The Godsbane Gauntlet arena was a cauldron of fear and desperate anticipation. The earlier matches, dominated by the terrifying, unknown combatants, had cast a pall over the proceedings. The usual festive atmosphere of a royal tournament had been replaced by a grim, almost funereal silence, broken only by the occasional horrified gasp or the hurried footsteps of medics carrying away yet another "mysteriously incapacitated" local champion.
King Midgar, peeking nervously from behind a reinforced velvet curtain in the royal box (he had eventually been coaxed out of the wine cellar with promises of extra-fluffy pillows and a personal food taster), looked like he was about to be physically ill. Princess Iris scanned the new arrivals in the contestant pens with a hopeful, yet increasingly anxious, gaze. Alexia watched with a detached, critical eye, though even she couldn't deny the palpable sense of dread that permeated the arena.
When "Blast" was announced as the next combatant, a ripple of confusion went through the crowd. The name was unfamiliar. There was no grand, intimidating entrance, no entourage of shadowy retainers. Just a bald man in a yellow hero suit (he'd ditched the hoodie for "professionalism") and a cheap-looking white cape, strolling casually into the arena, munching on a rice ball Genos had provided. He looked less like a fearsome warrior and more like someone who had taken a wrong turn on his way to a costume party.
His opponent was one of the "unknowns" who had been terrorizing the tournament – a towering figure clad in obsidian-black armor that seemed to writhe with living shadows. His helmet was shaped like a snarling beast, and he carried a massive, serrated greatsword that pulsed with a faint, malevolent energy. This was, according to Zeta's hurried analysis relayed to Shadow, very likely "Kaelen the Shadowreaver," another of the Thirteen Night Blades, known for his brutal strength and his ability to command tangible darkness.
The crowd murmured nervously. Kaelen the Shadowreaver exuded an aura of pure, unadulterated menace. "Blast," on the other hand, looked like he was trying to decide what to have for lunch.
Shadow, Alpha, and Beta, observing from a concealed, high-Vantage point Shadow had "procured" (it was actually a very expensive, and now slightly damaged, private box belonging to a minor noble who had wisely decided to stay home), watched with bated breath. This was it. Saitama's official debut. The first test of their insane, desperate plan.
"Kaelen the Shadowreaver," Alpha murmured, her eyes narrowed. "His strength is said to be immense. He crushes his opponents with overwhelming force and shadow magic. This will be a true test of Saitama-sama's… durability."
"More like a test of Kaelen's ability to remain conscious after the first punch," Beta muttered, her pen poised, though a tiny, almost imperceptible smile played on her lips. She was, despite her professionalism, developing a certain morbid fascination with Saitama's ability to casually dismantle supposedly terrifying threats.
Down in the arena, Kaelen the Shadowreaver let out a guttural roar, a sound like grinding tombstones. He pointed his massive, shadow-wreathed greatsword at Saitama. "You! Bald pretender! You dare to stand against a chosen of the Master? Your insignificant existence ends here! Prepare to be consumed by the endless night!" He then charged, his obsidian armor clanking, the ground trembling beneath his heavy tread.
Saitama, who had just finished his rice ball, dusted off his hands. He looked at the charging, roaring, shadow-wreathed Night Blade. He then… yawned. A wide, jaw-cracking, profoundly bored yawn.
"Man," he said, his voice surprisingly audible in the sudden hush that had fallen over the arena, "you guys really need some new lines. It's always 'consumed by darkness' or 'your pathetic existence ends here.' Get some new material, will ya? It's getting kinda stale."
Kaelen the Shadowreaver, mid-charge, actually faltered for a step. His roar died in his throat. This… this was not the reaction he expected. He expected fear. He expected defiance. He did not expect… constructive criticism on his villainous monologue.
He recovered quickly, his rage amplified by the sheer, unadulterated disrespect. He brought his massive greatsword down in a crushing, two-handed blow aimed at splitting Saitama in two. The blade, wreathed in tangible shadows, whistled through the air with terrifying force.
Shadow, watching from above, tensed. Here it comes. The punch. The anti-climax. The end of Kaelen the Shadowreaver's undoubtedly tragic and dramatically ironic backstory before I even get a chance to invent it.
Saitama, however, didn't punch.
He just… stood there.
Kaelen's massive, shadow-infused greatsword, a weapon capable of cleaving through castle walls, connected squarely with Saitama's bald head.
CLANG.
The sound was not the sickening thud of flesh and bone parting. It was the sound of a sledgehammer hitting a solid granite mountain. A sound that vibrated through the entire arena, making the very stones hum.
Kaelen the Shadowreaver froze. His eyes, visible through the slits in his beast-shaped helmet, widened in utter, comical disbelief. His greatsword, the mighty Shadowcleaver, was not embedded in Saitama's skull. It was… stuck. Wedged. As if it had struck something infinitely dense, infinitely unyielding.
And Saitama… hadn't even flinched. He just blinked, a slightly annoyed expression on his face, like someone who had just been mildly inconvenienced by a particularly persistent mosquito.
"Hey," Saitama said, reaching up and casually trying to wiggle the massive greatsword that was currently embedded a good inch into his scalp (though it hadn't broken the skin, merely… dented it slightly, like a very hardboiled egg). "This thing is kinda heavy. You mind? It's messing up my… uh… my shine."
Kaelen the Shadowreaver just stared. His arms, which had been braced for the impact and the subsequent cleaving, were trembling. His mind, which had been filled with visions of glorious slaughter and the Master's approval, was now a complete, terrified blank.
On the observation platform, Alpha's jaw was slightly agape. Beta's pen had not just fallen; it had snapped in two. Shadow felt a familiar twitch in his eye, but this time, it was accompanied by a strange, almost hysterical, urge to laugh. He… he dented his head? With a sword that can probably cut through dimensions? And he's complaining about his shine?! This is… this is performance art!
"My… my Shadowcleaver…" Kaelen stammered, his voice a horrified whisper. "It… it is… lodged?"
"Yeah, pretty good," Saitama said, still trying to dislodge the sword. "You really whacked me one. Good swing. But, y'know, aim for the squishy bits next time. Or don't. Whatever." He then gave a particularly forceful tug.
With a sound like a tortured violin string snapping, the Shadowcleaver, a legendary weapon of darkness, shattered. Not at the point of impact, but along its entire length, exploding into a dozen jagged, useless fragments that clattered to the arena floor.
Kaelen the Shadowreaver stared at the hilt still clutched in his hands, then at the shattered remains of his prized weapon, then at Saitama, who was now rubbing his head, a slightly disgruntled expression on his face.
"Aw, man," Saitama said. "You broke your sword. That's a bummer. Hope it wasn't, like, a family heirloom or something."
The crowd in the arena was silent. Utterly, completely, and profoundly silent. They had just witnessed a renowned, terrifying warrior strike a bald man in the head with a massive, magic sword, only for the sword to break, and the bald man to complain about the inconvenience. The laws of physics, as they understood them, had just taken a very long, very confusing vacation.
King Midgar, from his royal box, had fainted. Again. Princess Iris was covering her mouth, her eyes wide with a mixture of terror and something that looked suspiciously like hero-worship. Alexia's usually cool, analytical expression had been replaced by one of pure, unadulterated disbelief.
Kaelen the Shadowreaver, his weapon shattered, his confidence obliterated, his entire worldview crumbling around him, did the only thing a self-respecting (and suddenly very terrified) Night Blade could do.
He turned and ran.
He didn't even bother with a dramatic exit line. He just dropped the hilt of his broken sword, turned tail, and sprinted out of the arena with a speed that would have impressed an Olympic cheetah, his obsidian armor clanking comically as he went. He didn't stop until he was halfway back to whatever shadowy hell dimension he'd crawled out of.
Saitama watched him go, a confused look on his face. "Huh. Guess he really liked that sword. Or maybe he just remembered he left the oven on." He then looked around the silent arena. "So… did I win?"
The announcer, a portly man with a magnificent mustache who had been rendered speechless for the past five minutes, finally found his voice, though it was a high-pitched, trembling squeak. "Uh… yes! By… by default! The winner… is… BLAAAAAST!"
A smattering of hesitant, confused applause broke out, quickly followed by a wave of disbelieving murmurs and the distinct sound of several more nobles fainting in the stands.
Shadow, on his observation platform, just shook his head, a weary, almost fond, smile playing on his hidden lips. He didn't even throw a punch. He won by headbutting a magic sword until it broke, and then complaining about it. This… this is a new level of unintentional ownage. The Master is going to have an aneurysm.
The "debut" of "Blast" in the Godsbane Gauntlet had not been the display of overwhelming, destructive power Shadow had anticipated. It had been something far stranger, far more disconcerting, and, in its own bizarre way, far more terrifying. It was a demonstration of absolute, unthinking invulnerability, a casual disregard for the fundamental laws of combat that left opponents not just defeated, but utterly, existentially broken.
As Saitama ambled out of the arena, already asking Genos if the prize for this round included any free snacks, Alpha turned to Shadow. "Lord Shadow… Kaelen the Shadowreaver… he was one of their strongest. And Saitama-sama… he defeated him without even trying. By… by allowing his head to be used as an anvil."
"Indeed, Alpha," Shadow replied, his voice surprisingly calm. "It seems Saitama-dono's… passive defensive capabilities… are as formidable as his offensive ones. Perhaps even more so, in terms of sheer psychological impact." He paused, a thoughtful expression on his unseen face. "This changes our strategy somewhat. We no longer need to worry about him being overwhelmed. We need to worry about his opponents spontaneously combusting from sheer, unadulterated confusion before we can extract any useful intelligence from them."
The Godsbane Gauntlet continued, but the atmosphere had irrevocably shifted. The fear was still there, but it was now tinged with a strange, almost hysterical, sense of anticipation. Every time "Blast" was announced, a hush would fall over the crowd, eager to see what new, reality-bending absurdity would unfold.
Saitama, for his part, continued to "compete" in his own unique fashion.
Against "Serpentina, the Venomous Whisper," a lithe assassin whose attacks were said to be laced with a neurotoxin that could paralyze a dragon, Saitama simply… stood there while she tried to stab him with her poisoned daggers, which bent and snapped against his skin like dry twigs. He then asked her if she knew a good place to get a flu shot, as he thought he might be coming down with something (it was just a lingering effect of the Demon-Pepper relish). Serpentina, after a moment of horrified silence, had burst into tears and forfeited the match, claiming she needed to "re-evaluate her life choices and perhaps take up pottery."
Against "Grognak the Unbreakable," a seven-foot-tall behemoth made of living stone, Saitama had simply… leaned against him while waiting for the match to start. Grognak, under the sheer, unthinking pressure of Saitama's casual lean, had slowly begun to crack, before crumbling into a pile of very surprised pebbles. Saitama had then apologized for "breaking their rock guy."
The Night Blades, and any other supposedly terrifying combatants, were not just being defeated; they were being humiliated. Their powers, their skills, their carefully crafted auras of menace – all rendered utterly, comically irrelevant by a bald man who seemed more concerned with finding a decent vending machine than with the life-or-death struggles unfolding around him.
Shadow Garden, meanwhile, used the ensuing chaos and the enemy's dawning, horrified realization that they were dealing with something far beyond their comprehension, to their advantage. While all eyes were on "Blast" and his increasingly bizarre "victories," Alpha, Beta, and the others moved through the city like ghosts, identifying Cult cells, intercepting communications, and getting ever closer to the true nature of the "Master's" plan.
The Godsbane Gauntlet had become less a tournament and more a stage for the universe's most elaborate, and most deadly, practical joke. And Saitama, the Hero for Fun, was the unwitting, and utterly devastating, punchline. The only question left was who would be laughing, and who would be crying (or spontaneously combusting from confusion), when the final bell rang. Shadow suspected it would be a healthy, and hilarious, mix of both.