The air in the throne room crackled, not with ambient magic, but with the suffocating pressure of imminent, bloody conflict. The Cult of Diablos fanatics, their red eyes glowing with malevolent fervor, fanned out, their movements unnervingly fluid, like predators cornering their prey. The lead cultist, whose voice scraped like rusted iron, raised a hand wreathed in sickly purple flames.
"The descendants of the heroes… your tainted blood will anoint the altar of our awakening!" he rasped, his gaze sweeping over Iris and Alexia. "And you, Shadow… always lurking, always interfering. Today, your charade ends!" His eyes then flicked to Saitama and Genos, a flicker of contemptuous dismissal in them. "As for these… aberrations… they will serve as a fitting, if insignificant, sacrifice."
Iris and Alexia were already moving, their blades a blur of silver and crimson. The Royal Guards, though visibly terrified, formed a protective phalanx around the King and his advisors, their spears leveled. Rose Oriana, her expression grim, drew a slender, elegant rapier, its tip already glowing with subtle magical energy. Sherry Barnett, surprisingly, didn't cower; instead, she activated a series_of glowing runes on a gauntlet she'd produced from somewhere, her eyes narrowed in analytical fury. "Demonic energy signatures consistent with Class-Three Diablos manifestations, with traces of… anomalous temporal resonance? Fascinatingly dangerous!"
Shadow, however, remained perfectly still in his chosen patch of darkness, a predator observing the initial skirmish. 'Predictable. The Cult always announces their intentions with such… pedestrian villainy. No subtlety, no grand philosophical pronouncements on the nature of shadow and light. Just 'tainted blood' and 'sacrifice.' Amateurs. Still, their timing is… impeccable. They've walked directly into a convergence of powers that could rewrite the very laws of their dark faith. This will be… instructive.' He allowed a faint, almost imperceptible smile to touch his hidden lips. This was an excellent opportunity to observe Saitama's reaction to a more… conventional threat.
The cultists surged forward, their movements swift and unnatural. One lunged at Alexia, a wicked, serrated dagger coated in black ichor aimed at her throat. Alexia met the attack with a fiery parry, sparks flying as enchanted steel met demonic metal. Another two, chanting in a guttural, ancient tongue, unleashed bolts of dark energy towards Iris. Iris, with the grace of a seasoned Sword Saint, deflected them with swirling cuts, each movement precise and deadly.
Genos's optical sensors flashed red. "Multiple hostiles engaging friendly targets! Master, permission to neutralize threats?"
Saitama, who had been watching the initial exchange with the expression of someone waiting for a pot to boil, finally spoke. "Huh? Oh, yeah, sure. Just… try not to break too much stuff. They already lost that fancy vase, remember? And I still haven't eaten."
"Understood, Master!" Genos's thrusters flared, and he became a silver streak. He intercepted a cultist aiming a blast of shadow magic at a cowering Royal Guard. His fist, moving faster than the eye could follow, connected with the cultist's chest. There was no satisfying crunch, no explosion of dark energy. The cultist simply… imploded. One moment he was there, a figure of roiling malice; the next, he was a rapidly dissipating cloud of black smoke and a clatter of empty robes. Genos didn't pause, his incinerator cannons already whining as he targeted two more cultists who were trying to flank Rose. Twin beams of concentrated heat erupted, turning the cultists to ash before they could even scream.
The lead cultist, who had been about to unleash a torrent of purple flame at King Midgar, faltered, his glowing eyes widening fractionally as he witnessed Genos's devastating efficiency. "A Golem of such power? Unforeseen… but no matter! The Master's awakening cannot be stopped!" He redoubled his efforts, a massive sphere of crackling dark energy forming between his hands.
Shadow watched Genos with a critical, appreciative eye. 'Impressive. Raw power, efficiently deployed. No wasted motion, no unnecessary theatrics. A stark contrast to the Cult's flamboyant, but ultimately inefficient, displays. This 'Genos'… he is a weapon, finely honed. But still… a weapon. A tool. He lacks the… artistry… of true shadow mastery. He is the scalpel, precise and deadly, but not the symphony of darkness I orchestrate.'
While Genos was a whirlwind of controlled destruction, Saitama was… still standing there. He watched a cultist, who had managed to slip past Iris's defense, charge towards him, a jagged obsidian blade raised high, shrieking about "the glory of the void."
Saitama blinked. The cultist was almost upon him.
Then, with a movement so casual it was almost insulting, Saitama sidestepped. Just… one easy, unhurried step to the left.
The cultist, propelled by his own furious momentum and the weight of his dark convictions, hurtled past, his obsidian blade whistling through the empty air where Saitama had been. He stumbled, his momentum carrying him towards a large, velvet-draped tapestry depicting the legendary founding of the Midgar Kingdom. He crashed into it headfirst with a muffled thump and a shower of ancient dust, his legs kicking feebly for a moment before going still.
Saitama looked at the twitching tapestry. "Whoa there, buddy. You should watch where you're going. That looked like it hurt." He then turned his attention back to the general melee, a thoughtful expression on his face. "You know," he said, his voice surprisingly loud and carrying over the sounds of battle, "you guys are making a real mess."
Everyone – Iris, Alexia, Rose, Sherry, the remaining Royal Guards, the cowering advisors, even the lead cultist who was still charging his mega-death-sphere – paused. The sudden, almost conversational tone from the bald man in the yellow suit was so incongruous with the life-or-death struggle that it momentarily broke the rhythm of the fight.
Saitama gestured vaguely with a thumb towards the battling combatants. "Look, I get it. You guys got your… cult stuff. And you guys," he nodded towards Iris and her group, "gotta defend your… palace stuff. Fine. Whatever. But all this smashing and yelling… it's not very efficient, is it?"
The lead cultist, his death-sphere now pulsating with terrifying power, snarled, "Silence, fool! You know nothing of the glorious entropy we serve! This world will be unmade and remade in the Master's image!"
Saitama sighed, a sound of profound, almost cosmic, disappointment. "See? That's what I'm talking about. 'Unmade and remade.' That sounds like a lot of work. And probably super noisy. And what if the new image is, like, worse? Ever think of that? What if your 'Master' has really bad taste? Then you've gone to all this trouble for nothing, and everyone's just stuck in a uglier world. Not very well thought out, if you ask me."
Iris stared, her sword still dripping with demonic ichor. Alexia, having just kicked a cultist into a suit of armor, looked utterly baffled. This was… not how heroes were supposed to behave in the face of ultimate evil. There were no defiant speeches, no declarations of justice. Just… a critique of their fighting style and existential philosophy.
"And you guys," Saitama continued, turning to Iris and her allies. "You're doing okay, I guess. Lots of flashy sword moves. Very… dramatic. But you're letting them get too close. And all that yelling… 'For Midgar!' 'Taste my blade, fiend!'… it's a bit much, don't you think? Wastes energy. You could be using that breath to, like, actually hit them harder."
Sherry Barnett, who had just disintegrated a cultist's demonic shield with a precisely aimed rune-blast, scribbled furiously. "Unconventional tactical analysis… prioritizing energy conservation and… aesthetic criticism? Subject exhibits… extreme detachment from conventional combat doctrine… possibly indicative of overwhelming power necessitating no formal strategy? Or… profound boredom?"
The lead cultist, now trembling with rage, his death-sphere vibrating like an unstable star, finally roared, "You DARE mock the inevitable? You DARE lecture US on efficiency, you… you brightly-colored buffoon?! Perish in the unmaking!" He thrust his hands forward, and the colossal sphere of purple-black energy, easily capable of leveling a city block, shot towards Saitama.
Time seemed to slow. Iris screamed a warning. Alexia tried to lunge, to intercept. Genos, momentarily occupied with three cultists at once, spun, his cannons already glowing. Shadow watched, a flicker of genuine anticipation in his usually inscrutable gaze. 'Now! Now we shall see! Will he unveil a technique of unimaginable subtlety? A counter-spell woven from the fabric of non-existence? Or will it be…?'
Saitama looked at the oncoming sphere of doom, which was roughly the size of a small car. He pursed his lips. Then, he did something that defied all logic, all magic, all known laws of heroism and self-preservation.
He stuck his tongue out. And blew.
Not a hurricane-force gale. Not a dragon's breath of elemental fury. Just… a puff. The kind a child might use to blow out birthday candles. A small, almost apologetic phoo.
The colossal sphere of annihilating dark energy, the culmination of the lead cultist's power, the manifestation of his dark god's will… wobbled.
Then, like a soap bubble caught in a gentle breeze, it reversed direction.
Slowly, almost lazily, it drifted back towards the stunned lead cultist. It didn't explode. It didn't dissipate. It just… floated.
The lead cultist's jaw, which had been set in a rictus of triumphant malice, unhinged completely. His glowing red eyes bulged. He stared at the returning sphere of his own making as if it were a particularly offensive betrayal. "But… that's… that's not… how can you…?!"
The sphere gently nudged him in the chest.
Poof.
The lead cultist, and his sphere of ultimate destruction, vanished. Not in an explosion of light and shadow. Not in a scream of agony. They just… ceased to be. One moment, a powerful demonic entity and his city-destroying attack. The next, a faint scent of burnt ozone and a lingering silence.
The remaining cultists, who had been fighting with fanatic zeal, froze mid-combat. Their weapons clattered to the floor. Their glowing red eyes flickered, then dimmed, replaced by an expression of utter, soul-shattering terror. One of them whimpered. Another simply fainted, collapsing in a heap of dark robes.
Saitama rubbed his nose. "See? Much cleaner. No mess. And he didn't even yell that much at the end. Progress."
Iris Midgar's sword slipped from her numb fingers, clattering onto the marble floor. Alexia was openly gaping, her previous giggles forgotten, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated awe mixed with something very close to fear. Rose Oriana slowly sheathed her rapier, her eyes wide and fixed on Saitama. King Midgar had sunk back onto his throne, his face ashen. His advisors looked like they were about to collectively have a stroke.
Genos, having efficiently dispatched his opponents, turned to Saitama. "Excellent demonstration of strategic air displacement, Master. Minimal collateral damage achieved, as per your implicit instruction."
Shadow… Shadow was experiencing something new. It wasn't just the thrill of witnessing incomprehensible power. It was… a dawning horror, mixed with an almost religious reverence, at the sheer, unadulterated ease of it all. 'He… he blew it away? A concentration of demonic energy potent enough to challenge even my full power… dispersed by… exhalation? No. This is not power. This is… conceptual rewriting. He did not overcome the attack; he simply decided it would not be. He is not playing by the rules of this reality, or any reality. He is the rules. The game master who can change the board, the pieces, and the outcome with a whim. The Cult of Diablos… my lifelong antagonists… reduced to… to a punchline by a puff of air.'
The goosebumps on Shadow's skin were no longer just prickles; they were mountain ranges. His carefully constructed world of shadowy machinations, intricate plots, and dramatic pronouncements felt… fragile. Absurd. Almost… pathetic in the face of this… this bald, bored, noodle-seeking singularity.
The remaining cultists, seeing their leader and his ultimate attack literally puffed out of existence, didn't wait for an invitation. They turned and fled, scrambling over each other in their haste to escape the throne room, their earlier fanaticism replaced by primal, unreasoning terror. Their screams echoed down the palace corridors.
Saitama watched them go, then shrugged. "Well, that's that, I guess. So, seriously, about that cafeteria…"
King Midgar finally managed to speak, his voice hoarse. "Guards… secure the palace. Find out how they breached our defenses. And someone… someone please fetch this… this gentleman… some food. Anything he wants. The royal kitchens are his." He looked at Saitama with an expression of profound, terrified respect, as if staring at a particularly calm volcano that had just demonstrated it could erase cities with a sneeze.
Iris slowly picked up her sword, her mind reeling. She looked at Saitama, then at the spot where the lead cultist had been. "You… you just…"
Saitama looked at her expectantly. "Yeah? I just what? You guys gonna order out, or…?"
Shadow stepped out from his pillar, his dark coat swirling around him as if agitated by an unseen wind. His voice, when he spoke, was unusually subdued, lacking its normal booming theatricality, yet laden with a new, almost fearful, intensity. "Caped One… your methods are… unorthodox. Yet, undeniably… effective." He paused, then, almost as if against his own will, a single, crucial question escaped him, a question that hinted at the unraveling of his entire shadowy philosophy. "Tell me… do you… do you ever find it… boring?"
Saitama met Shadow's gaze, and for the first time, a flicker of something other than boredom or mild annoyance crossed his face. It was a brief, almost imperceptible hint of shared understanding, of a weariness that transcended dimensions.
"Yeah," Saitama said, his voice quiet. "All the time."
And in that moment of shared, cosmic ennui, a strange, unspoken connection formed between the Eminence in Shadow and the Hero for Fun. The thrill of the unknown had just become a whole lot more personal, and the goosebumps were now tinged with an almost sympathetic dread. The universe, it seemed, had a very strange sense of humor.