The procession to the Royal Palace was a study in barely suppressed chaos and utter bewilderment. Iris Midgar, her jaw set in a line of grim determination, led the way, flanked by anxious Royal Guards whose polished armor did little to hide their trembling hands. Alexia walked beside her sister, alternating between indignant glares at Saitama and furtive, fascinated glances. Rose Oriana maintained a quiet, observant dignity, though her eyes betrayed a deep unease. Sherry Barnett trailed slightly behind, muttering about "quantum entanglement," "zero-point energy fields," and the "tragic limitations of current thaumaturgical instrumentation," occasionally trying to subtly wave a new, even more complex-looking device (that looked suspiciously like a colander with wires) in Saitama's general direction, only for it to emit pathetic whimpering sounds.
Saitama, for his part, ambled along with the air of a man forced to attend a particularly dull timeshare presentation. "So, this palace thing," he commented to the air, "does it have, like, a cafeteria? Or maybe a vending machine? I saw a kid with a chocolate bar back there, looked pretty good. You guys have 'Choco-Rumble Supreme' here? Best bang for your buck, calorie-wise."
Genos, ever dutiful, marched beside his Master, his metallic footsteps unnervingly precise on the cobblestones. "Master, given the architectural style and apparent technological level, it is unlikely they possess advanced automated food dispensing units. However, a royal establishment of this magnitude should have extensive kitchen facilities. I can perform a thermal scan for concentrated heat signatures indicative of large-scale food preparation upon arrival."
Shadow glided behind them all, a silent, brooding storm cloud of pure menace. His hood was angled just so, obscuring his features but projecting an aura of profound, almost cosmic, contemplation. 'He speaks of mundane sustenance, yet his every casual action shatters the boundaries of the known. The 'Choco-Rumble Supreme'… is it a metaphor? A coded reference to some ultimate power source he consumes? Or is his mastery of feigned simplicity so absolute that he can infuse even the most banal desires with layers of hidden meaning? The 'cafeteria'… a euphemism for a nexus of power? A 'vending machine'… a self-replenishing font of cosmic energy? Intriguing. Utterly, magnificently intriguing!'
The citizens of Midgar, those brave or foolish enough to peek from behind shuttered windows, witnessed a bizarre spectacle: their revered Sword Saint and Princesses escorting a bald man in a garish yellow suit, a gleaming cyborg, and the living embodiment of terrifying shadow. Whispers followed them like autumn leaves skittering in a chill wind.
"Is that… him? The one who made the sky bleed?"
"And the metal golem? Is it a weapon from another land?"
"But the bald one… he looks so… normal. Except for the clothes."
"And Shadow! He walks with them! What infernal pact has been forged?"
The Royal Palace loomed, a confection of white stone and soaring spires, normally a symbol of Midgar's strength and stability. Today, it felt like a fragile dollhouse about to be entered by giants. The palace guards, elite warriors handpicked for their skill and loyalty, visibly stiffened as the strange procession approached. Their spear tips wavered.
"Princess Iris! Princess Alexia!" The Captain of the Guard, a grizzled veteran named Marcus, stepped forward, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his greatsword. His eyes, however, were wide with apprehension as he took in Saitama, then Genos, then lingered with palpable dread on Shadow. "What… what is the meaning of this?"
"Stand down, Captain," Iris commanded, her voice tight. "These… individuals… will be accompanying us to an audience with my father. Ensure the throne room is secured and that no one panics." A rather tall order, given the circumstances.
The throne room was a vast, echoing chamber, its high, vaulted ceilings adorned with heroic frescoes, its floors polished to a mirror shine. At the far end, upon a gilded throne, sat King Midgar. He was a man of regal bearing, his face lined with the cares of state, but today, those lines seemed etched deeper, his usual composure strained. Flanking him were his most trusted advisors, their faces a mixture of fear and morbid curiosity.
As the group entered, a collective gasp, quickly suppressed, rippled through the assembled courtiers.
King Midgar rose, his voice attempting a tone of authority that didn't quite mask the tremor beneath. "Princess Iris, Princess Alexia. And… Shadow. You honor us with your… unexpected presence. And these… gentlemen?" His gaze fell upon Saitama and Genos, lingering on Saitama's bald head and bright suit with an expression of profound, royal befuddlement.
Saitama, unimpressed by the grandeur, yawned. "Nice place. Kinda drafty. So, about that food…"
Genos stepped forward, placing a restraining hand on Saitama's shoulder. "Master, allow me. Your Majesty," he addressed King Midgar, his voice resonating slightly in the large hall. "We are travelers from another dimension. My Master is Saitama, an S-Class Hero. I am Genos, his disciple. We arrived through an unforeseen spatio-temporal distortion."
"S-Class Hero?" one of the advisors, a portly man with a monocle, sneered softly. "Never heard of it. Some kind of new mercenary guild, are they?"
Shadow, who had positioned himself in a suitably dramatic patch of shadow near a towering pillar, let out a low chuckle that sent shivers down spines. "You mistake the roar of a cosmic dragon for the chirping of a sparrow, Councilor. The 'S-Class' he speaks of is likely a designation for entities whose power transcends your limited comprehension. A classification for those who walk where gods fear to tread." 'Yes,' Shadow thought, 'that frames it nicely. Elevates the mundane into the mythic. He will appreciate the subtlety.'
Saitama just looked confused. "Gods? Nah, just heroes. We fight monsters. Usually. When there are any good ones around. Lately, it's been pretty slow."
King Midgar leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. "You claim to fight monsters? The kind that plagued our lands before the rise of the Knights? The kind the Cult of Diablos seeks to unleash?"
"Cult of who-now?" Saitama asked, scratching his head. "Look, I just punch stuff. If it's bad, I punch it. Usually once. It's kinda my thing. 'One Punch Man,' they call me. Well, sometimes. When they remember."
A stunned silence. Then, the portly councilor burst into incredulous laughter. "One punch? Preposterous! What an absurd claim! Sir, you are in the Royal Court of Midgar, not some village tavern spinning tall tales!" He turned to the King. "Your Majesty, this is clearly a farce! These individuals are either charlatans or escapees from a particularly vivid asylum!"
Before anyone could react, Saitama, annoyed by the implication he was a liar and also by a persistent itch on his elbow, casually reached over to scratch it. His elbow bumped a massive, ornate jade vase perched on a marble pedestal nearby – a priceless royal heirloom, rumored to have been gifted by an ancient elven king.
The vase didn't just wobble. It didn't just fall. It atomized.
One moment, it was there, a testament to centuries of history and artistry. The next, it was a cloud of fine, glittering green dust that shimmered in the sunbeams slanting through the high windows, then slowly settled. There was no crash, no sound of shattering. Just a soft whoosh as the air rushed into the space it had occupied, followed by the gentle patter of jade dust on the polished floor.
The councilor's laughter died in his throat, replaced by a gurgling sound. His monocle fell from his eye, clattering on the marble. Every jaw in the room, save for Saitama's, Genos's, and Shadow's, had dropped. King Midgar looked like he'd been struck by lightning. Iris and Alexia stared at the green dust, then at Saitama's utterly unconcerned face, then back at the dust. Sherry Barnett let out a high-pitched squeak and fumbled for her notepad, her hands shaking too much to write.
Saitama blinked at the dust. "Oops. Sorry. Guess that was more fragile than it looked. You guys should probably get sturdier decorations. Or maybe, like, not put them right where people can bump into them. Safety hazard, you know."
Genos immediately stepped forward. "My sincerest apologies, Your Majesty! Master Saitama is often unaware of his own strength in mundane situations. The kinetic energy inadvertently transferred, even through a minor impact, can result in… catastrophic structural failure of inanimate objects. I assure you, no harm was intended. We are prepared to offer compensation, though I am unsure of the current interdimensional exchange rate for priceless royal heirlooms."
Shadow's hidden face was alight with manic glee. 'Magnificent! Such casual, devastating power! He destroys an artifact of immense historical and magical significance with an errant elbow scratch, then feigns concern over 'safety hazards'! The sheer audacity! The layers of misdirection! He is subtly demonstrating the fragility of their entire kingdom, their history, their power structures, all with a single, seemingly accidental gesture! He is telling them, 'Your treasures, your legacy, your very reality, are as dust before me!' This isn't just an Eminence in Shadow; this is an Eminence in Subtlety beyond anything I could have conceived!'
King Midgar finally found his voice, a strangled whisper. "That… that vase… was warded! Enchanted by Archmage Elara herself to withstand a siege engine's blow!"
Sherry Barnett, her voice trembling with a terrifying cocktail of fear and scientific ecstasy, gasped, "The molecular bonds… completely unraveled! Not shattered, but disassociated! The sheer localized force required… it's beyond any known physical or magical principle! It's… it's beautiful! Horrifyingly, terrifyingly beautiful!" She looked ready to faint or perhaps propose marriage to the concept of Saitama's elbow.
Iris Midgar finally spoke, her voice low and dangerous. "You. Saitama. You will explain yourself. Now. And this time, try to make sense."
Saitama sighed, the long-suffering sigh of a man whose simple requests were constantly being misunderstood. "Look, I already told you. I'm a hero. For fun. I punch bad guys. Sometimes I break stuff by accident. It happens. Can I please get something to eat now? I'm seriously starving. My stomach feels like it's about to punch me."
Just then, as if on cue, a low, guttural rumble echoed through the throne room. It wasn't thunder. It wasn't an earthquake. It was the unmistakable, profoundly embarrassing sound of Saitama's stomach growling. It was a sound so loud, so resonant, it seemed to vibrate the very foundations of the palace. Several courtiers flinched visibly.
The sheer incongruity of it – the reality-bending power, the existential threat, the diplomatic crisis, all punctuated by a stomach growl that could rival a lesser monster's roar – was too much for Alexia. A strangled snort escaped her, followed by a quickly suppressed giggle. She clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with mortification, but the damage was done. The tension, for a fleeting moment, fractured.
Shadow almost lost his composure. 'Even his bodily functions are a performance! A growl that mimics the beasts he slays! He uses his own hunger as a tool to disarm, to create absurdity, to further obscure his true, terrifying purpose! Genius! Utter, unadulterated genius!'
Before the King could recover from the shock of the exploding vase and the subsequent stomachquake, the air in the throne room grew noticeably colder. The light from the high windows seemed to dim. The grand double doors at the entrance of the throne room, massive constructs of oak and iron, began to rattle violently.
Then, with a sound like splintering glaciers, they were blasted inwards, reduced to shrapnel.
Standing in the ruined doorway, silhouetted against the sudden gloom, were figures that radiated an aura of profound malice and ancient power. Their eyes glowed with an unnatural red light. They were clad in dark, hooded robes, intricately embroidered with symbols that pulsed with a sickening, demonic energy.
"The Cult of Diablos!" Iris hissed, her hand flying to her sword, all thoughts of Saitama's appetite momentarily forgotten. "Here?! Inside the palace?!"
One of the robed figures, taller than the others, stepped forward. His voice was like the grinding of tombstones. "The nexus of fractured realities calls to us. The blood of the heroes… the awakening of our master… it is all at hand. And it seems," his crimson gaze swept over the room, lingering on Saitama with a flicker of surprise, then to Shadow with a hint of wary recognition, "we have unexpected… guests… at this momentous occasion."
Saitama peered past Iris. "Oh, more guys in creepy robes. You guys having a convention or something? You know, you should really fix that door. Big security risk." He then looked at Genos. "Think these guys know where the cafeteria is?"
The stage was set. The players, both expected and utterly unforeseen, were assembled. And the Eminence in Shadow felt a thrill course through him, a genuine, exhilarating shiver. The Cult, his old nemeses, were here. The Paradox Engine and his cyborg herald were in the mix. The stakes had just been raised to a level beyond even his most flamboyant dreams. This wasn't just a play anymore. This was an opera of cosmic proportions, and he, Shadow, was ready to conduct. The goosebumps were practically a standing ovation on his skin.