The roar that greeted Saitama as he stepped onto the sun-drenched sand of the Grand Arena was different from before. It was less a cheer of excitement and more a collective, primal vocalization of a thousand mingled emotions: fear, awe, morbid curiosity, a desperate hope for a good show, and an equally desperate prayer that the city would still be standing when it was over. Every eye in the colossal amphitheater was fixed on the lone, yellow-clad figure, who blinked in the bright sunlight and offered a small, awkward wave to the screaming masses.
"Wow," Saitama commented to himself, looking around at the packed stands. "Full house today. Hope they brought enough snacks for everyone."
The Master of Ceremonies, his voice now permanently infused with a slight tremor, stood on a specially reinforced (and slightly further away) podium. "BEHOLD, PEOPLE OF MIDGAR! THE MOMENT YOU HAVE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR! THE GRAND CHAMPIONSHIP FINAL OF THE TOURNAMENT OF CHAMPIONS!" He paused for dramatic effect, though it was somewhat undermined by the visible sweat stains on his elaborate tunic.
"First, to determine who will face our… esteemed… elevated finalist… a battle of titans in its own right! From the frozen peaks of Jotunheim, the Scourge of the Ice Giants, the Unbreakable… HROLF THE IRON-BEARD!"
A section of the crowd, particularly the more boisterous, battle-hardened elements and the surprisingly large contingent of Jotunheim warriors who had somehow made their way to Midgar, roared their approval as Hrolf strode into the arena. He was a terrifying spectacle, his massive, scarred form radiating an aura of primal fury, his twin axes gleaming wickedly. He slammed the axe-heads together, showering the sand with sparks, and let out a defiant, earth-shaking roar that challenged the very sky.
"And his opponent!" the Master of Ceremonies continued, his voice straining slightly to be heard over Hrolf's bellow. "The Desert Mirage! The Blade That Whispers Death! She whose silence speaks volumes, whose skill defies comprehension! The enigmatic… SERAPHINA THE SILENT!"
A different kind of murmur went through the crowd as Seraphina glided into the arena from the opposite tunnel. She was a stark contrast to Hrolf – slender, draped in flowing white, her silver mask reflecting the sun, her movements utterly silent, almost ethereal. She carried a single, deceptively plain-looking longsword, its scabbard unadorned. She didn't roar, she didn't posture. She simply… was. A still, deadly point in the swirling chaos of the arena. Her presence, in its own way, was as unsettling as Hrolf's brute force.
Saitama watched them both with mild interest. "Okay, so Axe Guy versus Quiet Mask Lady. Who do I fight after? Or do I fight them both at once? That might actually be kinda interesting. Save some time."
In the Royal Box, King Olric leaned forward, his gaze fixed on the two contenders. This, at least, promised to be a proper fight, a clash of recognizable skill and power, before… before the inevitable. Princess Alexia was observing Seraphina with particular interest, a flicker of professional curiosity in her crimson eyes. A silent, masked swordswoman of unknown origin and immense skill? Intriguing.
The Master of Ceremonies raised his hands. "These two champions will now battle for the honor of facing Saitama the Tempest in the ultimate contest! Warriors, prepare yourselves! Let the semi-final… BEGIN!" He then made a hasty, undignified scramble further back on his podium.
Hrolf and Seraphina faced each other across the arena sand. The contrast was stark: the roaring, axe-wielding behemoth versus the silent, white-clad enigma. For a long moment, neither moved, the tension coiling tight.
Then Hrolf charged. He didn't waste time with subtlety. He was a force of nature, a blizzard of steel and fury. He thundered across the sand, his twin axes raised, aiming to overwhelm Seraphina with sheer, brutal power, to smash through her defenses before her reputed skill could even come into play.
Seraphina remained utterly still until Hrolf was almost upon her, a whirlwind of roaring aggression and spinning axes. Then, she moved.
It wasn't a dodge, not in the conventional sense. It was more like… she ceased to be where Hrolf's axes were aimed, and reappeared a hair's breadth away, flowing around his attack like smoke around a fist. Her movements were impossibly fluid, silent, almost hypnotic. Her white robes swirled, her silver mask impassive.
Hrolf's axes met only empty air, the force of his missed blows sending shudders up his massive arms. He roared in frustration, spinning, trying to bring his weapons to bear, but Seraphina was always just… out of reach. She didn't retreat; she simply wasn't there when his attacks landed. It was like fighting a phantom, a mirage.
The crowd watched, mesmerized. This was high-level combat, a dance of brute force versus ethereal skill.
Saitama, however, was starting to get a bit bored. "Lots of whirly-twirly stuff," he commented to Sir Kaelan, who had nervously materialized beside him with a small tray of (presumably non-poisonous) fruit slices. "And Axe Guy keeps missing. Is he gonna hit her eventually? Or are they just gonna do this all day? Because my nap time is approaching."
Sir Kaelan just offered Saitama a grape, his expression one of profound weariness.
On the arena floor, Hrolf, enraged by his inability to land a blow, redoubled his efforts. He unleashed a flurry of devastating attacks, his axes carving craters in the sand, the wind of their passage whistling like a storm. But Seraphina flowed around each blow, her movements economical, precise, her white robes undisturbed. Then, she counter-attacked.
It was almost too fast to see. A flicker of silver, a whisper of steel. Her longsword seemed to materialize in her hand, an extension of her own silent grace. She didn't aim for Hrolf's vital points, not yet. Instead, her blade danced, a series of lightning-fast, shallow cuts appearing on Hrolf's exposed arms and legs. Not deep enough to be debilitating, but enough to draw blood, enough to sting, enough to disrupt his rhythm, to further fuel his rage.
Hrolf roared, swatting at her like a bear swatting at a swarm of a particularly annoying, sword-wielding bees. But she was never where he struck. Her blade continued its deadly whisper, a dozen more shallow cuts appearing, a tapestry of crimson slowly blooming on Hrolf's scarred skin.
"She's good," Princess Alexia murmured in the Royal Box, her eyes narrowed in appreciation. "Incredible speed, precision, footwork… she's toying with him."
Saitama, having finished the grapes, was now trying to see if he could balance the empty fruit tray on his head. "Yeah, Mask Lady is pretty quick. Axe Guy is getting really mad. He's turning kinda red. Is he supposed to do that?"
Hrolf, bleeding from numerous small wounds, his rage reaching a fever pitch, finally stopped his wild attacks. He stood panting, his massive chest heaving, his crimson eyes blazing with a mixture of fury and a dawning, grudging respect. He realized he couldn't hit her with conventional attacks. He needed something… more.
He slammed the butts of his axes onto the sand, planted his feet wide, and let out a roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the arena. The air around him began to shimmer, to crackle with a raw, primal energy. His tattoos began to glow with an icy blue light. The temperature in the arena plummeted. Frost began to form on the sand around his feet.
"JOTUNHEIM'S FURY!" Hrolf bellowed, his voice distorted, inhuman. He was tapping into the primal elemental power of his frozen homeland, a berserker rage that granted him immense strength and resilience, at a terrible cost to his own life force. His muscles bulged, his wounds seemed to steam in the suddenly frigid air, his eyes now glowing with the same icy blue light as his tattoos.
"Ah, a power-up!" Saitama commented, the fruit tray clattering to the ground as he finally paid full attention. "Cool! Now it's getting interesting! Hope he doesn't just fall over after this one too."
Hrolf, now wreathed in an aura of crackling ice and raw power, charged again. This time, his speed was terrifying, unnatural, his movements imbued with a savage, unstoppable force. He didn't just swing his axes; he became a blizzard of destruction, ice shards flying from his form, his every blow carrying the weight of an avalanche.
Seraphina, for the first time, seemed to acknowledge the increased threat. She didn't retreat, but her stance shifted, became more grounded. Her silver mask seemed to glint with a new intensity. As Hrolf's ice-wreathed axe descended, aimed to cleave her in two, she met it.
Not with a dodge. Not with a parry.
Her sword moved, a blur of silver light, impossibly fast, impossibly precise. It didn't block the axe; it struck the exact, microscopic stress point in the magically hardened axe haft, just below the head.
Ting-CRACK!
The sound was shockingly small, almost delicate. But Hrolf's enchanted axe, which had shattered stone and cleaved through ice giants, simply… broke. The head flew off, spinning through the air, embedding itself harmlessly in the arena wall. Hrolf stared in disbelief at the shattered haft in his hand.
Before he could react, Seraphina's blade danced again. This time, it wasn't shallow cuts. It was a series of precise, debilitating strikes aimed at nerve clusters, pressure points, tendons. A flick to the wrist, disarming his other axe. A tap to the knee, buckling his leg. A touch to the temple, just beneath his thick skull, delivered with the pommel of her sword.
Hrolf the Iron-Beard, the Scourge of Jotunheim, his berserker rage still burning in his glowing eyes, suddenly found his limbs unresponsive. His vision blurred. A wave of profound weakness washed over him, his borrowed elemental power abruptly cut off, his own life force sputtering. He swayed, tried to take a step, and then, with a groan that was more confusion than pain, he collapsed onto the sand, not unconscious, but completely, utterly incapacitated, his mighty form twitching feebly.
Seraphina the Silent stood over him, her sword still, her white robes unstained, her silver mask impassive. She had defeated the Jotunheim champion not with brute force, but with surgical precision, an almost contemptuous display of superior skill.
A stunned silence, different from before, filled the arena. This wasn't the baffling, reality-breaking power of Saitama. This was skill, honed to an almost supernatural degree. This was recognizable, understandable, and in its own way, terrifying.
The Master of Ceremonies, after a moment, found his voice. "The… the victor… of the semi-final… by way of… uh… strategic incapacitation… SERAPHINA THE SILENT!"
A ripple of genuine, albeit somewhat awed, applause went through the crowd. They had witnessed a true masterclass in swordsmanship.
Saitama watched Seraphina calmly sheathe her sword. "Huh. So Mask Lady won. She's pretty good with that pointy thing. Axe Guy needs to work on his weapon maintenance, though. And maybe his balance." He then looked towards the Royal Box, a hopeful expression on his face. "Okay! So, now it's my turn, right? Against her? This might actually be fun! She looks kinda tough!"
Seraphina the Silent turned her silver-masked gaze towards Saitama. She offered no taunt, no challenge, no acknowledgment. She simply stood there, a still, white figure against the bloodstained sand, waiting. The silent swordswoman versus the oblivious demigod. The pinnacle of honed skill versus the embodiment of absolute, unhoned power.
The Grand Championship Final was about to begin. And the silence in the arena was now the silence of a single, collective step being taken towards an utterly unknown, and potentially catastrophic, conclusion.