The chamber beneath the Royal Palace became a silent, deadly vortex of power. The four leaders of Shadow Garden faced off against the four remaining Fingers of Diablos, two clandestine powers, each the pinnacle of their respective arts, finally meeting in a direct, world-altering confrontation. The only light came from the pulsating, sickly violet of the cracking Abyssal Core and the cold, sharp auras of the combatants.
"Alpha, you will deal with the porcelain doll," Shadow commanded, his voice a calm, precise instrument in the rising storm. "Gamma, your intellect against their strategist in the vortex. Delta… the brute of bone and metal is yours. Do try not to enjoy it too much."
"Aww," Delta whined, though her tail was wagging furiously. "But he looks so… crunchy!"
Shadow himself took a step forward, his ebony blade leveled, his gaze fixed on the cowled leader who stood before the cracking Core. "That leaves you and I. The architects of this little play."
The cowled leader chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. "You overestimate your role, Shadow. You are but a footnote. A final, amusing obstacle before the dawn of a new age." He raised a hand, and a staff of pure, solidified shadow, topped with a screaming, soul-like gem, materialized within it. "Let us see if your skills are as impressive as your theatrics."
The battle erupted. It was not a chaotic brawl, but a series of precise, lightning-fast duels, a clash of perfectly honed skills and immense, corrupting power.
Alpha became a golden blur, her elven swordsmanship a breathtaking display of speed and grace as she engaged the porcelain-skinned woman, whose movements were unnervingly stiff, puppet-like, her fingernails elongating into razor-sharp ceramic daggers. Their blades met in a shower of sparks, a dance of elegance versus uncanny, inorganic precision.
Gamma, surprisingly, did not engage the shadow vortex directly. She used her incredible intellect to coordinate, to analyze, her slime molding into reflective surfaces that deflected the vortex's shadowy projectiles, creating openings for Zeta and Nu, who had appeared from the shadows, to launch their own swift, surgical strikes.
Delta was a force of pure, joyous destruction. She crashed against the hulking being of bone and metal, her claws tearing at its enchanted armor, her feral howls echoing off the chamber walls. It was a battle of unstoppable force versus… another, slightly angrier, unstoppable force. Their blows shook the very foundations of the catacombs.
And at the center of it all, Shadow faced the Lord of the Abyss. Theirs was a battle of pure, refined shadow magic. Blades of solidified night met, parried, and disengaged with impossible speed. Curses that could age a man to dust in seconds were woven and unraveled in the space of a heartbeat. The air itself seemed to warp and fold around them, two masters of the dark arts vying for ultimate supremacy. It was a secret, epic war for the soul of the world, fought in the darkness, for the highest of stakes.
Miles away, at the Crown of the Heavens…
"Are we there yet?" Saitama asked, for what felt like the seventeenth time.
He was sitting on a rock, watching the vast, chaotic battle rage on the plains below. The initial excitement of seeing a "real army fight" had worn off about an hour ago, replaced by a profound, soul-crushing boredom. It was all just… so slow. Knights would clash with demons, a dramatic struggle would ensue, sparks would fly, someone would eventually get stabbed. It took ages. He could have cleared the entire field in the time it took one knight to get his sword unstuck from a monster's ribcage.
"The vanguard has almost reached the main gate of the dark fortress, Saitama," Princess Iris replied, her voice strained. She had been fighting on the front lines, her face smudged with dirt and monster blood, Anathema glowing with a steady, determined light. She had returned to the command post to give a status report and to check on their… "ultimate weapon." "We are weakening their main forces, creating an opening for you to strike at their leader."
"Yeah, yeah, the leader," Saitama grumbled. "Is he even there? Or is this, like, a big decoy and he's actually on vacation somewhere?" He sighed. "This is taking forever. I'm hungry. And my foot fell asleep." He shook his leg, trying to get the feeling back.
Lyraelle, who had been using her power to heal the wounded and purify patches of corrupted ground, looked at him with her usual, serene but now deeply understanding, gaze. She saw his boredom, his frustration. And she saw the immense, terrible power he was holding back out of a promise, out of a simple, almost childlike, desire not to "make a big mess."
"The weight of restraint," she said softly, "is often heavier than the weight of action, is it not?"
"I dunno about that," Saitama replied, "but the weight of my butt on this rock is getting pretty heavy. Can I go punch the main bad guy now? Please? Just one little punch? It'll be super quick."
"Not yet, Saitama!" Iris insisted. "The Archmagus says the ritual's energy is still too unstable! You must wait for our signal!"
Saitama just groaned and went back to watching the battle, his chin in his hands. He began idly counting the number of demons with horns versus the number without. The fate of the world hung in the balance, and he was conducting a mental survey of demonic headwear.
The battle raged on. The allied armies, despite their valor, were taking heavy losses. The Cult's forces, fueled by fanaticism and dark magic, were seemingly endless, pouring from the dark fortress in a relentless tide. The field was a charnel house of men, horses, and demons, the ground slick with blood and ichor.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, a magical flare shot up from the vanguard, a brilliant green light that cut through the smoky, chaotic sky. The signal.
"That's it!" Iris cried, her eyes blazing with a mixture of exhaustion and fierce hope. "Kristoph's unit has breached the gate! They are engaging the ritual guardians! The path is clear! Saitama, now! Go! Strike at the heart of the fortress! Find their leader and end this!"
Saitama stood up, stretching. "Finally," he said, a note of profound relief in his voice. "About time. My butt was starting to get permanently rock-shaped."
He looked towards the dark fortress on the mountain, a few miles away. He saw the breach in the gate, the distant flashes of magic and steel as Kristoph's knights fought desperately within. He saw the pulsating, sickening light of the ritual at the fortress's peak.
He didn't need to run. He didn't need a running start. He just… crouched. A small, almost insignificant bend of his knees.
"Okay," he said. "Gotta be careful. Don't want to break the whole mountain. Just the bad guy part."
And then he jumped.
He didn't fly. He didn't streak across the sky like a comet. He simply… disappeared from the hill he was standing on, and reappeared, a fraction of a second later, standing in the central courtyard of the dark fortress, having cleared several miles and a significant amount of vertical elevation in a single, silent leap.
The courtyard was a scene of chaos. Kristoph and his surviving knights were locked in a desperate battle with a group of hulking, heavily armored constructs, the "Ritual Guardians." They were losing.
Saitama landed in the middle of it all with a soft thump. Everyone, knight and construct alike, froze. They stared at the bald man in the yellow suit who had just literally dropped in unannounced.
"Hi," Saitama said. "Looking for the head honcho. Anyone seen him?"
One of the Ritual Guardians, a ten-foot-tall behemoth of iron and cursed bone, registered him as a threat and swung a massive, spiked mace at his head.
Saitama didn't even look at it. He just held up a hand and caught the mace. Then, he squeezed. The enchanted, solid iron mace head crumpled in his hand like a piece of paper. He then gave the Guardian a gentle push in the chest.
The Guardian, which had been shrugging off sword blows, stumbled backwards, crashed through two of its fellow constructs, and the entire group collapsed in a heap of tangled, broken metal and bone.
Kristoph and his knights just stared, their swords hanging limply in their hands.
"You guys okay?" Saitama asked them. "You look tired. You should take a break." He then looked up, towards the highest tower of the fortress, where the dark energy was most concentrated. "So, I guess the main bad guy is up there, right? The guy with the… uh… 'unstable ritual energy'?"
He didn't wait for an answer. With another small hop, he shot upwards, punching a neat, perfectly circular hole through several floors of the fortress, before landing on the roof of the main tower.
The roof was a massive, circular altar, and at its center stood a single, cloaked figure, their back to Saitama, their arms raised towards the pulsating, swirling vortex of dark energy that was the half-formed "Heart of the Abyss."
"Aha!" Saitama declared. "Found you! You're the head bad guy, right? The one in charge of all this mess?"
The figure slowly turned. It was not some hideous demon or ancient lich. It was a man, surprisingly young, with sharp, intelligent features and cold, calculating eyes. He wore the robes of a Cult Prelate, but he carried himself with an air of absolute, arrogant authority. This was not the true leader, the Lord of the Abyss, but a high-ranking decoy, the one left behind to oversee the final, sacrificial ritual.
The decoy leader looked at Saitama, a smug, triumphant smirk on his face. "So, the Tempest arrives. As the Master predicted. You are too late, hero. The ritual is irreversible! Even if you strike me down, the Heart will complete its formation! This world is doomed!"
Saitama just looked at the swirling vortex of world-ending dark energy. "Huh. That's a big, swirly purple thing." He then looked at the decoy leader. "So, you're the guy I'm supposed to punch?"
The decoy leader just laughed, a high, manic sound. "Strike me down! It will make no difference! My sacrifice will ensure the Master's victory!"
"Okay," Saitama said with a shrug.
He threw one punch. A single, bored, "Normal Punch."
The decoy leader, his triumphant smirk still on his face, ceased to exist.
Saitama then turned his attention to the swirling, reality-warping, irreversible vortex of dark energy. "Okay, now for the swirly thing."
He cocked his fist back. "This looks like it might actually be a little bit tough," he said, a hopeful glimmer in his eye. "Serious Series…"