Saitama's landing in the main courtyard of the dark fortress was, as usual, a study in anticlimax. He just… appeared, landing with a soft thump in the center of the carnage, kicking up a little puff of dust and demon ash. The surviving members of Kristoph's vanguard, who were in the middle of a desperate, shield-to-shield battle with the fortress's inner guards, all froze. Friend and foe alike stared at the man who had just dropped in from the sky.
"Hey, guys," Saitama said, looking around at the grim, bloody scene. "Looks like you're having a tough time. You can take five. I'll handle it from here."
The Cult's inner guards, a unit of hulking, heavily armored warriors infused with the Cult's resilience-enhancing alchemy, snarled and turned their attention to this new, more significant threat. They were the elite, the last line of defense, and they would not fail. One of them, a towering brute wielding a massive, jagged war-hammer, charged, roaring a challenge.
Saitama didn't even look at him. His gaze was fixed on the tall, ominous spire at the center of the fortress, the place where the final boss was supposed to be waiting. As the warrior charged, Saitama simply started walking towards the spire.
The warrior, his charge ignored, roared in fury and swung his massive hammer in a devastating arc aimed at Saitama's head.
Saitama, without breaking stride, without even turning, just lifted his left hand. He caught the descending war-hammer by the head, his fingers closing around the solid, enchanted iron. He stopped it dead. Then, with a casual, almost absentminded, squeeze, he crumpled the hammerhead into a ball of scrap metal.
The warrior stared in horror at his now-useless weapon. Saitama, still not looking at him, just kept walking, his forward momentum dragging the stunned warrior along with him for a few steps before the man's grip finally failed and he stumbled away, his arm dislocated, his will to fight completely shattered.
The other inner guards watched this, and a collective, instinctual decision was made. They did not charge. They did not attack. They just… parted, creating a silent, respectful path for the bald man in the yellow suit as he walked, with a calm, unhurried pace, towards the entrance of the final spire. Kristoph and his knights could only watch, their swords held uselessly at their sides, as the ultimate threat simply strolled through the enemy's last line of defense as if they weren't even there.
Saitama reached the large, ominous doors of the spire. They were sealed with powerful magic, glowing with dark, protective runes. He just pushed them open. The enchanted hinges screamed and tore from their mountings. The doors fell inwards with a deafening crash.
He stepped inside.
The interior of the spire was a single, vast, circular chamber, a throne room of despair. The walls were lined with weeping stone, the floor a mosaic of dark, obsidian-like tiles. At the far end, upon a throne carved from a single, massive, petrified bone, sat a figure.
It was not a monster. It was not a demon. It was a man. He was unnervingly handsome, with long, flowing silver hair, pale skin, and eyes the color of a dying star. He wore elegant, dark robes, and a faint, almost bored, smile played on his lips. He radiated an aura of immense, ancient, and deeply corrupt power, but it was a quiet power, a power of will and intellect, not of brute force. This was not a decoy. This was him. The 'True Enemy' that Lyraelle had spoken of. The ancient, shadowy betrayer who called himself "The Silence."
"So," the man said, his voice a calm, cultured, almost pleasant baritone that echoed slightly in the vast chamber. "The anomaly arrives. The flaw in the grand design. I must confess, I am… disappointed. I had expected something more… impressive." His gaze swept over Saitama's simple hero suit with a clear, dismissive disdain.
Saitama just looked at him. Then he looked around the empty, cavernous room. "Hey," he said, his voice flat. "Are you the final boss? Because if you are, you've got a really lame setup here. No cool monsters? No lava pits? No giant death laser? It's just… a big, empty room. And a chair made of bones. Kinda cliché, don't you think?"
The Silence's smile faltered for a fraction of a second. "My power is not in such crude, theatrical displays, 'hero'. My power is in the quiet, inevitable decay of all things. In the silent despair that unbinds the soul. I am the end of all stories. The final, perfect, empty page."
"Right, right, spooky monologue, got it," Saitama said, cutting him off. "Look, can we just get this over with? I was promised a super-duper strong final boss, and I've had a really long, boring day of not fighting. So, are you gonna be a good fight? Or are you just another one-punch-and-done?" He cracked his knuckles, a hopeful, almost eager, look in his eyes.
The Silence just chuckled, a low, condescending sound. "Punch me? You poor, simple-minded creature. You still think this is a battle of fists." He slowly raised a single, elegant finger. "You are a being of immense physical force. But I… I am a being of pure will. A concept. How, I ask you, do you propose to punch a concept?"
As he spoke, a wave of pure, unadulterated despair washed out from him. It was not a magical attack; it was a fundamental property of his being. The very air grew heavy with hopelessness. The stones of the chamber seemed to weep. Anyone else in the room would have felt their will to live, their very sense of self, dissolve into a grey, meaningless sludge.
Saitama felt it. It was a cold, heavy, unpleasant feeling. Like waking up on a Monday morning to find you're out of coffee. Annoying. But that was it.
"A concept, huh?" Saitama said, his hopeful expression fading, replaced by a familiar, weary disappointment. "So… you're just another talker."
He took a step forward.
The Silence's smile widened. "Yes, approach. Let my aura of absolute despair unmake you from within. Let your simple, heroic spirit break against the truth of ultimate meaninglessness."
Saitama took another step. He was now halfway across the chamber. He didn't look like his spirit was breaking. He just looked… bored again.
The Silence frowned slightly. The despair aura should be working. It had broken gods, driven heroes to madness. Why was this one just… walking through it?
Saitama stopped, about ten feet from the bone throne. He looked at the being of pure will, the conceptual enemy, the ultimate, un-punchable foe.
"You know," Saitama said, his voice quiet. "I met a ghost once. An old hero guy. He said you were sneaky. That you fight with feelings and stuff." He shook his head. "And I met this other guy, the one in the dramatic black coat. He was a real chuunibyou, but he was also looking for a good fight. Just like me."
He looked at The Silence, a profound, almost philosophical, disappointment in his eyes. "I was really hoping you'd be the one. The guy who could finally give me a real challenge. The one who could take a punch."
He sighed, a deep, final, soul-weary sound. "But you're just the same as all the others. You talk a big game. You think you're so smart, so powerful, with your 'concepts' and your 'feelings'." He raised his fist. "But you know what? In the end, everything, even a 'concept'… is a thing. And any 'thing'…"
He threw a punch. Not a "Serious Punch." Not even a "Normal Punch." It was just… a punch. A simple, straightforward, utterly un-special punch, aimed directly at the smug, condescending face of the ultimate evil.
"…can be punched."
The Silence watched the fist approach, a look of serene, confident, intellectual superiority on his face. He made no move to dodge. He was a concept. A being of pure will. A physical blow was meaningless. A child throwing a rock at a storm.
And then the fist connected.
There was no sound. There was no light. There was no explosion.
There was just… a brief, silent, and very surprised look on the face of The Silence as his "concept," his "pure will," his entire ancient, malevolent, reality-warping existence, was introduced to a force that was simply, fundamentally, and absolutely, more real than he was.
His form did not shatter. It did not explode. It just… got a hole in it. A perfect, fist-shaped hole, right through the middle of his being. He looked down at the impossible emptiness that now occupied his conceptual space. He looked up at Saitama, his ancient, star-colored eyes wide with a final, dawning, and utterly complete understanding of his own fatal miscalculation.
And then he, and the bone throne he sat on, and the dark fortress around them, and the very peak of the Crown of the Heavens itself… just… faded. Like a bad dream upon waking. Not destroyed. Just… gone. Ceased. Unwritten. Erased by a single, simple, and very, very bored, punch.
Saitama stood alone on the now-empty, windswept plateau, the sky clear above him. The army below was silent, their battle having ended the moment their enemies had dissolved into dust. The world was saved. The ultimate evil was gone.
He looked at his fist, then opened it, looking at his palm.
"Damn it," he whispered to the silent, empty world. "Another one-punch."
The victory was absolute. And it was the most hollow, most disappointing one of all.