The universe, it turned out, was a surprisingly slow and ponderous thing. After the dramatic arrival and even more dramatic dismissal of the crystalline "Tuner," the heavens fell quiet. The Star-Eater, or whatever the giant, invisible space-jellyfish was, had apparently taken Saitama's loud, clear "keep it down" message to heart. It remained a faint, unsettling presence on the edge of the Magi's most sensitive instruments, a silent, brooding watcher, but it sent no more heralds, no more world-unmaking frequencies. It seemed to be… considering its next move.
This led to a new, even stranger period in the history of Midgar, an era that would later be known by scholars as "The Great Quiet." For five years, the world held its breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the cosmic horrors to return in force. And for five years… nothing happened.
For Saitama, these five years were a unique, almost experimental, form of torture. He was a hero with nothing to do. The Cult of Diablos, after its catastrophic defeats, had gone so deep to ground they were practically subterranean. The criminal underworld of Midgar, thoroughly traumatized by the "Grey Phantom's" brief but terrifying reign, had collectively decided that a quiet life of honest labor was far preferable to being accidentally punched into a different postal code. There were no monsters. There were no villains. There was no giant mysterious evil. There was only… peace. A quiet, stable, prosperous, and soul-crushingly, mind-numbingly, absolutely boring peace.
He continued his "duties" as Grandmaster of the Royal Vanguard, but the role had lost its novelty. The knights, while still awed by him, were no longer a challenge, not even a mental one. His "lessons" became more and more abstract.
"Okay," he'd say to a new class of recruits, "today we're going to practice the 'Serious Stare'. You just… stare at the bad guy. Really, really hard. Until he gets uncomfortable and leaves. It saves on laundry, because you don't get monster guts on your suit." The recruits would then spend the next hour trying to stare down a training dummy, with limited success.
He tried to find new hobbies. He mastered knitting, producing a single, gigantic, lumpy yellow scarf that was long enough to encircle the entire palace. He took up painting, but his landscapes all tended to look vaguely like different kinds of food, and his attempt at a formal portrait of King Olric had ended with the King looking like a "sad egg with a hat." He had even tried his hand at gardening, but his "gentle" watering of a petunia patch had resulted in a flash flood that had nearly swept away the Royal greenhouse.
His life was a comfortable, well-catered, and utterly pointless void. His power, once a tool for a fun hobby, now felt like a curse, a great, silent engine with no purpose, rusting away in the calm, quiet weather. He spent long afternoons on his balcony with Lyraelle, who was the only one who seemed to understand his profound, cosmic ennui.
"The world is at peace, Saitama," she would say softly, watching the bustling, happy city below. "The people are safe. Is that not a victory? Is this not the very thing that heroes fight for?"
"Yeah, I guess," Saitama would reply, trying to flick a breadcrumb from his balcony all the way to the top of the tallest city spire. "But it's like… spending years training for a giant marathon, and then you get there, and everyone else has already gone home, and you just have to… stand at the finish line. Forever. It's… quiet. Too quiet."
This quiet, however, was a deception. For while the world enjoyed its Saitama-enforced peace, the true players were moving their pieces across the board with a silent, deadly precision.
The allied kingdoms of Midgar and Oriana used the five years to prepare. Under the guidance of Lyraelle and Archmagus Theron, they delved into the secrets of the Tome of Aethel. They rediscovered lost forms of magic, reverse-engineered ancient heroic artifacts, and trained their armies not just for conventional warfare, but for a war against conceptual, soul-eating darkness. Princess Iris became a true master of Anathema, its golden light now a palpable, powerful force, her own strength no longer just an echo of her lineage, but a power in its own right. Princess Alexia's intelligence network became the most sophisticated in the world, her spies and informants a silent, invisible web that covered the continent. They were not just waiting for the storm; they were building a storm shelter.
The Benefactor's faction, having recovered their precious data from the Regenerator, had also gone silent. In hidden laboratories, leagues away, they worked tirelessly. They analyzed the "kinetic echo" of Saitama's power. They built prototypes, tested alloys, forged weapons. They were not trying to match his power – they knew that was impossible. They were trying to create a response to it. A weapon, or a defense, that operated on the same, impossible physical principles. They were turning a single, terrifying data point into a new form of science, a new art of war.
And in the deepest, quietest shadows, the real game continued.
Sid, as the Eminence in Shadow, used the five years of peace more effectively than anyone. With the world distracted by the memory of the Tempest and the distant, cosmic threat, Shadow Garden flourished, unhindered. They grew from a clandestine unit into a global shadow-government. Their businesses, under Gamma's genius, now controlled vast sectors of the continent's economy. Their intelligence network, under Alpha's command, was unparalleled. Their military might, led by Delta, could topple kingdoms overnight, if they so chose.
But Sid's ambition was not mere conquest. He pursued his true objective: the complete and utter eradication of the "True Enemy" and its lingering influence, the Cult of Diablos. While the kingdoms prepared for a defensive war, Shadow Garden waged an offensive one. They hunted the remaining "Fingers of Diablos" across the world. They located and cleansed pocket dimensions where the Cult was trying to grow new abominations. They found the hidden academies where the Cult indoctrinated its followers and tore them down, brick by brick.
It was a silent, secret, and unbelievably bloody war, fought entirely in the dark, with no glory, no parades, no songs. It was the work of true shadows. And they were winning.
Sid himself had grown. His power, always immense, was now refined, perfected. His control over his slime suit, his magic, his own physical abilities, had reached a new zenith. His persona as "Shadow" was no longer just a role he played; it was a fundamental part of his being. He had achieved the perfect balance: the unremarkable, utterly forgettable student "Sid" by day, the all-knowing, all-powerful "Shadow" by night.
But even he felt the quiet. The great, charismatic rival was gone. The grand, chaotic stage had been dismantled. His victories, while numerous and satisfying, lacked a certain… flair. A certain audience. There was no one left to truly appreciate the sheer, brilliant artistry of his deceptions. He had become so successful at being an Eminence in Shadow that he had, in fact, become truly, utterly, alone in the darkness.
The Great Quiet shattered on the fifth anniversary of the Battle of the Crown of the Heavens, the day the kingdom was holding a grand, slightly tedious, festival in Saitama's honor.
It began, once again, in the sky.
But this was not a flicker, or a hum, or a silent herald. This was a scream. A jagged, crimson tear appeared in the fabric of the heavens directly above Midgar, a bleeding wound in reality itself. And from this wound, things began to pour. Not ships, not monsters of flesh. They were beings of pure, burning rage, forged in a dimension of eternal, violent conflict. Warriors clad in jagged, obsidian armor, wielding swords that seemed to burn with the light of dying stars. They did not fly; they simply fell, their descent unnaturally slow, their expressions locked in masks of eternal, hateful fury.
The Star-Eater's five years of quiet contemplation were over. It had assessed its prey. And it had dispatched its hunters.
In the Royal Palace, every alarm, every ward, every scrying orb, shrieked in unison. Archmagus Theron stared at the crimson tear, his face a mask of horrified recognition. "The Blood-War Dimension…" he breathed. "It hasn't just sent a herald… It has opened a permanent, bleeding gateway! They are not scouts! They are an army!"
In the city, the festival celebrating five years of peace descended into absolute chaos and terror. The 'Berserkers of the Bleeding Star,' as the ancient texts called them, landed in the streets, and began their work. Their every step cracked the cobblestones. Their every sword swing unleashed waves of pure, destructive force. They did not speak. They did not strategize. They simply… destroyed.
King Olric stood on the palace balcony, watching in horror as his beautiful, peaceful city began to burn. All their preparations, all their training, all their new alliances… they were crumbling in the face of this sudden, overwhelming, brutal assault.
Princess Iris, clad in her silver armor, Anathema blazing in her hand, stood ready on the palace walls. "We must hold the line!" she roared to the terrified but resolute Royal Vanguard. "For the King! For Midgar!"
But even as she spoke, a dozen of the Berserkers descended directly onto the palace grounds, their burning swords raised. Iris and her Vanguard braced for a fight they knew they could not win.
The quiet years were over. The rust of peace was being scoured away by the fires of a new, even more terrible, war.
And in his suite, Saitama, who had been in the middle of a very intense and very boring nap, slowly sat up. The building was shaking. Things were exploding outside. It was very, very loud.
He walked to his balcony. He saw the crimson tear in the sky. He saw the black-clad warriors. He saw the burning city. He saw Iris and her knights about to be overwhelmed.
He looked at the scene of chaos and destruction. He looked at the powerful, arrogant, incredibly strong-looking new bad guys.
And a slow, wide, almost beautiful, and utterly terrifying smile spread across his face.
The boredom was over.