The plan, once agreed upon by its two unwilling, ideologically opposed, and cosmically overpowered protagonists, was set into motion with a swiftness that was, in itself, terrifying. Saitama's grand, self-sacrificial performance required a stage, a pretext, a reason for the world's greatest hero to suddenly "snap." Sid, in his guise as the now almost-real 'Shadow,' provided the script. Alexia, in her role as the reluctant, grief-stricken stage manager, provided the internal political cover.
The catalyst was simple, elegant, and heartbreakingly cruel. It centered on the one group of people in Midgar to whom Saitama had formed a genuine, if awkward, attachment: Gregor, Lyra, and Renn.
They had been living quietly in their guesthouse on the palace grounds, slowly healing, their futures uncertain but safe. One morning, a Royal Decree was delivered. They were to be granted a full pardon for their "past associations" (a vague term for their time as prisoners of the Cult), a significant reward for their assistance to the Crown, and a small, remote barony in the northern territories where they could live out their lives in peace. It was everything they could have ever dreamed of. A new start. A real home.
Saitama was there to see them off. He had personally helped them pack their new carriage, mostly by "testing" the durability of the wheels by spinning them really fast and "making sure" their travel rations were not poisonous by taste-testing a significant portion of them. It was a rare, almost domestic, moment of cheerful farewell.
"So," Saitama said, leaning against the carriage, "you guys are all set, huh? Got your own castle and everything? Cool." There was a genuine warmth in his voice, a simple happiness for the well-being of the first people who had shown him kindness in this strange, new world.
"It's all thanks to you, Saitama," Gregor said, his voice thick with an emotion he rarely showed. He gripped Saitama's shoulder. "We owe you our lives. Everything. If you ever need anything… anything at all…"
"Nah, I'm good," Saitama said, waving it off with a smile. "Just… don't get captured by any more spooky cults, okay? It's a hassle."
Lyra and Renn tearfully thanked him, and then, the small, happy procession set off, a symbol of hope and redemption, a testament to the hero's kindness.
They did not get far.
About ten leagues north of the capital, on a lonely stretch of the King's Road that wound through a dense, dark forest, their escort of Royal Knights was ambushed. The attack was silent, swift, and utterly overwhelming. From the shadows, figures moved with a speed and precision that was not of the Cult, nor of the Benefactor's agents. They were the elite of Shadow Garden, led by a grim, silent Alpha, their mission dictated by the cold, terrible necessities of their master's new script.
The battle was over in seconds. The Royal Knights were not killed, but neutralized with perfect, non-lethal efficiency, their armor dented, their bodies stunned, but their lives spared. The carriage was stopped. And Gregor, Lyra, and Renn were taken.
The scene was then… altered. Meticulously. Brutally. The Royal Knights' bodies were repositioned, their wounds made to look fatal, gruesome. Dark, Cult-like runes were scrawled on the trees with a substance that mimicked abyssal energy. And the carriage itself was… obliterated. Not with a clean punch, but with a raw, explosive force designed to mimic an uncontrolled release of immense power, the kind of force that the Royal Council so deeply feared from the "Tempest." A single, tattered piece of yellow fabric, torn from one of Saitama's old training jumpsuits, was left fluttering on a broken branch nearby.
It was a perfect framing. A masterpiece of false evidence. It told a clear, simple, and horrifying story: The "heroes" of the Labyrinth, the only independent witnesses to the Tempest's true nature, had been granted their freedom and a reward by the King. And the Tempest, in a fit of rage at seeing his "pets" and "secrets" allowed to leave, had snapped. He had slaughtered their escort and obliterated them, his vaunted "heroism" revealed as a thin veneer over a monstrous, possessive rage.
The news reached the Royal Palace like a physical blow. A single, surviving knight (a Shadow Garden agent in perfect disguise) stumbled back to the capital, babbling a terrifying, pre-rehearsed story of betrayal, of a golden flash of power, of their beloved champion turning on them in a display of horrifying, possessive fury.
The kingdom was plunged into a state of shocked, horrified disbelief. The Hero of Veridia? The Grand Champion? A monster? It couldn't be. But the evidence, the lone survivor's testimony, the unmistakable traces of his unique, overwhelming power at the scene… it was undeniable.
King Olric sequestered himself, his grief and confusion absolute. Princess Iris, her heart shattered by this apparent betrayal, flew into a cold, determined rage. Princess Alexia played her part perfectly, her public face a mask of horrified shock, while her mind coolly assessed the fallout.
And Saitama… Saitama was confronted in the main palace courtyard by a grim-faced Lord Valerius and the entire Royal Vanguard, the very students he had been "training."
"Saitama," Lord Valerius's voice was a low, pained growl. "By order of the Crown, you are under arrest for the treasonous murder of Gregor, Lyra, Renn, and a full contingent of the King's Royal Knights."
Saitama just stared at them, the half-eaten apple he was snacking on falling from his hand. "…What?"
The surviving "witness" was brought forth, and the terrible story was recounted. The evidence was presented. Saitama listened, his face slowly shifting from confusion, to disbelief, and finally, to a quiet, cold, and utterly terrifying stillness.
Gregor, Lyra, and Renn. Dead. Slaughtered. By him?
He knew he hadn't done it. Of course, he hadn't. But the looks in the eyes of the knights before him, the very people he had joked with and trained, the mixture of fear and betrayed hatred… he understood. The story, the lie, was perfect.
This was it. This was his cue. The first act of the villain.
He didn't argue. He didn't protest his innocence. He just… looked at the wall of hostile steel, at the accusing faces, at the world that had, in an instant, turned against him. And he began to play his part.
"So," he said, his voice flat, devoid of its usual warmth, a cold, empty echo in the stunned courtyard. "You figured it out."
A collective gasp went through the Vanguard. He wasn't denying it. He was admitting it.
"They were… inconvenient," Saitama continued, forcing the cold, cruel words from his mouth, each one a small, sharp betrayal of his own soul. "They knew too much. They were leaving. So I… tidied up. It's what I do. I solve problems." He raised his gaze, and his eyes, usually so placid, now held a cold, dismissive light that seemed to look through them, as if they were nothing more than insects. "And now… you are all a problem."
This was the final confirmation they needed. Their hero, their savior, was a monster. A cold, calculating, psychopathic monster.
"You will not leave this palace alive, traitor!" a young knight, one of Saitama's own "students," screamed, his voice breaking with betrayed emotion, tears streaming down his face as he leveled his sword.
Saitama just looked at the young man's earnest, furious face. And he smiled. Not a warm, goofy smile. But a cold, empty, terrifyingly powerful one. A villain's smile.
"Try and stop me," he whispered.
He then moved. Not with the frantic speed he used in battle, but with a slow, deliberate, inexorable force. He walked forward.
The first line of knights, the bravest of the Vanguard, met his advance. They thrust their spears, swung their swords, their faces masks of desperate courage.
Saitama did not punch them. He did not harm them. He just… walked. The spears bent against his chest. The swords skidded harmlessly off his skin. He walked through their attack, their finest warriors thrown aside by his sheer, casual, forward momentum like bowling pins, their armor clattering, their bodies bruised but their lives intact.
He walked through the main gates of the palace, which buckled and were torn from their hinges as he passed without breaking stride. He walked through the main square, the panicked screams of the citizens a rising tide around him. He did not hurt anyone. He did not destroy anything else. He just… walked. A being of absolute power, having shed the pretense of heroism, now an avatar of pure, unstoppable, terrifying force.
He reached the edge of the city. He turned, one last time, looking back at the beautiful capital that had been his home, at the terrified faces, at the Royal Palace where his few friends now believed him to be a monster.
He had made his choice. He had accepted his role. The story needed a villain. A great, ultimate, terrifying villain.
And he, the greatest hero, would play the part perfectly.
With a final, sorrowful look, he leaped, a golden streak of betrayal and sacrifice, disappearing into the heavens, leaving behind a kingdom shattered, a city in terror, and the perfect, perfectly orchestrated, beginning of a new, dark age. The first act of the villain was complete.