The air at the base of the Crown of the Heavens was electric with anticipation. The combined armies of Midgar and Oriana had established a massive, fortified encampment on the blighted plains, a city of tents and banners, steel and magic, all arrayed against the brooding, silent, and now strangely truncated, mountain. The sky above was a constant swirl of unnatural grey clouds, a permanent storm held at bay only by the combined magical efforts of Archmagus Theron's and the Oriana Kingdom's battle-mages.
This was the eve of the final battle. Scouts had confirmed that the remnants of the Cult of Diablos, their numbers depleted but their fanaticism absolute, were entrenched in the dark fortress Saitama had previously visited. They were no longer trying to perform their grand ritual; now, they were simply preparing for a last, glorious, suicidal stand, determined to take as many of the "heroes of the light" with them as they could. They had turned the fortress into a death trap, riddled with summoned demons, necrotic curses, and alchemical abominations.
Inside the royal command tent, the atmosphere was one of grim, focused resolve. King Olric, who had insisted on accompanying the army to its final battlefield, presided over the final war council. Princess Iris, her face set in determined lines, stood beside him, Anathema gleaming at her side. Lyraelle, a silent, silver-haired specter, observed the tactical maps, her ancient eyes seeing patterns the mortal commanders could not. Knight-Commander Kristoph, Lord Valerius, and the highest-ranking Oriana generals were all present, their voices low and serious as they finalized their battle plans.
"The main assault will begin at dawn," Lord Valerius declared, pointing to a spot on the map. "Our siege engines, augmented by Oriana's clockwork ballistae, will breach the outer walls here. The First Legion, led by Princess Iris, will spearhead the assault, pushing directly for the central tower."
"Our mages will provide cover, suppressing their necrotic artillery and attempting to neutralize the ambient dark magic," Archmagus Theron added, his voice a dry rustle. "But expect heavy resistance. Their remaining forces are condensed, their positions fortified."
The plan was sound, a textbook example of combined-arms military strategy. It was a plan that would cost hundreds, perhaps thousands, of lives, but it was a price they were willing to pay to finally, definitively, eradicate the Cult's cancer from their lands.
And then there was the Saitama-sized hole in the middle of their perfect plan.
He was currently just outside the command tent, engaged in a very serious, very intense arm-wrestling match with Hrolf the Iron-Beard, the Jotunheim chieftain, who had insisted on joining the final battle with a contingent of his fiercest warriors, declaring it a "glorious opportunity for a good death."
"Hnnngh!" Hrolf roared, his face purple, every muscle in his massive, tree-trunk-like arm bulging as he put his full, berserker-fueled strength into the contest. The small, rickety wooden table they were using was groaning, its legs threatening to splinter.
Saitama, on the other side of the table, was using only his pinky finger. He had an expression of mild, almost clinical, interest on his face. "Hey, you're pretty strong, Axe Guy," he commented. "My pinky is starting to feel a little bit of pressure. It's kinda tingly."
Hrolf let out another furious roar and pushed harder. With a sound like a gunshot, the wooden table exploded into a cloud of splinters. Hrolf stumbled back, panting, his arm trembling with exertion. Saitama just looked at his pinky, then blew on it gently.
"Good match," he said cheerfully. "You almost had me." Hrolf just stared at him, a mixture of awe, disbelief, and a warrior's profound, almost spiritual, respect dawning in his eyes.
Inside the tent, King Olric sighed, a sound that was becoming his default state of being. "And what of… our Royal Protector?" he asked.
"He has been… briefed," Sir Kaelan, who now had a permanent twitch in his left eye, reported wearily. "His role is to remain in reserve until the path to the fortress's new 'summit' is cleared. He is then to… 'deal with'… any 'super-duper strong final boss' that might appear. These were his terms."
"A sound, if somewhat… simplistic, strategy," the Oriana general admitted, a man who was still trying to reconcile the reports of Saitama's power with the reality of a man who had demanded his kingdom's finest noodles.
"And he has agreed to this?" the King pressed.
"He has, Your Majesty," Kaelan confirmed. "On the condition that he receives a 'victory barbecue' after the battle, with extra sauce. And that no one interrupts him while he's looking for a good napping spot."
The leaders of the two most powerful kingdoms on the continent just stared at each other, a shared, profound sense of the utter absurdity of their situation passing between them. The fate of the world rested on a battle plan that was contingent on providing a demigod with a post-victory barbecue.
As the war council concluded and the army settled in for a final, restless night, the various key players contemplated the coming dawn in their own ways.
Iris stood alone on a small hill, looking up at the dark, menacing fortress. She held Anathema in her hands, its faint golden light a small, defiant star against the oppressive darkness. She felt the weight of her lineage, the hopes of her people, the memory of all the lives lost. She was afraid. But beneath the fear was a core of hard, unyielding resolve. She was a princess, a knight, and tomorrow, she would be a hero.
Lyraelle found her there. She did not speak, but simply stood beside her, a silent, comforting presence. Her gaze was not on the fortress, but on the corrupted sky above, as if she were looking for a much older, much deeper enemy, knowing that this battle was but a single, bloody chapter in a war that had never ended.
In a hidden, shadowed command post leagues away, Sid, as Shadow, watched the proceedings through a network of scrying orbs and disguised agents. He saw the armies arrayed, the heroes preparing, the stage being set. He saw his own Shadow Garden operatives, moving silently into position on the mountain's hidden flanks, ready to strike at their own, specific targets once the chaos of the main battle began. His plan, his grand, final narrative for this act of his story, was proceeding flawlessly. "Let the fireworks begin," he murmured to himself, a small, satisfied smile on his face. "Let the heroes have their glorious, pointless battle. The real prize… is already within my grasp."
And Saitama… Saitama had found a quiet spot behind the mess tent. He lay on his back, his hands behind his head, staring up at the swirling, unnatural clouds. The pre-battle tension, the grim resolve, the air of historic importance – none of it touched him. He was, as always, in his own little world.
He thought about the fight to come. He thought about the "super-duper strong final boss." A tiny, almost extinguished, flicker of hope rekindled within him. Maybe this time. Maybe, just maybe, this final bad guy, the one who had caused all this trouble, who had made everyone so serious and sad… maybe he would be the one. Maybe he would be strong enough to withstand a real punch. Strong enough to make Saitama's own heart, for the first time in a very long time, pound with the thrill of a real, uncertain, honest-to-goodness fight.
He didn't care about saving the world, not really. He just did it because it was what heroes did. What he cared about, what he craved with every fiber of his being, was that feeling. The feeling of going all out. The feeling of being alive.
"Maybe tomorrow," he whispered to the dark, churning sky. "Maybe tomorrow will be a fun day."
He closed his eyes, and, amidst the silent, tense anticipation of an entire army on the eve of a world-altering battle, the most powerful being in existence… fell soundly asleep, dreaming not of glory, or duty, or the fate of the world, but of a simple, beautiful, and seemingly impossible thing: a good, hard, satisfying fight. The storm was about to break.