Half an hour later, night had fully settled over the mountain dojo.
The main room had been completely rearranged around the evening's centerpiece. An industrial-grade induction cooker sat in the middle of the low table, supporting a massive metal hot pot vessel that could have easily served as a bathing tub for a medium-sized dog. Inside, a full, solid block of intensely spiced, Sichuan-style beef tallow broth had been slowly melting into the base soup for the better part of an hour. The heavy smell had already migrated through all of the dojo's rooms. It was rich, red, incredibly complex, and carried a spice content that was beginning to make itself aggressively known even out in the open courtyard.
Genos set down the final plate of thinly sliced black pepper beef with the precise, calculated placement of a man who has been thinking deeply about table geometry and optimal reach angles.
"Teacher. Jordan. Master Bang." Genos straightened his back perfectly. "All dishes are now served."
Saitama was already moving toward the table. "King. Sit down. Now."
King cracked his large knuckles loudly. Something lit up in his scarred eyes that had absolutely nothing to do with his magnetic field abilities. It was a fierce, competitive readiness that Saitama's urgent tone had activated automatically.
"Ready."
Jordan gestured toward the open courtyard doors. "Tatsumaki, Fubuki. Dinner is ready."
The sisters had been waiting outside, occupying the same wooden bench and conducting the kind of low-voiced, intense conversation that looked exactly like a strategic consultation and probably was one. They came inside at Bang's second, polite invitation. Tatsumaki floated a few inches off the floor while Fubuki walked normally. They found their assigned seats at the large table with the slightly uncertain, wary energy of people who have just been told there is a war starting and aren't entirely sure where they are supposed to stand.
Garou had apparently been assigned his seat through a simple process of elimination. He sat down heavily. He looked to his left and saw Genos, the cyborg who had completely beaten him just two hours ago. He looked to his right and saw Jordan, a man he had deeply unsettling questions about that he couldn't quite articulate yet. In front of him sat a bubbling vat of red hot pot.
The tense expression on Garou's bruised face could have stripped paint off the walls.
Drinks went up around the table. There was cold beer, chilled sake, and various other sodas. It was the informal, communal gesture that officially marked the beginning of the occasion. Bang pleasantly called it a gathering of friends. Jordan privately called it the largest, most dangerous expansion of the hot pot team's roster in its entire history, and it was certainly not one he had actively planned.
The red broth reached a rolling boil. The first massive round of raw ingredients went into the pot.
What happened next happened incredibly fast.
The four veterans of the table—Jordan, Saitama, King, and Bang—moved with the terrifying, synchronized efficiency of people who have done this exact routine many times. They had reached a state of chopstick fluency that completely surpassed what most normal people would call physical limitation.
A lightning strike was an apt comparison for their speed. So was a violent nature documentary about starving things with too many legs catching slower things with fewer legs.
A second later, the serving dishes were measurably lighter, and the four veterans were calmly chewing their food.
Tatsumaki stared at the bubbling pot. Then she stared at the veterans. Then she stared at the pot again, her green eyes wide.
So, she thought, her mind racing. That is what they meant by battle.
Understanding finally arrived with the sharp clarity of someone who has just identified how a high-stakes game is actually played.
"Bingo," Jordan said quietly beside her. He was already extending a small ceramic bowl in her direction. It was pre-loaded with cooked meat and vegetables, the dipping sauce already mixed to a specific ratio he had calculated she would find workable without being entirely overwhelmed by the heat. "Round two is starting. Get ready."
The green light flickered sharply across Tatsumaki's eyes. It was not the aggressive, destructive surge of her combat power, but something much sharper, more focused, and genuinely interested. She lifted the bowl and her chopsticks directly from his hands using a precise application of telekinesis. She dipped the chopsticks into the sauce and studied the boiling battlefield in front of her.
The Tornado of Terror has officially entered the field.
Beside Jordan, Garou was doing his own intense, rapid analysis. His sharp eyes were tracking the blurred movement of the four veterans' chopsticks, finding the angles of approach and the tiny windows of opportunity. He had watched the brutal first round and learned from his failure. He hadn't even been able to see their individual hand movements clearly, and for a martial arts prodigy, this was deeply relevant, unacceptable information.
If eating hot pot with these absolute monsters was considered a fight, he fully intended to win it.
Young Garou has also entered the field.
Genos had been silently observing everything from his position with the cold, systematic attention he brought to all life-or-death combat situations. His optical sensors whirred as he took a mechanical breath. He had seen what had just happened. He understood the incredibly high stakes of this meal.
Teacher, Genos thought with absolute devotion. The real battle begins now. I will give everything I have to ensure you get the premium beef.
Across the wide table, Fubuki was slowly discovering a harsh truth. Being a B-Class hero in a gathering composed entirely of S-Class heroes and one Dragon-level monster candidate meant that the hot pot was moving entirely too fast for her to successfully compete for any of it. She had tried twice to grab a slice of meat. Both times, her elegant chopsticks had arrived to find only empty, boiling broth where something delicious had been a millisecond before.
She was far too proud to say anything out loud. She was also hungry enough that her pride was rapidly wearing thin.
Suddenly, a large, scarred hand appeared at the edge of her peripheral vision, gently extending a small bowl toward her. It was already perfectly filled. Thinly sliced beef and leafy vegetables were arranged neatly without any pretension, the fragrant broth still steaming in the air.
She looked up, surprised.
King set the bowl down directly in front of her. He did it with the calm, quiet demeanor of someone who has noticed an unfortunate situation and addressed it without needing any credit or praise for doing so. The long serving chopsticks in his hand retreated smoothly. The faint, golden magnetic current at his fingertips had gone completely quiet.
"You will want to eat that while it's hot," King said simply, his deep voice barely audible over the boiling pot.
Fubuki stared at him. Then she stared down at the perfect bowl of food.
She was not, by any reasonable measure, someone who embarrassed easily. She ran a massive, cutthroat organization. She had faced down Demon-level monsters without blinking. She was currently sitting at a table with two of the strongest S-Class heroes alive, one of whom was her own terrifying sister.
But despite all of that, her eyes prickled slightly anyway.
"Thank you," she said softly.
King nodded once, a tiny smile touching his lips, and immediately returned his intense focus to the main event.
The battle rapidly escalated.
The second massive round of raw ingredients hit the boiling broth, and the temperature of the room seemed to reorganize itself around the new, intense heat. Fubuki, her bowl secured, finally managed to participate at a normal human pace. Garou had completely calibrated his martial approach and was now snatching ingredients with a vicious decisiveness that suggested he had reframed the concept of hot pot as a literal death match, which in this particular group was probably the most accurate framing possible.
Tatsumaki's chopsticks, guided by an incredibly fine telekinetic control that could manage movements down to individual microns, worked through the boiling broth with a precision that turned out to be brutally effective. She easily extracted a large piece of marbled beef that had been on the receiving end of the spicy broth for exactly the right amount of time. She dipped it into her sauce, carefully following the methodology she had observed Jordan use, and bit into it confidently.
The brutal heat hit her tongue first. Then the overwhelming, numbing spice kicked in.
"It's hot!" she gasped, her eyes going wide.
The small bowl hit the table with a clatter. The chopsticks clattered down next to it. Tatsumaki made the very specific, frantic noise of someone whose mouth has suddenly become an urgent, life-threatening problem.
And then she was moving. She wasn't flying, she was actually running on foot. Bright green light flickered erratically and dangerously around her small body as the intense Sichuan peppercorn settled into her sinuses with genuine, malicious commitment.
Jordan caught her effortlessly by the back of her dark collar. She had made it approximately three meters toward the door.
He gently but firmly steered her back to the table, ignoring her frantic squirming. He pulled a large bottle of cold, condensation-covered soda from the nearby cooler, popped the cap off smoothly, and held it out to her.
"Drink this," he instructed calmly.
Tatsumaki, her eyes visibly streaming with tears, radiating wounded dignity and roughly two hundred degrees of internal body temperature, snatched the bottle from his hand.
She drank deeply.
She said absolutely nothing.