Several days passed in a strange, almost dreamlike, state of anticipation within The Crucible and the chaotic city of Kord. The initial shock of Jin Woo's arrival and Soma Yukihira's culinary conquest had subsided, replaced by a nervous, excited hum. Arbiter Varkos, after numerous frantic consultations with his unseen benefactors (and perhaps a few stiff drinks), had announced a revised tournament schedule. The preliminary rounds would continue, albeit with a newfound caution amongst the participants, many of whom now glanced nervously at the spot where the Shadow Monarch had vanished, as if expecting him to reappear and demand a particularly challenging appetizer.
Special "Exhibition Bouts" and "Tests of Unique Prowess" (which everyone suspected was code for "let's see what the dimension-hopping chef can do next without accidentally poisoning a warlord") were also promised, interspersed with the more conventional martial contests. The Arbiters were desperately trying to maintain an air of control and spectacle, even as they felt the reins of their own tournament slipping through their fingers, guided by unseen, far more powerful, hands.
Saitama, his hunger temporarily sated by Soma's incredible cooking (Soma had taken to experimenting with local Kordian ingredients, producing surprisingly delicious, if occasionally alarming, dishes like "Fire Lizard Skewers with Volcano Pepper Glaze" and "Rock Golem Broth with Phosphorescent Moss Dumplings"), had lapsed back into a state of profound, almost contemplative, boredom. He'd watched a few more preliminary fights, declared them "still kinda meh," and had taken to trying to teach Genos how to knit, with predictably disastrous (and metallic-smelling) results.
"No, Genos, you gotta loop the yarn over the needle, not try to calculate its tensile strength and optimal trajectory for impalement," Saitama sighed, holding up a tangled mess of yarn and what looked suspiciously like a bent knitting needle that had been repurposed from one of Genos's spare finger components.
Genos, his optical sensors focused intently on the task, replied, "My apologies, Master. The dexterity required for fine motor manipulation of flexible fiber filaments is proving… challenging for my current servomotor calibration. Perhaps if I were to analyze the biomechanics of a master knitter…"
Shadow, meanwhile, had been a less frequent, but no less impactful, presence. He would occasionally materialize in the Midgar viewing box, offer a few cryptic observations about the shifting alliances and rising tensions amongst the various factions gathered in Kord, and then vanish as silently as he'd arrived. He seemed to be observing not just the tournament, but the reactions to the tournament, gauging the fear, the ambition, the desperation of the assembled warriors and power brokers.
'The pot simmers,' Cid Kagenou mused during one of his solitary vigils, perched atop the highest spire of The Crucible like a particularly ominous gargoyle. 'The ingredients are present: a bored god, a latent monarch, a culinary prodigy, a host of ambitious mortals, and a city teetering on the edge of chaos. The flavors are beginning to meld. Soon, it will be time to introduce the next… key ingredient… to truly elevate this dish to legendary status.'
His thoughts, as they often did now, turned to the amplified "harmonic resonances" that Sherry Barnett was, with increasing (and alarming) success, cultivating back in Midgar. He could feel them, faint tendrils of interdimensional energy, brushing against the fabric of this reality, subtly guided by his own focused will. He was a fisherman, casting his line into the vast, dark ocean of the multiverse, patiently waiting for a specific, legendary catch.
And then, it happened.
It was mid-afternoon. A particularly brutal bout was underway in the arena – a seven-foot-tall, horned barbarian warlord against a lithe, deadly swordswoman from a distant, jungle-choked land. The crowd was roaring, the scent of blood and sweat hung heavy in the air. Saitama was attempting to nap, using a bundled-up Genos (who had powered down into a surprisingly comfortable, if metallic, pillow shape) as a headrest.
Suddenly, the sky above The Crucible, which had been a dull, hazy grey, began to darken. Not the localized, focused blackness of Jin Woo's arrival, but a vast, spreading stain of indigo and violet, as if the very firmament were bruising. A profound silence fell over the arena, the roar of the crowd dying in their throats, replaced by a gasp of collective, primal dread. The temperature plummeted, and an unnatural wind, carrying the scent of old tombs and forgotten battlefields, swept through the stands.
Sherry Barnett, back in her lab, shrieked with a mixture of terror and triumph. Her instruments went berserk, needles redlining, crystals cracking, arcane energies arcing between overloaded conductors. The rift above Midgar pulsed with an intensity that made the entire city tremble, its light shifting from a chaotic kaleidoscope to a single, focused beam of pure, abyssal shadow, aimed like a cosmic spear towards the heavens.
"IT'S HAPPENING!" Sherry screamed, clinging to a workbench as the lab shook around her. "A full-scale, stabilized trans-dimensional resonance! The signature is… IT'S HIM! IT'S REALLY HIM!"
In The Crucible, Arbiter Varkos, who had been trying to enjoy a moment of relative calm, felt his blood run cold. "Not again," he whimpered, clutching his ceremonial staff like a drowning man. "Please, not another one…"
From the heart of the darkening sky, directly above the center of the arena, a gate began to form. Not a subtle tear, nor a shadowy portal, but a vast, swirling vortex of pure, obsidian darkness, rimmed with crackling, violet lightning. It looked like a wound torn open in the belly of the universe, a doorway to an abyss of unimaginable power and unending night.
The barbarian and the swordswoman on the arena floor, their battle forgotten, simply stared upwards, their faces masks of stark terror. The crowd was frozen, a sea of upturned, horrified faces.
Even Saitama, roused from his nap by the sudden chill and the palpable wave of dread, sat up, blinking. "Whoa," he said, rubbing his eyes. "Did someone leave the dimensional air conditioner on again? It's freezing. And what's with the spooky light show?"
Genos, instantly powering back up to full combat readiness, his optical sensors blazing, scanned the vortex. "Master! This energy signature… it is… it is the one Researcher Barnett has been attempting to amplify! The 'Shadow Monarch' resonance! But it is… different! More concentrated! More… singular!"
Shadow, who had materialized in the Midgar viewing box the moment the sky began to darken, stood ramrod straight, his entire being thrumming with an almost visible excitement. His usual aura of cool, calculated menace was replaced by something far more intense, far more… eager.
'YES!' Cid Kagenou's internal monologue screamed with triumphant, almost maniacal glee. 'HE HAS ANSWERED THE CALL! THE TRUE SHADOW MONARCH! THE KING OF THE DEAD! THE ONE WHO STANDS ALONE AT THE APEX OF SHADOW! JIN WOO HAS ARRIVED! CHAPTER TWENTY! THE LEGENDARY ENTRANCE! IT IS MORE GLORIOUS, MORE GOOSEBUMP-INDUCING, THAN I EVER DARED TO IMAGINE!'
His carefully laid plans, his subtle manipulations, his interdimensional fishing expedition… it had all paid off in the most spectacular fashion imaginable. The universe wasn't just playing along; it was actively collaborating, providing him with a cast of characters so ridiculously overpowered, so dramatically potent, that the ensuing spectacle would echo through the annals of shadow (and light novel) history.
From the depths of the swirling black vortex, a figure began to descend. He was not alone.
Flanking him, materializing from the very shadows that poured from the gate, were his Marshals. Igris, the stoic, crimson-armored knight, his greatsword radiating an aura of cold, implacable death. Beru, the former Ant King, his chitinous form crackling with deadly power, his insectoid eyes gleaming with ferocious loyalty. And Bellion, the Grand-Marshal, the most powerful of his shadow soldiers, his presence alone enough to make the very stones of The Crucible tremble.
And in their midst, descending with a slow, regal, almost sorrowful grace, was Sung Jin Woo.
He looked much as he had in the fleeting glimpses and fragmented echoes Shadow had perceived. Clad in his familiar black attire, his handsome, almost melancholic features set in an expression of grim resolve. His eyes, those twin pools of icy blue, held the weight of countless battles, of a power so vast it was a burden as much as a blessing. The System's interface flickered faintly before his eyes, unseen by any other.
As he landed on the arena sand, a wave of pure, unadulterated death energy washed outwards, not malevolent, but profoundly, overwhelmingly powerful. It was the aura of a true monarch, a being who commanded legions from the realm of the dead, a warrior who had stared into the abyss and made it blink.
The barbarian warlord on the arena floor simply collapsed, his massive frame trembling, his eyes rolling back in his head as he fainted from sheer, existential terror. The swordswoman, though made of sterner stuff, dropped her blade, her face ashen, her body shaking uncontrollably.
The crowd was beyond silent now; they were catatonic. Many had fainted. Others were openly weeping. The Arbiters looked like they were collectively having a stroke.
Jin Woo surveyed the arena, his gaze sharp and analytical. He noted the terrified combatants, the frozen crowd, the opulent viewing boxes. His eyes lingered for a moment on the Midgar delegation, then flicked to the shadowy corner where the other "Shadow" presence lurked. A faint, almost imperceptible frown touched his lips. This world… it was strange. Filled with echoes of power, yet lacking the desperate, brutal clarity of his own.
"This place…" Jin Woo's voice, though quiet, seemed to fill the entire arena, each syllable resonating with the chill of the grave. "It is… a stage for conflict, then?" He wasn't asking a question; he was making an observation. He had felt the call, the resonance, the promise of a gathering of power. He had come.
Saitama, who had been watching this new, even more dramatic entrance with wide-eyed fascination, finally spoke, his voice cutting through the oppressive silence like a beacon of cheerful, oblivious normalcy.
"Whoa! Another shadow guy! And he's got even cooler backup singers! Hey there, Spiky-Blue-Hair-Shadow-Dude! Are you Jin Woo? You look just like the wanted posters Shadow-Dude Prime was showing me!" (Shadow had, in a moment of inspired mischief, shown Saitama a crudely drawn, but surprisingly accurate, "wanted poster" for Jin Woo, claiming he was a "rival shadow operative with a penchant for overly dramatic entrances and an army of spooky minions.")
Jin Woo's icy gaze snapped to Saitama. His Marshals, Igris, Beru, and Bellion, tensed, their spectral weapons materializing, their collective killing intent a palpable force that made the very air crackle. They sensed no malice from the bald man in the ridiculous yellow suit, but his utter lack of fear, his casual address to their liege, was… unprecedented.
"You," Jin Woo said, his voice flat, his eyes narrowed as he truly focused on Saitama for the first time. He felt it again – that strange, unsettling void. No mana, no ki, no discernible power signature. Just… an emptiness. An absolute. "You are… Saitama?" He remembered the name. The one who had spoken of ramen.
"Yep! That's me!" Saitama grinned, waving cheerfully. "Hero for fun! So, you here for the tournament too? Or just to show off your awesome shadow army? Seriously, that Beru guy looks sick! Like a giant, angry beetle! Can I get a high-five from him?"
Beru, the former Ant King, who had slaughtered thousands and inspired terror in entire nations, actually recoiled slightly, his mandibles clicking in confusion. A high-five? From this… creature?
Shadow, watching this interaction, felt a thrill so intense he thought his shadowy heart might actually beat. 'The first meeting! The two Singularities, face to face! The bored god and the burdened monarch! The sheer, unadulterated, comedic tension! It's… it's more beautiful than a thousand perfectly executed assassinations!'
The goosebumps weren't just having a parade anymore; they were erecting statues in his honor and composing odes to his genius. This was the moment he had been building towards. The true beginning of his masterpiece.
Jin Woo did not respond to Saitama's request for an insectoid high-five. Instead, his gaze remained locked on the bald hero, a strange, almost bewildered, expression on his face. He had faced down gods, monarchs, and armies that could shatter worlds. He had never encountered anything… quite like Saitama.
"This tournament…" Jin Woo said slowly, his gaze sweeping over the terrified arena once more, then returning to Saitama. "What is its purpose? Beyond mere… spectacle?" He sensed something deeper at play here, something beyond the ambitions of these petty warlords and frightened Arbiters. He sensed… a design.
And as he looked at the unassuming bald man in yellow, and then at the other, more theatrical, Shadow lurking in the viewing box, a new, unsettling thought began to form in the mind of the Shadow Monarch.
Were they all just… pieces? Pawns in some grand, unseen game, orchestrated by a puppet master who delighted in chaos and cosmic irony?
The arena remained silent, save for the distant, terrified whimpers of the crowd and the faint, excited hum emanating from Cid Kagenou. The true Shadow Monarch had arrived. The stage was set. And the tournament, it seemed, was about to get a whole lot more… interesting. The shadows had deepened, and the game had just been elevated to a level beyond anyone's wildest nightmares, or an Eminence in Shadow's most glorious dreams.