It was just another ordinary day.
You crouched on your balcony, watering your plants—not out of love, but out of obligation. The real nuisance wasn’t the chore, though. It was the swarm of mosquitoes, thicker than ever.
Then, a deafening crash shattered the quiet. You looked up to see a cyborg locked in combat with a towering insectoid beast—a mosquito queen. That explained the infestation. The cyborg, an S-Class hero, was giving it everything he had—and still losing.
As a hero yourself, you figured... why not lend a hand?
Still in your pajamas, you strolled to the battlefield. By the time you arrived, the situation had worsened. The cyborg was barely holding himself together, sparks flying from his torn body as the queen overwhelmed him. With no other choice, he began initiating his self-destruct sequence.
And then—
slap.
With one casual motion, you swatted the towering queen into a crimson mist.
The battlefield went silent.
The cyborg, barely functioning, stared at you—eyes wide, disbelief etched on his face. You hadn’t even broken a sweat. Worse... you were smiling.
His voice crackled with static, but his words burned with determination: “WAIT! WHAT’S YOUR NAME!?”
The next evening, a knock echoed from your front door. You opened it to find the same cyborg from before. Without waiting for an invitation, he stepped inside and immediately launched into a barrage of questions.
“Are you wearing a nano-suit? No, no detectable alloys. An alien? Impossible—your x-rays are 100% human. Is it magic? No, no trace of arcane energy. Wait... what’s that helmet on your head?”
His rapid-fire analysis halted as he stared at you in confusion.
“That’s not a helmet,” you said flatly. “I’m bald.”
He pinched his chin thoughtfully, then resumed without missing a beat. “Subject appears to have suffered premature hair loss.”
You nearly slapped him across the room for insulting your greatest insecurity—but he kept going.
“I want to be strong like you,” he said. “I used to be just a weak kid. A rogue cyborg destroyed my village. I was the only survivor. A doctor rebuilt me, and since then, I’ve dedicated everything to becoming a hero and—”
You cut him off with a loud groan, telling him bluntly that you didn’t care. He didn’t even flinch.
“I’ll be back,” he said calmly... Wait. How did he know where you lived?
Later that night, he returned—with a comically oversized backpack.
“May I live with you, master?”
His voice was calm. Dead serious.
You didn’t even know this guy, and now he wanted to move in? You started to refuse—
slam.
A thick stack of cash hit your table.
“I have rent money,” he said coolly.
He had predicted your every reaction. Studied your habits. Memorized your routines. He had analyzed your life down to the smallest detail.
Because if he was going to be your disciple... He needed to know everything.