Chapter 9: I want spar with Sweet Mask.

The fluorescent lights of the recruitment hall still seemed to hum in my ears, a persistent, irritating drone that echoed the unease churning in my gut. That Poison brat… he moved with a coiled tension, a predator barely leashed, unlike the usual gaggle of hopefuls, all wide-eyed admiration and clumsy enthusiasm. This one had a spark, a dangerous focus that hinted at something… more. With the monster threat escalating faster than a runaway Gravy Man, that "more" felt like it would become relevant sooner rather than later.

My curry rice arrived, the fragrant steam a momentary distraction from the day's unsettling undercurrent. Hero Association headquarters always buzzed with a nervous energy, but lately, it felt amplified, like a tightly wound spring about to snap. My role in initial orientation, a tedious parade of paperwork and lukewarm pep talks, often landed me in this chaotic canteen, and inevitably, it brought me within his orbit.

Sweet Mask. The name itself tasted of manufactured perfection. We weren't confidantes, not by a long shot. Our interactions were usually clipped, professional. Yet, there was a subtle current beneath the surface, a silent acknowledgment. I always sensed a certain… respect? Tolerance, at least. He saw something in my relentless dedication, I think, even if he deemed it ultimately insufficient. But there was always… something else: a subtle wrongness, a flicker in his eyes that didn't quite match the saintly facade, something… monstrous.

I savored a mouthful of the spicy curry, the familiar kick a small rebellion against the day's disquiet. Then, across the crowded room, I saw him. A solitary figure amidst the boisterous throng, Sweet Mask sat with a half-eaten bowl of ramen, his gaze fixed on some distant, unseen horizon. He looked almost… vulnerable? A fleeting illusion, no doubt. Monsters were masters of deception.

A foolish surge of courage, or perhaps just a desperate need for clarity, propelled me forward. "So," I began, striving for a nonchalant tone as I settled into the chair opposite him, the plastic scraping against the linoleum a jarring sound in the sudden quiet around us, "how are things with the Hero Association lately?"

His impossibly sharp eyes flickered to me, a brief, almost predatory assessment, before his trademark polished composure snapped back into place. "The Hero Association continues its work," he stated, his voice a silken baritone that somehow cut through the canteen's din. "Maintaining peace and order is a constant endeavor." Cryptic as ever, like trying to extract blood from a particularly handsome stone. But behind that perfect mask… I knew what lurked.

I nodded, taking another, slightly too large, bite of my curry. "It's just… with all the recent monster activity, I was curious about your perspective."

He picked up his chopsticks, the ivory gleaming under the harsh fluorescent light. His movements were unnervingly precise, each noodle lifted with an almost surgical care. "The rise in monster level is concerning, naturally. It underscores the importance of strong heroes and rigorous evaluation." A politician's answer—smooth, evasive, utterly unhelpful, and a convenient distraction from his own… nature.

Alright, time to cut through the pleasantries. "Speaking of strong heroes," I ventured, setting my spoon down with a decisive clink, "what are your thoughts on Genos?"

His hand froze mid-air, a single noodle suspended precariously between the chopsticks. His gaze intensified, the usual cool detachment replaced by something akin to… awe? It was a startlingly unguarded expression, a chink in his flawless facade, or perhaps… a monster recognizing power. "Genos," he repeated, the name rolling off his tongue with a thoughtful cadence. "He is… remarkable. His dedication to becoming stronger is undeniable. His power output is already considerable, and his potential seems limitless."

A ghost of a smile touched his perfectly sculpted lips, a fleeting, almost unsettlingly genuine expression. "If Genos were to officially join the Hero Association, there is no doubt in my mind that he would swiftly ascend to the S-Rank. His abilities far surpass many who currently hold that position."

"So you think he has what it takes?" I pressed, a flicker of hope igniting within me. Maybe even a monster could recognize true strength.

"Undoubtedly," he affirmed, his tone firm, leaving no room for argument. "Furthermore," he added, a subtle emphasis in his voice, a glint in his eye that hinted at a more… superficial consideration, "one cannot overlook his… aesthetic appeal. A hero with both immense power and striking looks would be a tremendous asset to public image and morale." Of course, the face that sells a million posters. Even for a monster, appearances mattered.

I had to stifle a snort. "So, all in all, you have a high opinion of him?"

"Indeed," he concluded, finally returning to his ramen, the spell broken. "Genos possesses the strength and the… presence to become a truly exceptional hero within the Hero Association." He fell silent again, lost in thought, the faint scent of soy sauce and pork broth hanging in the air. His praise for that cyborg brat was almost… fawning. It was unsettling. Was he… assessing a potential threat or a potential ally?

Taking a deep breath, I plunged into the abyss. "And what about me, Sweet Mask?" I asked, the nervous edge in my voice sharper now. "Do you think… do you think I could ever reach S-Class?"

His gaze flickered over me, a swift, almost clinical dissection. His expression remained a flawless mask of indifference.

"While you perform your duties adequately, Sneck," he began, his tone devoid of any inflection, as cold and smooth as polished steel, "and in some aspects, perhaps even more diligently than certain current S-Class heroes, I do not believe S-Class is within your reach. I would surmise that your absolute ceiling, even with significant further effort, would likely be around Rank 2 of A-Class. That is your limit." Rank 2 of A-Class. My limit. The words hung in the air, a suffocating pronouncement. Was he trying to discourage me? Keep me from becoming a threat?

The words stung, a bitter poison seeping into my already bruised ego. There was a cold, hard truth in his assessment, a brutal honesty that mirrored my own deepest fears. I nodded slowly, the weight of resignation settling heavily on my shoulders. "I see," I murmured, the vibrant flavors of my curry now tasting like ash.

But just when the flame of hope threatened to extinguish entirely, a stubborn ember flickered back to life. Years of clawing my way through monster hordes, of pushing my body beyond its limits… that couldn't count for nothing. And… and the Biting Dragon Fist… it was new, an upgrade, a different direction for my fighting style. Maybe it held more power than even I realized, enough to… maybe even expose him. "Sweet Mask," I said, my voice gaining a newfound steeliness, the tremor replaced by a hard edge. "Do you have a moment? I'd like to… I'd like to spar with you."

His perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched, a flicker of genuine surprise – perhaps even amusement – dancing in his usually impassive eyes.

"I want to show you my strength," I continued, a desperate plea woven into my tone. "I've been developing a new martial art, the Biting Dragon Fist. I believe it has the potential to surpass even Bang's Water Stream Rock Smashing Fist." A bold claim, I knew, especially considering it was still in its early stages, a significant departure from my established techniques. But the raw power thrumming within me felt… significant. And maybe, just maybe, it could elicit more than just pain from him. I puffed out my chest slightly, a defiant stance against his dismissive words.

He regarded me for a long moment, his gaze sharp and analytical, like a predator assessing a potential meal. Then, a slow smile, more curious than mocking, spread across his lips, revealing teeth as white and sharp as a predator's. "Biting Dragon Fist, you say? Claiming it might surpass Bang's style… even with your… limitations… that is quite a statement. Very well, Sneck. Surprise me."

He leaned back in his chair, his interest clearly piqued, a predatory gleam in his eyes. "I am… intrigued. Let us see this Biting Dragon Fist of yours." He stood up gracefully, his movements fluid and effortless, like a panther uncoiling. "The canteen might not be the most suitable arena, but we can find a training room. Lead the way."

My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat of nerves and exhilaration. This was it, my Hail Mary, my chance to shatter his condescending assessment, to prove to him – and more importantly, to myself – that I was more than just a footnote in the Hero Association's roster, destined for the upper echelons of A-Class and no further. The Biting Dragon Fist… it was a gamble, a leap into the unknown, but the raw power I felt building within it was undeniable. Maybe, just maybe, I could shock him… and maybe, just maybe, I'd finally see if a monster bled light, like they said the orbs did when they were damaged.

Even though the initial plan to confront the monstrous Ashura Kabuto, a creature that exuded an aura of pure, unadulterated nightmare fuel, was unfortunately derailed by Sitch's bureaucratic intervention – honestly, the man had the timing of a sedated snail – the subsequent, wholly unexpected confrontation with the unnervingly perfect Sweet Mask offered a different kind of terror: a more personal, more… ego-bruising challenge. Still, a fight's a fight, right? And who knows, maybe landing a solid hit on a monster disguised as a pretty boy would yield some answers… or a special orb.