The city of Midgar, for the second time in as many years, erupted into a celebration that bordered on hysterical worship. Saitama's name was no longer just chanted; it was carved onto monuments. The "Day of the Closing Sky," as it was now called, became a new national holiday. Minstrels composed an entirely new cycle of epic ballads, the most popular of which, "The Ballad of the Annoyed Hero and the Overly Loud Sky-Hole," became a runaway hit in taverns across the kingdom.
Saitama, the focus of all this adoration, found it even more tedious than the first time. The victory over the Star-Eater's forces had been, for a few glorious minutes, fun. The aftermath, however, was just more of the same: parades, speeches, formal dinners, and an endless stream of fawning nobles asking him to autograph their babies. He spent most of his time hiding in his suite, perfecting his noodle-replica of the Royal Palace and wondering if this "peace" was ever going to end.
King Olric, on the other hand, felt a profound, bone-deep sense of relief that was so absolute it was almost paralyzing. The cosmic threat was gone. The city was safe. The Tempest was… placated. For now. He had, against all odds, successfully navigated a world-ending crisis. The kingdom was stronger, more united, than ever before. He could finally, perhaps, rest.
But the silence from the kingdom's shadows was beginning to unnerve him.
Princess Alexia's intelligence network, which had previously been a hive of activity, tracking the movements of the Cult and other clandestine groups, had gone quiet. The whispers had ceased. The secret war that had been raging in the underbelly of his kingdom seemed to have… stopped. It was a good thing, on the surface. But Alexia, and by extension, the King, knew better. A world without schemes, without secrets, was not a world at rest; it was a world holding its breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
The other shoe, as it were, was currently in a state of profound, panicked, and deeply philosophical crisis.
In the Hidden Headquarters of Shadow Garden…
"A 'Great Filter'?" Alpha repeated, her voice a tense, disbelieving whisper. She and the other Seven Shadows were gathered around the Codex of the Abyssal Pact, which lay open on the central command table, its dark script seeming to mock them. "The prophecy states that the 'God of the Fist' will bring about the 'Silent End' to any world deemed… 'uninteresting'?"
"The wording is unambiguous," Gamma stated, adjusting her glasses, her face pale. She pointed to a series of cross-referenced diagrams on a nearby screen. "The arrival of the Star-Eater, the fall of The Silence… these were not random events. They were 'tests.' Cosmic audits, to gauge the world's vitality, its 'narrative potential.' And each time, Saitama effortlessly provided the 'solution,' effectively ending the test prematurely."
"So by 'saving' the world," Epsilon concluded, a look of horror on her beautiful face, "he's actually been fast-tracking its path to final judgment?"
The irony was a physical, bitter taste in the air. Their entire purpose, the grand ambition of their master, had been to fight the shadows, to bring order, to create a world worthy of his greatness. And they had succeeded. They had, with Saitama as their unwitting battering ram, helped to create the most stable, peaceful, and, according to this ancient, terrifying prophecy, the most existentially boring world in recent history. They had tidied up the stage so perfectly that the divine producer was about to cancel the show and tear down the theatre.
All eyes turned to the silent, hooded figure at the head of the table.
Sid had not spoken since revealing the prophecy. He had been standing motionless, his mind a maelstrom of furious, desperate calculation. His entire life, his entire reincarnation, had been a quest to escape the boring, mundane reality of his previous world, to become the cool, enigmatic protagonist of a new, more exciting one. And he had, through a series of increasingly absurd cosmic blunders, managed to recreate the very conditions he had sought to escape. He was on the verge of becoming the Eminence in Shadow of a world that was about to be deleted for being too dull.
This was, without a doubt, the most profound, most embarrassing, most fundamentally uncool failure imaginable.
"We… we must do something, Lord Shadow!" Delta finally whimpered, her usual bloodlust replaced by a genuine, canine-like fear. "You… you can't let the big boring guy end the world! Then there will be no one left to shred!"
Sid finally moved. He raised a hand, not for a dramatic gesture, but to rub the bridge of his nose, right underneath his hood. He felt a colossal, reality-spanning headache coming on.
He had one, single, desperate option left. A gambit so reckless, so contrary to his entire philosophy, so utterly, terrifyingly direct, that it made him feel physically ill. But he had no other choice. To save his story, to save his world from the tyranny of cosmic boredom, he had to do the one thing an Eminence in Shadow should never, ever do.
He had to step out of the shadows. And he had to ask for help. From the one person in the world who filled him with a unique mixture of awe, frustration, and profound second-hand embarrassment.
"Alpha," he said, his voice quiet, devoid of its usual theatrical resonance. "Prepare a… formal request. For an audience."
Alpha blinked. "An audience, my lord? With whom?"
Sid sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of a thousand ruined narratives. "With the King? No. With the Princesses? Pointless." He looked towards the Royal Palace.
"With him," he said, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "I need to talk… to the hero."
Saitama was in the Royal Kitchens, attempting to create the perfect omelet. He had found that the precise application of heat, the timing of the flip, the delicate balance of cheese and fillings… it was a craft, a challenge. A very, very small one, but a challenge nonetheless. It was the only thing in his life that still held a flicker of interest.
He was just about to execute a particularly ambitious spatula-flip when a figure appeared, seemingly from the steam rising off the stovetop. It was the creepy guy in the dramatic black coat. "Shadow."
Saitama fumbled the flip. The omelet landed, half-on, half-off the pan, a culinary tragedy. "Aw, man!" Saitama groaned. "You made me mess up my omelet! What do you want now? Came back for another bonk on the head?"
Shadow just stood there, his presence filling the kitchen with a palpable, and deeply uncomfortable, silence. The bustling kitchen staff all froze, their faces pale, and began to silently, quickly, back out of the room.
"We need to talk, Tempest," Shadow said, his voice flat, devoid of its usual cool theatricality. It was the voice of Sid, strained and serious.
Saitama looked at him, then at his ruined omelet. He sighed. "Fine. But you're making the next one."
They sat at a large, flour-dusted prep table in the now-empty kitchen. Shadow, still in his full, dramatic regalia, looked profoundly out of place amidst the pots and pans.
"So," Saitama began, crossing his arms. "What's up, Chuunibyou? Got another fake letter you want me to read?"
Sid flinched almost imperceptibly at the word. "No," he said, pushing a scroll across the table. It was the Codex of the Abyssal Pact. "This is not a lie. This… is the problem."
Saitama looked at the book, at its creepy, skin-like cover. "Another boring book? No thanks. The last one didn't even have pictures."
"You don't need to read it," Sid said, his voice tight with a frustration that felt all too real. "You just need to understand what it says. It says… you are going to destroy this world."
Saitama blinked. "Me? Destroy the world? Why would I do that? I live here now. And you guys just figured out how to make a decent cheeseburger."
Sid then proceeded to explain everything. The prophecy of the "Great Filter." The cosmic "tests." The concept of a world being judged on its "narrative potential," its "interestingness." He explained how their combined victories, their successful eradication of all major threats, had brought the world to a state of profound peace and stability – and, therefore, to the brink of cosmic deletion for being too "boring."
Saitama listened to this long, complicated explanation, his expression slowly shifting from confusion to a kind of dawning, horrified understanding.
"So… let me get this straight," Saitama said slowly when Sid was finished. "There's a giant, super-powerful, cosmic TV producer out there. And he's watching our world like it's a show. And because we beat all the bad guys and finished the story… he's about to cancel it? And 'cancelling' means… blowing up the planet?"
"A crude, but terrifyingly accurate, analogy," Sid admitted, his voice grim.
Saitama was quiet for a long, long time. He looked at his hands, the hands that could end any fight, save any life. The source of his power, his boredom, and now, apparently, the catalyst for the apocalypse. He had finally, truly, won. He had achieved ultimate strength, and brought about ultimate peace. And the reward, the grand prize at the end of all his struggles, was the complete and utter annihilation of everything.
The sheer, cosmic, unbelievable irony of it all was… not funny. It was not funny at all. It was the cruelest joke the universe could possibly have played.
"So…" Saitama said, his voice a low, hollow whisper. "To save the world… we have to… make it more interesting? We need… a new villain? A new threat? A new, big, scary fight?"
"Precisely," Sid confirmed. "A crisis so profound, so engaging, that it will renew our world's 'narrative subscription'."
Saitama looked at Sid. At the boy, the man, the chuunibyou, the Eminence in Shadow. The one who lived for stories, for drama, for the thrill of the game. And he understood.
This was not a request for an alliance. It was an unspoken ultimatum.
Sid was the only one left. The only one capable of creating the kind of complex, world-spanning, interesting chaos that might appease a bored, cosmic god. He was the world's last, best hope for a good story.
"What do you want me to do?" Saitama asked, his voice heavy with a resignation that was deeper than any boredom he had ever known.
Sid met his gaze, the darkness of his hood unreadable. "Nothing," he said softly. "That is the point. For the world to be interesting again… you need to not be in it. You are too powerful. You solve every problem too easily. You are… the ultimate anticlimax."
He stood up. "I can create a new narrative. A new age of shadows and heroes, of struggles and triumphs. A story complex enough, entertaining enough, to save this world." He paused. "But I cannot do it… while you are here to punch the ending in the first chapter."
"I need you to leave, Saitama."
It was the ultimate, most painful, irony of all. To save the world, the world's greatest hero… had to go.