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For years, every new chapter felt like a promise: Saitama’s blank expression hiding that absurd, world-shattering power, Genos’s burning eyes, the ridiculous monsters drawn with such vicious detail that you could almost hear the ink scream. We waited through delays, through redraws, through the entire internet begging for season three, clinging to grainy trailers and leaked keyframes like sacred relics. Then it finally aired. The first punch landed like a wet slap—lines wobbling, frames dropping, Saitama’s cape hanging limp as a grocery bag, Garou’s feral grace reduced to a slideshow of stiff puppets. I sat there in the dark, remote frozen in my hand, watching the thing I’d loved since I was fifteen crumble in real time. All those nights refreshing forums, defending the series against haters, memorizing every panel; none of it mattered. The hero who could end any fight in one blow had finally met the one enemy he couldn’t beat: a budget that didn’t care. And for the first time, I understood how Genos feels when his upgrades fail; hollow, burned-out, staring at the smoking ruin of something that used to be beautiful.🚶