If a child is heaven’s gift to parents, then I’d give everything for my daughter.

Even if death and danger lie ahead—even if she isn’t human—it doesn’t matter.

I’ll keep my promise and protect her with all I have.

This is a Hero’s vow. Though I’ve abandoned my old life, my heart remains unchanged.

[Gunfire and robbery reported at the southwest docks. District officers, respond immediately.]

Midnight overtime is the worst...

Police sirens wailed long before arriving. When red and blue lights finally flooded the scene, everyone’s eyes widened.

A man was embedded in the wall like a bas-relief—perfectly pressed, no extra cracks. Such ruthless force left jaws slack in shock.

"Any official Hero or authority handling this?" A disheveled yet handsome man with spiky hair scratched his messy head from the crowd. "If you know them, tell that Hero: sanitation workers have it tough enough."

His careless tone showed he didn’t care.

But when his gaze hit the ground’s center, his lazy eyes suddenly sharpened.

Footprints from exertion looked molded into unset cement. Stance, force, impact point... after quick analysis, this fighter’s style felt familiar.

"No official Hero’s this brutal," someone replied. "No assignments here either. Probably unregistered."

"What do you think?"

The man crouched, palm comparing shoe prints. The touch sparked a faint memory.

"A promising rookie," he muttered.

"If you ask me? A madman—a veteran hidden all these years."

At an apartment entrance, a man frowned at his troubles.

First, his messy black cropped hair—coming home untidy meant scolding. Second, heavy shopping bags and keys. So heavy. Really heavy now.

...He was different.

"Tch. Why’s this damn thing so hard to insert?"

Honestly, he was just an ordinary resident here.

My name’s Zeming. I teach at a school.

Mostly watching students, handling paperwork, joining their mischief after they act up.

Low pay, but a good job. Nothing special. Super ordinary.

Even my looks were plain—like this cheap suit, flawed enough for any knockoff to copy.

Life’s like that. Some can’t tell real from fake and muddle through. Enough self-intro.

Who cares? Like Zeming—no one knew he was once a Hero.

Click——————

The door opened slightly from inside. Useless for him, burdened with bags. But the sight warmed him unexpectedly.

"Welcome home."

A lovely greeting. That silvery bell-like voice rivaled heaven’s music.

If only it held warmth.

Like those slightly vacant sapphire eyes—if only their gaze sparkled like gems, not ice.

"I’m back. Hungry?"

The silver-haired girl who opened the door had hair past her waist. Her slender, perfectly curved figure was art itself.

At home, she wore a tight white top, slightly revealing her abdomen, with ultra-sexy black shorts. Fair thighs bare on the floor—why not?

Forgot to mention: I’m married. This is my wife, Eira Lewis—a returnee.

Actually, she shares my job: an officially registered Hero. Should be a normal family. But it’s not.

"I’m fine, but she—"

"Daddy~~"

As I chatted, a little girl ran over.

"My little Vivian. Were you good today?"

I lifted the silver-haired child, gently rubbing her head.

Her smooth skin was so soft I couldn’t let go.

Silky like her mother’s—no less flawless.

Honestly, they looked like beautiful sisters. Long lashes, doll-like bodies.

"I always listen to Mommy~"

Obedient kids save trouble.

"After work, an alert said District 3 needed backup... I was en route when it said threat neutralized. No idea what happened."

Eira didn’t know Zeming’s true identity. Only her Hero job wasn’t secret here.

Professional Hero. Official. Perfect life. Stable income.

"Probably some rule-breaking rookie."

"Who knows? Sorry for making you wait."

Eira crouched, smiling warmly only for Vivian.

"Okay. Can we eat? I’m hungry."

"No problem!!"

Holding Vivian, I headed to the dining room, passing bags to Eira behind me.

Their hands brushed—then snapped apart like electric shock. Shyness. Aversion. Resistance. Unfamiliarity.

By the way, they’ve never been intimate. This child isn’t their biological daughter.

"Why so sweaty? And your face..."

"A wound. Just a scrape."

"Nothing. Stray cats."

"Stray cats? You’re usually popular with animals."

"Heh. Some just don’t listen."

Half an hour earlier——————

In a quiet midnight alley, a black van idled behind a vault. One armed man stood tense, gun raised.

He braced low, stabilizing against recoil.

That figure...

The shadowed man said nothing. He pulled open his coat, revealing a silver-white belt.

Muscles tensed, he raised an arm in a powerful pose. Swung it halfway—then slammed the left belt button.

The central panel opened. An S and B pattern glowed vividly at the latch. Honestly, those bright red letters looked cool together.

A dark rider-like uniform materialized instantly. Crimson visor helmets gleamed faintly in the dark.

"Is this a fucking joke? It’s him!"

If seconds ago were calm, now came the storm.

Not just him—others grabbed weapons, guns swinging wildly.

Something’s coming! But they couldn’t see! Only muzzle sparks revealed a shadow in the dark.

An urban legend—the progenitor Hero.

A whirlwind brushed his face. In a daze, a black-gloved fist sent him flying.

"When...!?"

As leader, was he already down?

Flying... one punch did this!?

Jaw struck, head spinning from leverage—he couldn’t tell saliva from teeth mid-air.

He came to on the ground. The cement wall behind had softened, swallowing him. Then he realized... numbness hid the pain.

"Boss! He hit our boss!"

Loyal underlings saw the man among them. They turned, guns shifting aim. Before triggers pulled, he leaped to one face.

"Hey, buddy. Nice weather, huh?"

The masked man waved politely. His modulated voice sounded like a stage actor.

"Y-you too."

"Tough job, huh? Living on the edge, money to debts. Day-by-day madness. Seen a therapist?"

"Not bad. Too expensive."

"Is that so~ Everyone struggles. Any job, minimum wage—it’s life."

Unconsciously, it became a chat. Quite a friendly guy.

"Yeah, work’s awful. Supposed to rob a bank tonight, but a big hire came up. This place pays more than a whole bank... but it’s farther. Wastes gas."

"I see~~"

The masked man patted his shoulder. They locked eyes, sharing a silent smile.

"You idiot! He’s the enemy—not some nightclub girl you paid to chat!"

"Ah, right!!"

The robber lunged for the trigger. The masked man jammed his finger inside first. His free hand grabbed the gun’s front—twisted hard.

The man, refusing to let go, was lifted off the ground.

"Hey! Calling someone ‘nightclub princess’—isn’t that discriminatory!?"

He threw the man aside.

"Remember: they earn for their future like us! Some perform without selling themselves!"

In a blink, the masked man became a phantom—darting past like fierce, traceless lightning.

All were blown back by central blast force, ribs shattered before they could react.

When he finally stood still...

"S-sorry."

One timid robber remained standing.

Scared, he’d wet his pants. Gun dropped, hands raised, begging for mercy.

.........

He stared at fallen comrades. Sunken fist prints on both cheeks. Bloody noses. Crimson mouth streaks—enough to make anyone wince.

The man stood before him, legs bent to punch. That black fist was inches from his nose.

Just as he braced for arrest and a beating—a miracle happened.

"Daddy, I’m hungry~ Daddy, I’m hungry~"

"Tch. Wait a sec. Sorry about this."

Suddenly, a tender child’s voice piped up from the side of the masked man’s belt.

He first pulled a huge plastic bag from behind him—as if by magic or some anime gag—filled with scallions, carrots, discounted beef, and milk, handing it to the robber.

Ignoring the utterly dejected man, he reached into his uniform’s lining and yanked out a super-thick “Five-Star Divine Machine” phone. Thick enough to crack walnuts!?

“Wasn’t this discontinued years ago!?”

“Shh, don’t talk….” The masked man pressed a finger to his lips, signaling silence. Then, unexpectedly, he unfolded it. “Hello? It’s me. I’m… outside. I’ll be back soon. I promise, really soon.”

Whatever came from the other end made him throw his head back in laughter. Even with the helmet hiding his face, his grin was easy to picture.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be back soon.”

The call ended. The man hung up and tucked the phone back into his lining.

“Alright, what were we talking about?”

“The phone.”

“Oh~ then no problem.”

Like performing calisthenics, he spun around, raised his arm, and clenched his fist.

One punch slammed into the man’s face, twisting it. He crashed into the wall, embedded with shattered cement, and stopped there.

His long-awaited return, fueled by serious personal grudges.

He’d retired, true—but today, he faced a grave issue: while driving, they’d crushed the snacks he bought for Vivian.