The "Harmonic Invitation to Righteousness," as Shadow had privately (and with considerable ironic amusement) dubbed his latest interdimensional casting call, did not take long to elicit a response. The subtle tremor of impending judgment that Saitama had so presciently sneezed at began to coalesce, to solidify, to take on a distinct, and frankly, rather overbearing, energetic signature.
It started as a faint, golden shimmer on the distant Kordian horizon, almost imperceptible against the usual backdrop of dust storms and suspicious-looking merchant caravans. But it grew, steadily, inexorably, into a radiant, almost blinding, beacon of pure, unadulterated, and slightly smug-looking, light. It was accompanied by a faint, yet increasingly audible, chorus of what sounded suspiciously like angelic warriors practicing their "Hallelujahs" slightly off-key.
In The Crucible, the effect was immediate and… varied.
Soma Yukihira, who had been attempting to create a "Seven Deadly Sins Soufflé" (each layer representing a different transgression, with "Gluttony" being a particularly rich, dark chocolate), paused, his whisk hovering mid-air. "Whoa," he said, shielding his eyes. "Is that… a giant, holy spotlight? Or did someone leave the celestial oven door open again?"
Takumi Aldini, who had been meticulously arranging micro-greens on a "Penitent Pike Quenelle with Absolution Aioli," frowned, his golden eyes narrowing. "That light… it feels… oppressively virtuous. Almost… judgmental. Like my Nonna after I accidentally used Pecorino instead of Parmesan in her sacred carbonara."
Saitama, who had been trying to explain to a bewildered Korgath the Defiler that "rock always beats scissors, unless scissors has a tiny, hidden laser beam, then it's a draw, usually," looked up, his expression one of mild, almost pained, annoyance. "Ugh. More flashy lights? First the spooky shadow guys, then the void-dude, now this… this giant, holy disco ball. Can't a guy just try to enjoy his pre-lunch Mahjongg game in peace?"
Genos, his optical sensors filtering the intense radiance, immediately began his analysis. "Master, the energy signature is… overwhelmingly positive. Almost aggressively so. It resonates with frequencies associated with divine power, unwavering conviction, and… a distinct lack of irony. Threat level… currently undetermined, but potentially high in terms of… prolonged exposure to sanctimonious lecturing."
The Nohara family, who had been attempting to have a "nice, quiet family picnic" amidst the relative chaos of the arena's outer perimeter (Shinchan was currently trying to convince a group of very confused goblins that his "Action Bastard Rice Balls" were a form of ancient, powerful magic), were also affected. Hiroshi squinted at the approaching light, a familiar sense of impending doom settling upon him. "Oh no," he groaned. "It looks like one of those… those overly enthusiastic charity collectors, but with, like, actual divine power. They're probably going to try and sign us up for a 'Save the Celestial Kittens' monthly donation plan." Misae, meanwhile, was already mentally preparing a stern lecture on the importance of "not shining blinding holy lights directly into a baby's sensitive eyes." Shinchan, however, just pointed and yelled, "Ooh! A giant, shiny superhero! I hope he has cool underpants!"
Shadow, from his now customary perch atop the "Throne of Observational Irony" (formerly known as "that really ominous-looking gargoyle"), observed the approaching radiance with a mixture of profound satisfaction and a slight, almost imperceptible, twitch in his shadowy eye.
'Ah. The Virtuous Vanguard arrives,' Cid Kagenou's internal monologue purred, a note of delighted, almost malicious, anticipation in its tone. 'Right on schedule. My little harmonic nudge has reeled in a prime specimen of unwavering, and likely rather inflexible, heroism. This… this will be a glorious clash of ideologies. A beautiful, cacophonous collision of moral absolutism with the delightful, chaotic amorality of our current ensemble. The dramatic irony alone is worth the price of admission (which, of course, I am not paying).'
He had specifically "tuned" his invitation for this. He wanted a counterpoint to Saitama's casual indifference, to Jin Woo's grim pragmatism, to his own… nuanced… approach to ethics. He wanted a classic, shining-armor, "truth, justice, and the interdimensional way" hero. Someone who would look at The Crucible, with its motley crew of overpowered oddballs, culinary demigods, and pants-dropping toddlers, and react with horrified, judgmental, and ultimately, highly entertaining, disapproval.
The beacon of golden light finally reached the outskirts of Kord, resolving itself into a figure. Or rather, a figure and… an entourage.
At the head of this procession, radiating an aura of such intense, almost weaponized, righteousness that it made flowers wilt and small, morally ambiguous rodents scurry for cover, was a knight. He was clad in gleaming, golden armor, so polished it reflected the Kordian sun with blinding intensity. His helmet was adorned with a pristine white plume that fluttered majestically, even in the still, dusty air. He carried a massive, two-handed sword that pulsed with a gentle, yet undeniably potent, holy light. His features, visible beneath his visor, were classically handsome, noble, and etched with an expression of unwavering, almost fanatical, conviction. This was Sir Gideon the Gallant, Paladin of the Order of Eternal Scrutiny, Champion of the Seven Celestial Virtues, and a being who had never, ever, had a moment of self-doubt in his entire, impeccably virtuous, life.
Flanking him were two equally resplendent, if slightly less blinding, figures. One was a serene, silver-haired Elven Loremaster, her eyes radiating ancient wisdom and a hint of weary patience (she had clearly been on many "righteous crusades" with Sir Gideon). The other was a stern, heavily-robed Dwarven Runesmith, his beard braided with glowing runes of power, his expression one of grim, unyielding determination (and possibly, a slight case of indigestion from too much celestial manna). Bringing up the rear was a small, slightly flustered, cherubic being with tiny, feathery wings, who appeared to be Sir Gideon's official "Herald of Heroic Pronouncements and Virtue-Related Paperwork."
Sir Gideon the Gallant surveyed the chaotic, morally ambiguous city of Kord, and the even more chaotic, morally ambiguous Crucible at its heart, with an expression of profound, almost pained, disapproval. He then spotted the Midgar viewing box, with its collection of (to his eyes) highly suspicious and inadequately virtuous-looking individuals. His gaze, like a holy laser beam, locked onto Saitama, who was currently trying to teach Shinchan how to flick beetle burger crumbs into Genos's open ventilation shaft.
"Halt, denizens of this… questionable… arena!" Sir Gideon's voice boomed, amplified by his own inherent righteousness (and possibly a small, divinely powered megaphone hidden in his helmet). It was a voice accustomed to delivering stirring speeches, issuing righteous commands, and generally making everyone within earshot feel slightly inadequate about their life choices. "I am Sir Gideon the Gallant, Champion of Truth, Purveyor of Probity, and Humble Servant of the Blinding Light of Absolute Rectitude! I have been… summoned… to this den of… moral ambiguity… by a cry for justice, a plea for righteousness, a disturbance in the cosmic balance of… good versus… well, not-so-good!"
Saitama paused, a beetle burger crumb halfway to Genos's ventilation shaft. "Huh? Summoned? By who? Was it that pigeon again? That bird gets around."
The cherubic Herald fluttered forward, unrolling a long, glowing scroll with a flourish. "Ahem! By the Sacred Covenant of the Celestial Concord, and in accordance with Article Seven, Subsection Gamma, of the Interdimensional Accords of Righteous Intervention (Revised Edition)," the Herald squeaked, his voice trembling slightly under the weight of Sir Gideon's imposing presence, "Sir Gideon the Gallant has been dispatched to investigate reports of… uh… 'unusually potent and morally ambiguous power signatures emanating from a nexus of chaotic energy designated 'The Crucible of Singularities,' and to… erm… 'dispense appropriate levels of virtuous judgment and/or sternly worded admonishments as deemed necessary by the High Council of Impeccable Morality'!"
Alexia, who had been observing this new arrival with a mixture of annoyance and grudging respect for his sheer, unadulterated, shiny-armored audacity, snorted. "High Council of Impeccable Morality? Sounds like a real fun bunch at parties."
Sir Gideon's gaze, however, remained fixed on Saitama. "You!" he declared, pointing his glowing sword with dramatic flair. "Bald One in the Garish Yellow Attire! My celestial senses detect within you… an anomaly! A power that is… unnatural! Unearned! And suspiciously… unburdened by the solemn responsibilities that accompany true, virtuous strength! Explain yourself! By what dark pact or unholy training regimen did you acquire such… effortless… might?"
Saitama just blinked, genuinely confused. "Dark pact? Unholy training? Nah. Just did a hundred push-ups, a hundred sit-ups, a hundred squats, and ran ten kilometers. Every single day. For three years. Lost all my hair. Now I'm pretty strong. Wanna try it? It's a real killer on the knees at first."
Sir Gideon stared, his expression of unwavering conviction faltering for the first time, replaced by a look of profound, almost offended, disbelief. The Elven Loremaster sighed, a sound of long-suffering patience. The Dwarven Runesmith grunted, as if to say, "I knew this crusade was going to be weird."
Shadow, observing this exchange from his lofty perch, felt a surge of pure, unadulterated, authorial delight. This was even better than he had hoped. The clash of Saitama's mundane reality with Sir Gideon's epic, high-fantasy worldview was a comedic goldmine.
'Perfection!' Cid Kagenou's internal monologue sang. 'The Virtuous Vanguard, confronted not with cackling demons or shadowy sorcerers, but with… calisthenics! His entire moral framework, his understanding of power and sacrifice, is being shattered by the sheer, unadulterated, bald-faced simplicity of it all! This… this is the beautiful, ironic, goosebump-inducing chaos I live for!'
Sir Gideon, recovering his composure with a visible effort, shook his plumed head. "Nonsense! Such power cannot be attained through mere… physical exertion! There must be a darker truth! A hidden cost! Confess, Bald One! Confess your allegiance to the Under-Dwelling Fiends of Perpetual Laziness, or the Slug-Demons of Insufficient Cardio!"
Saitama just sighed, a sound of profound, almost cosmic, exasperation. "Look, Shiny-Pants Knight-Dude. I really don't have time for this. My favorite anime is about to start, and if I miss the part where Magical Girl Pretty Miyuki uses her 'Rainbow Sparkle Justice Kick' to defeat Baron Von Bad-Vibes, I'm gonna be really bummed. So, are we gonna fight, or are you just gonna stand there making speeches about my workout routine?"
The prospect of a fight, however, seemed to momentarily distract Sir Gideon from his moral interrogation. His eyes narrowed, his grip tightened on his glowing sword. "Fight? You wish to challenge Sir Gideon the Gallant, Champion of the Celestial Virtues? Very well! If it is through combat that your dark secrets must be laid bare, then so be it! Prepare to face the unyielding light of justice, Bald One! And perhaps, a stern lecture on the importance of proper heroic attire!"
He struck a dramatic pose, his golden armor gleaming, his holy sword radiating an aura of pure, righteous power. The angelic chorus in the background swelled to a crescendo.
Saitama just cracked his knuckles. "Okay, cool. But can we make it quick? And try not to get any of that glittery sword-glow on my suit. It's a nightmare to get out."
The stage was set. The Virtuous Vanguard had arrived, ready to dispense justice and fashion advice. The Bored Hero was, for once, slightly less bored, if only by the sheer, over-the-top absurdity of his new opponent. And the Eminence in Shadow, the Curator of Cosmic Comedy, the Impresario of Interdimensional Insanity, leaned forward in his shadowy throne, a dark, knowing smile playing on his hidden lips.
The goosebumps weren't just present; they were polishing their own golden armor, practicing their heroic poses, and eagerly awaiting the inevitable, hilarious, and undeniably goosebump-inducing clash between absolute, effortless power and absolute, unwavering (and slightly delusional) righteousness. This… this was going to be a chapter for the ages. A chapter filled with shining swords, questionable workout routines, and the beautiful, beautiful sound of epic speeches being rudely interrupted by a hero who just really, really wanted to watch his anime. The universe, Shadow decided with a renewed sense of delighted anticipation, was truly a gift that kept on giving.