The silence that fell upon the Gray Monk's Monastery was absolute. The shrieking alarms had died. The demonic roars were silenced. The panicked shouts of acolytes had faded into nothingness. All that remained was the sighing of the wind through the newly created holes in the ancient structure, the faint crackle of residual, directionless magic from shattered artifacts, and the distinct, rhythmic crunch-crunch-crunch of Saitama happily eating dry instant noodles from a treasure chest.
He sat on the dusty floor of the ruined sanctum, cross-legged, a look of profound contentment on his face. He'd found it. The ultimate prize. A whole chest of Extra Spicy Shrimp flavor. This "evil noodle-hoarding cult" thing, while initially annoying, had turned out to be a surprisingly rewarding adventure. He made a mental note to thank Sir Kaelan for the tip.
After finishing his third packet of dry noodles ("Good crunch," he noted, "but probably better with hot water. And an egg."), he stood up, dusting the seasoning powder from his jumpsuit. He looked around the devastated monastery. "Well," he said to himself, "my work here is done. Noodle justice has been served."
He then faced the problem of logistics. The chest was heavy – not for him, of course, but it was bulky and awkward. He couldn't just carry it all the way back to Midgar. He considered his options. He could eat them all now, but that seemed excessive, even for him. He could try to balance the chest on his head, but that seemed tricky.
Finally, he settled on a simple solution. He ripped off his pristine white cape (the one the Royal Tailors had worked so hard on), laid it on the floor, and proceeded to empty the contents of the treasure chest onto it, creating a large, makeshift hobo-bindle of instant noodle packets. He gathered the corners of the cape, tied them together with a practiced knot, and slung the bulging, noodle-filled bundle over his shoulder.
"Perfect," he said with satisfaction. "Portable noodle supply." He gave the unconscious form of Prelate Malakor a final, uninterested glance. "Hope you learn your lesson about hoarding snacks, buddy."
With that, he turned and began to amble his way back out of the monastery, following the path of destruction he had carved on his way in. He navigated the rubble of the Grand Vestibule, stepped over the faint scorch marks where the Flesh-Golems had ceased to exist, and emerged from the splintered remains of the main gate into the pale afternoon light, his noodle-stuffed cape slung cheerfully over his shoulder.
His quest was complete. His boredom was, for the moment, alleviated. His stomach was full of dry, crunchy noodles. All in all, a successful day of hero work. He took a deep breath of fresh air, consulted the King's map again (mostly out of habit, as the path back was now fairly obvious), and, with another mighty leap that cracked the flagstones a little more, launched himself back towards the Royal Capital of Midgar, a yellow-and-white comet with a precious cargo of instant ramen.
Hours later, at the Monastery…
The first arrivals on the scene were not the Royal Knights, but the silent, unseen observers. Two figures, clad in the dark, non-reflective armor of the operatives who had confronted Saitama in the forest, materialized from the shadows near the monastery's perimeter. Their leader, the one with the metallic-sounding voice, stood silently, surveying the scene. The hole in the wall, the disintegrated gate, the eerie silence…
"Status?" the leader commanded.
"No life signs detected within, Commander," the other operative reported, their own voice a hushed whisper, after a moment of scanning with a small, intricate device. "Or rather… no hostile life signs. The demonic signatures are extinguished. The acolyte signatures… gone. There is one powerful, unconscious human signature in the deepest chamber – likely the Prelate. And… faint traces of the Tempest's energy signature, already dissipating. He was here. And he is gone."
The leader walked forward, stepping through the ruined gate. He surveyed the devastation in the Grand Vestibule, his helmeted gaze taking in the clean lines of the destruction, the sheer, utter annihilation. He ran a gauntleted finger over the edge of the hole Saitama had punched in the far wall. The stone was smooth, almost polished. Not shattered, not melted… simply… unmade.
"The reports did not do him justice," the leader murmured, a note of something cold – respect? fear? – in his metallic voice. "This is not power. This is… erasure." He looked at the trail of destruction leading deeper into the monastery. "He carved a straight line to the sanctum. No subtlety. No deviation. Pure, overwhelming, direct force."
They made their way to the sanctum. They found Prelate Malakor, still unconscious, a slight trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth, his vastly powerful, newly acquired abyssal energy completely, utterly gone, as if it had never been there. And in the corner, they found the empty, lid-less treasure chest.
The second operative scanned the chest. "Faint residual traces of… sodium chloride, capsicum oleoresin, monosodium glutamate… and dehydrated shrimp particulate."
The leader stared at the empty chest, then at the unconscious Prelate. A long, profound silence filled the ruined chamber. Finally, the leader spoke, his voice laced with an emotion so alien it was almost unrecognizable: sheer, unadulterated, cosmic bewilderment.
"He… he laid waste to a major Cult stronghold… annihilated their defenses, neutralized their leader in a state of divine ascension… for… seasoning packets?"
The operative had no answer. There was no answer.
The leader straightened up. "Our mission was to observe the Cult, to ascertain their strength, and if necessary, to neutralize their leadership before their 'great work' could be completed. The Tempest… has completed our mission for us. In approximately," he glanced at a chrono-device on his wrist, "twelve minutes. Report to the Benefactor. Objective achieved. By… unforeseen means. And… add a note. The Tempest's primary motivation appears to be… 'culinary acquisition'. This information may be… exploitable." He turned to leave. "Let the King's men have what's left. There is nothing more for us here."
With that, the two figures melted back into the shadows, leaving the silent monastery to its ghosts and its impending royal audit.
Back at the Royal Palace…
The sonic boom that heralded Saitama's return shattered another few dozen windows and caused a minor panic in the palace kitchens, where the Pancake Mountain's structural integrity was briefly compromised. He landed, with slightly more grace this time, on his balcony, his makeshift noodle-bindle held triumphantly aloft.
Sir Kaelan, who had been anxiously pacing, nearly had a heart attack. "Mister Saitama! You've returned! Are you… are you unharmed?!"
"Un-what? Oh, yeah, I'm fine," Saitama said, untying his cape and letting the packets of noodles tumble onto his bed. "And look! I got 'em! The noodle stash! Enough for… well, at least a week! Maybe two, if I ration 'em." He beamed, holding up a packet of Extra Spicy Shrimp. "The Evil Noodle Hoarders have been defeated! Noodle justice prevails!"
Kaelan just stared at the pile of instant ramen covering the royal silken sheets. He didn't know whether to weep with relief that Saitama was back and the kingdom was still standing, or with despair at the fact that a major military-level crisis had just been resolved over shelf-stable snack foods.
The news of Saitama's return, and the "liberation of the noodles," spread through the palace. King Olric, upon receiving the report from a breathless messenger, felt a dizzying wave of vertigo. He had sent a god to fight a dragon, and the god had returned victorious, holding a bag of groceries. His gambit had worked, in the most absurd, most terrifyingly successful way imaginable. The Cult stronghold was neutralized. But his understanding of power, of motivation, of reality itself, was now permanently, irrevocably broken.
Later that day, Kristoph and a contingent of heavily armed Royal Knights arrived at the Gray Monk's Monastery. They found a scene of eerie, silent devastation. They found the unconscious but living Prelate Malakor. They found the signs of one-sided, overwhelming conflict. And they found, in the ruined sanctum, the empty treasure chest. Kristoph's report back to the King was terse, filled with clipped military observations that did little to hide the profound shock beneath. "Threat neutralized. Subject 'Tempest' appears to have engaged and defeated all hostile entities with extreme prejudice and minimal tactical engagement. Motive for the initial infiltration appears to have been… the acquisition of a large quantity of dried noodles."
That night, King Olric sat alone in his study, a map of his kingdom spread before him. But he wasn't looking at his borders, or his trade routes, or his military dispositions. He was looking at the small, unassuming dot that represented the Royal Palace, the place where a being of unimaginable power was currently, happily, boiling water for a late-night snack, his life's greatest ambition momentarily fulfilled.
The quiet after this new storm was different. It wasn't just about waiting for the next threat. It was about coming to terms with a new, fundamental truth: the most powerful force in their world, the being that could make gods tremble and kingdoms quake, was not driven by glory, or power, or justice in any recognizable sense. He was driven by the simple, profound, and utterly unshakeable desire for a decent, convenient meal. And for the rulers of Midgar, this was, in many ways, the most terrifying and unpredictable truth of all. How do you negotiate with a god whose primary concern is the flavor packet? The King had no answers. He just poured himself another very, very strong drink.