While the Midgar Kingdom was recalibrating its entire geopolitical and existential strategy around a newly motivated Saitama, a very different kind of council was taking place in the city's hidden depths. In the perfectly spherical, glassy chamber he had created with his own power, Shadow sat upon his obsidian throne, the leaders of his Garden arrayed before him.
The mood was one of quiet, focused intensity. The reports were in. The "Grand Tour of Midgar's Most Heroic and Delicious Locales" was back on, but its nature had fundamentally changed. It was no longer a royal pilgrimage with a chaotic, tag-along powerhouse. It was now, for all intents and purposes, "The Saitama Show, featuring the Royal Princess and a Celestial Being."
"His return was… unexpected," Alpha stated, her voice a model of calm control, though her blue eyes held a flicker of something more complex. "The fables we seeded across the continent… he abandoned the quest after only one. Our predictions of his movement patterns are now… obsolete."
Gamma pushed her glasses up her nose, reviewing a series of complex diagrams projected in the air. "The psychological profile has shifted, Lord Shadow. The primary motivation has transitioned from 'alleviation of boredom via culinary exploration' to 'location and confrontation of a worthy opponent.' The new stimulus, this 'Shadow' figure he encountered in the desert, has proven to be a far more potent catalyst than we anticipated."
Delta, sitting restlessly on the floor, whined, her wolf ears drooping. "So he's not looking for snacks anymore? But fighting is good! Can I go fight him again? I've been practicing my ankle-biting technique!"
"Silence, Delta," Alpha chided gently.
Sid, hidden in the all-encompassing persona of Shadow, listened, a faint, almost imperceptible smile on his face. My plan worked too well, he thought with a surge of chuunibyou pride. He had intended to give Saitama a long, distracting hobby. Instead, he had given him a focused, driving purpose. And that purpose was now aimed directly at the same ultimate prize he himself was pursuing: the final confrontation with the "True Enemy."
This was… a complication. A delightful, wonderfully dramatic complication.
His original plan had been simple: let Saitama wander the world on a wild goose chase while Shadow Garden dismantled the Cult, saved the princesses, uncovered the final legacy, and he, as Shadow, took his rightful place as the enigmatic hero of the entire saga.
Now, that was impossible. Saitama was back. And he was tagging along on the main quest. His presence, his sheer, plot-devouring power, threatened to overshadow everything. Any carefully orchestrated, dramatic battle Sid might plan would be rendered moot if Saitama just showed up and… punched it.
He couldn't be the "Eminence in Shadow" if a blinding, yellow-suited sun was standing right next to him, asking where the bathroom was.
He needed a new plan. A new narrative. One that could account for, and even incorporate, the unstoppable force that was Saitama. He couldn't send him away again; the hero was now focused, his will set. He couldn't fight him directly; that was pointless and narratively unsatisfying. So, what was left?
The answer came to him, a flash of brilliant, audacious inspiration, a plan so complex, so layered, so perfectly in character, that he almost laughed out loud.
"The board has changed," Shadow said, his voice a low, resonant murmur that commanded the absolute attention of his followers. "The Tempest is no longer a random storm. He is a guided missile, aimed at the heart of our enemy."
"But, Lord Shadow," Epsilon ventured, her voice soft, "his power… it is too great. If he confronts the True Enemy directly… he will simply end it. There will be no subtlety, no revelation. Your own grand design…"
"Precisely," Shadow said, a smile in his voice. "A sledgehammer cannot perform surgery. It can only demolish the building." He stood, his dark coat swirling around him. "The King of Midgar, in his desperation, believes he now has an alliance with the Tempest. He thinks he can point him at the darkness and watch it break." He paused, letting the drama build. "He is a fool."
"Our new objective is no longer simply to dismantle the Cult," Shadow declared. "It is to ensure that the correct narrative unfolds. The world must see the truth, but a truth… of our own design. The Cult must be exposed, the True Enemy revealed, the legacy of the heroes brought to light. But it must be done… artfully."
He looked at his loyal Shadows, their faces filled with rapt adoration. "Saitama is the key. But not as a hero. As a spectacle. He is the ultimate distraction, the greatest show on earth. While all eyes are on his overwhelming, destructive power, while our enemies and our… 'allies'… are focused entirely on him, the real work will be done. In the shadows he inadvertently casts."
The new plan was breathtaking in its audacity. They would no longer just operate in Saitama's wake. They would actively use him. They would subtly guide the Royal Pilgrimage, ensuring they faced threats that were just big enough, just dramatic enough, to require Saitama's "heroic" intervention. They would leak information to the Cult, baiting them into confrontations with Saitama, all while keeping their own, true objectives hidden.
"Zeta, Nu," Shadow commanded. "You will shadow the pilgrimage. Your task is not to protect them, but to… manage the narrative. Ensure the threats they face are… suitably impressive. Guide the Cult's lesser beasts into their path. Create… opportunities… for our Tempest to 'shine'."
"Epsilon, your skills of disguise are unparalleled," he continued. "You will infiltrate the Oriana court, the Midgar nobility. You will spread the legend of Saitama. Amplify his deeds. Make him a figure of such mythological proportions that no one can look away, so that no one thinks to look elsewhere."
"Gamma, you will manage the logistics, the economic fallout. A hero of Saitama's… scale… leaves a significant financial footprint. We will exploit the reconstruction contracts, the shifts in trade. We will profit from the chaos, strengthening our own foundations."
"Delta," he said, turning to the eager beastkin. "Your task is… pest control. The Cult's most powerful, but less… subtle… assets. The ones I do not wish the Tempest to encounter just yet. You will hunt them. Be my fang in the darkness." Delta just grinned, a happy, feral expression.
"And Alpha," he said finally, his voice softening almost imperceptibly. "You will be with me. We will pursue the true objective. We will find the final resting place of Aethel's legacy, the key to the True Enemy's power. And we will be there when the final curtain falls, long after the hero and his audience have gone home."
It was a plan of breathtaking complexity and sublime, chuunibyou arrogance. He was not just manipulating the world; he was producing it. He was turning the entire, world-ending conflict into a grand stage play, with Saitama as his unwitting, scene-stealing star, while he, the director, worked his true magic just off-stage.
"The world believes it has found its ultimate hero," Shadow murmured, a profound, almost artistic, satisfaction filling him. "Let them have their hope. Let them have their spectacle."
He looked at his assembled Shadows, the perfect cast for his perfect play.
"We… will give them a story they will never forget."
Unaware that he had just been cast as the lead in the most audacious and manipulative piece of theatre in history, Saitama was preparing for the next leg of his journey. Sir Kaelan had just presented him with a new, magically reinforced snack pouch, now filled with an assortment of "mountain-climbing rations" (mostly just very hard biscuits and dried meat).
"So," Saitama said, examining a biscuit that looked like it could be used as a whetstone. "We're heading back to the big pointy mountains? To the 'Silent Peaky' place?"
"Yes, Mister Saitama," Kaelan confirmed wearily. "Princess Iris and Lady Lyraelle believe it is the next logical step in… unraveling the great evil."
"Cool," Saitama said, taking a bite of the biscuit and crunching it with an audible CRACK. "Hope those goat cheese things are real this time. And I hope the bad guys are tougher than the last bunch. That was just… sad."
He looked towards the northern mountains, a hopeful, determined look in his eye. He was ready for the next stage of his quest, ready for the next big fight, the next challenge that might, just might, make him feel something again.
He was the hero, about to embark on the greatest adventure of his life.
He just didn't realize that the script had already been written, the stage was already set, and the director was watching from the wings, a quiet, satisfied smile hidden in the depths of his perfect, all-encompassing shadow.