Chapter 851: Authentic Might, The Power of the Summit
Neltharion's frame froze rigid where he stood. Facing Boros alone, he would have harbored no fear; formidable as Boros was, Neltharion commanded operational power of the very same tier.
Moreover, Boros was thoroughly spent and teetering on the edge of collapse; if anything, Neltharion could have easily reaped him alongside the rest.
Yet what was this situation unfolding before his eyes?!
Saitama had returned.
Nearly a full week ahead of calculated projections.
Lord Tiamat's allocated lifespan should not have run dry; he should have held Saitama trapped within that endless maze for at least seven more days...
Which meant only one thing: the conceptual mechanics of the Lifespan Paradigm had been violently shattered by Saitama.
The Lifespan Paradigm was an exceptionally insidious, grotesque conceptual rule native to the wider multiverse. While it did not sit alongside the pinnacle heights of Fatalism or Causality, it remained an existential terror to long-lived transcendent species.
Particularly for dragons and primordial gods—creatures blessed with near-endless biological longevity—once ensnared by the Lifespan Paradigm, even an eternity of life would march unconditionally toward its predetermined terminus.
Yet Lord Tiamat had engineered an inverse exploitation of the rule. By actively leaning into that conceptual force, he had compressed his remaining vitality down to less than thirty days.
Within those thirty days, however, he gained staggering karmic inertia.
The Lifespan Paradigm guaranteed that Tiamat would perish strictly upon the arrival of his fated hour; thus, until that temporal coordinate was breached, even a rule-breaking anomaly like Saitama would be subjected to passive narrative interference.
It was not a mechanic that rendered Saitama incapable of killing him, but rather one that continuously engineered coincidences, misunderstandings, and distractions, ensuring Saitama repeatedly missed the opportunity to deliver the execution.
That was the sole reason Saitama had believed the Dragon Court could guide him to a worthy adversary, strolling willingly into Tiamat's dream mirage. The Primordial Dragon Court had secured what seemed to be a dream opening.
Knowing in advance that Saitama would be quarantined from the narrative, Neltharion had acted with unchecked, ruthless devastation.
In truth, their systemic eradication of human civilization had already breached the 30% threshold. The moment it crossed 50%, the planetary consciousness would bestow its preliminary blessings upon their faction.
In Neltharion's operational plan, even accounting for the defensive concentration spurred by the Heroes Assemble decree, he held ample bandwidth to level the major population centers and drive world distortion past 70% before Saitama could ever return.
That was the foundational transaction: trading Lord Tiamat's fading life for the core systemic resources of this world's consciousness.
Yet now, Saitama had returned seven days early!
"Just what in the world happened..."
Genos stared in disbelief at the apocalyptic scene beneath his boots. Though his navigational databases flagged these coordinates as the site of the Hero Association Headquarters in City A, the foundational bedrock had ceased to exist. In its place yawned a colossal, abyssal hollow where the continental crust was fractured clean through.
The fleeting novelty of leaping from the lunar surface back to Earth evaporated from Saitama's face. Beholding the horrific, unvarnished ruin of the city, his casual expression steadily flattened into cold detachment.
He could no longer hear a single voice crying out for help.
When Mysterious Beings ran rampant, there were always victims weeping in agony, civilians shrieking in terror. In their hour of deepest despair and utter helplessness, mortals could only pray for the arrival of a hero.
And Saitama had chosen to walk the path of a hero driven by that exact, unadorned sentiment.
Because you cried out for help, I came to save you. It mattered not who the adversary was, nor how terrifying their strength might be.
That was the singular definition of a hero.
Yet now, even fear and despair had been scrubbed from this soil.
The entire metropolis had devolved into a silent graveyard.
Saitama surveyed the cratered wasteland. Beyond the bizarre martial artist who had leaped back from the moon alongside him, only a handful of bloodied figures in hero costumes lay broken amidst the wreckage.
The only defender still attempting to mount resistance was a green-haired brat.
This was a cataclysm where even the champions had been systematically purged.
"Hey. You guys over there... did you do all of this?"
Saitama spoke softly, his volume barely carrying across the wind, yet an involuntary shudder of terror rippled down Neltharion's spine.
The golden Authority of the Dragon King's Domain and his innate Deathwing traits remained active, yet three entities present on the field stood completely unaffected by the field.
His golden slit-pupils quivered slightly, not daring to offer an answer.
At this juncture, a single miscalculated word would invite a fist from a rule-breaking existence—a consequence he could never hope to survive.
Recalling the destructive energetic signatures exchanged between Boros and Mercenary Tao moments before, his voice rumbled low and heavy:
"This was the collateral damage wrought by the clash between that galactic overlord and Mercenary Tao. It had nothing to do with us—"
Pfft!
A sharp sneer broke the silence. A woman's voice—perpetually calm, rational, and poised—cracked with unmistakable derision.
Even Tornado's gaze shifted, looking toward the red-haired woman standing with arms outstretched. That woman had intercepted a fatal blow meant for her earlier; weak as she was, she had proven her utility as a Devil Hunter.
Makima's lips, usually curved into a placid, measured smile, twisted into an unnatural sneer.
She looked up at the colossal dragon who, mere moments ago, had commanded the authority to strip every ability and trait from the heroes, plunging all of humanity into absolute despair. And now, purely to preserve his own life, this ancient beast was pathetically attempting to deflect accountability.
In that single instant, Makima's foundational assessments began to buckle. The core instincts of the Control Devil shuddered deep within her soul.
A creature like this... is not strong at all, is it...?
Even if he could sanitize a metropolis with a single breath, even if he could instantly neutralize the Gun Devil, even if his hide was dense enough to repel celestial lances forged by Angels...
He was not strong.
This entity held zero correlation with authentic might. At best, he was merely a wild beast cursed with excessive muscle.
Makima lowered her gaze, the cognitive criteria governing whom she could dominate undergoing a subtle, profound recalibration.
Her eyes drifted toward the martial artist wrapped in golden Ki, Mercenary Tao. That unbridled, feral arrogance, and that sheer physical presence that seemed to swallow her entire field of vision merely by standing still...
That was an unyielding might she could never hope to resist.
The Control Devil was hardwired by nature to revere that exact breed of monster.
Then there was the pink-haired, cyclopean alien whose mane had withered to dry straw—the cosmic invader who had traded blows with Mercenary Tao across the stratosphere.
Though that creature stood on the brink of total biological exhaustion, his mere appearance behind the dragon had locked the great beast's cervical joints in rigid terror.
An undeniable hallmark of authentic might.
And finally...
Makima fixed her gaze upon the figure she understood least of all.
The man stepping out from the crater before Miss Tornado, casually dusting off the shoulders of his ridiculous yellow bodysuit.
A bald head, dull dead-fish eyes, radiating the unmistakable aura of an utterly mundane weakling.
Yet the moment Makima entertained the faintest impulse to dominate him, an icy paralysis gripped her nervous system.
Furthermore, she had noted that the martial artist who had prompted her to abandon the Dragon Court kept his eyes locked on that bald man almost the entire time.
Mercenary Tao's sole condition for their partnership had been tracking down a bald man named Saitama.
Which meant...
Is this person an apex existence?!
Makima could not decipher the truth.
The Control Devil was intrinsically attuned to the binary of strength and weakness, yet here and now, her worldview blurred into incoherence.
What is strength? What is weakness...?
The only absolute certainty she held was that among the four entities gathered here, the dragon posturing with bared fangs was undeniably the weakest!
"Hehe... Mr. Dragon, how fortunate I am to have rejected your alliance."
"You... are truly weak~"
Makima's melodic cadence rang out as smoothly as ever, yet a wave of scalding draconic blood surged straight to Neltharion's skull.
His campaigns across dimensions were soaked in blood and fire; he had brought down entire planetary civilizations. Yet now, a pathetic Control Devil was sitting in judgment of his might?!
Saitama received no verbal answer, yet the eyes of the survivors had already laid bare the truth.
Nearly every battered hero was glaring at the colossal dragon with unvarnished terror and hatred.
So those guys led me off to the moon just to pull off something like this, huh.
Step, step...
With his head tilted downward, Saitama strode toward the dragon that blotted out the sky.
The abyssal shadow cast by Neltharion engulfed Saitama, yet exerted zero influence over his momentum; the golden aura of the Dragon King's Domain failed to register against his skin.
He advanced toward Neltharion with quiet, unhurried steps.
At that exact fraction of a second, standing behind Neltharion's cervical spine, Boros felt an unfamiliar impulse seize his soul.
He remained in Meteoric Burst, fully primed to burn through the dregs of his cellular lifespan to re-enter the state that had kicked Mercenary Tao into the stars.
Yet his knuckles, his chest, and his cerebral cortex shuddered in continuous, electric tremors.
Boros recognized the sensation. His cyclopean eye swiveled toward Mercenary Tao, who had returned from deep space looking entirely pristine.
That human's eyes had not rested upon himself or the black beast for a single microsecond.
As I thought... that ridiculous-looking mortal is the true summit!
The heart that had begun to settle inside Boros's chest hammered into a furious rhythm once more.
Badump, badump, badump!
Crackle!
Magenta and white energy detonated without warning.
Boros was not acting to shield the dragon; he merely hungered to witness the view from the absolute peak of the cosmos.
He could scarcely fathom that beyond monsters like himself and Mercenary Tao, there existed an entity they were forced to look up to.
BOOM!
Across the opposite vector, as though moving in symmetrical choreography with Boros, Kaito Shirogane unleashed an apocalyptic wave of Ki, golden energy shooting straight into the clouds.
His presence skyrocketed with overwhelming density. The abyssal shadow failed to bind him; the golden Dragon King's Domain was effortlessly brushed aside.
Trailing behind Saitama's flank, Kaito advanced toward the black dragon and Boros.
Boros advanced from the opposite side.
Their biomechanics were a mirrored reflection, golden Ki wrapping tightly around Kaito's vessel like a streamlined shroud of pure light.
Hum!
The two crossed the spatial coordinate simultaneously.
Sensing a sudden, hollow void within his Dragon King's Domain, Neltharion's battle instincts screamed, prompting his colossal chassis to contract in an instant.
As expected, a figure phased into the coordinates where his skull had rested a fraction of a millisecond prior, vacuum shockwaves rolling outward across the pale sky.
BOOM!
The atmosphere shattered. The Martial God, Mercenary Tao, stood where the dragon's head had been, slowly turning his frame, his curled hook lingering horizontally in the air without displaying the slightest outward exertion of force.
"Hey now, Dragon King... slaughtering those weaklings must have felt quite exhilarating, didn't it...?"
"Now, how about you share some of that fun with me~"
His cadence climbed in pitch, warped by an unnatural, manic resonance.
Neltharion felt a chill run down his spine; it sounded as though Mercenary Tao was violently suffocating a biological urge, causing his vocal cords to distort.
He was actively restraining a feral instinct coiled within his core...
Before Neltharion could speak, spacetime folded once more. That blinding, sensory-transcending velocity was the undeniable hallmark of a technique that had breached the divine realm.
In his humanoid-dragon hybrid state, Neltharion's base attributes retained 100% of his full draconic scaling. Having engaged in a bitter slugfest with Garou, he was intimately familiar with the operational vectors of martial artists.
Tilting his skull, his twin fists drove simultaneously toward Kaito's cranium and sternum, while his elongated, bladed tail lanced forward from his blind spot.
That tail had been his primary lethal weapon in hand-to-hand combat against Garou.
Martial artists were conditioned to fight humanoid anatomies; non-human appendages granted him an immense mechanical advantage.
Pfft!
His fists shattered the outer layer of revolving force, while his tail pierced straight through the paper-thin barrier of the AT Field.
Wait... Why is this AT Field so fragile? This isn't the defensive density of a Third Sequence combatant—
Kaito Shirogane stood motionless. He allowed Neltharion's tail to impale his abdomen, while the dragon's fists pulverized his cranium and ribcage into fractured bone and meat.
Yet he did not budge an inch. Through the warped shockwaves, he tracked Boros crashing into Saitama in a stream of pure luminescence, sending the yellow-suited hero hurtling across the horizon.
Yet Saitama was genuinely furious. He granted Boros zero room to display his arsenal; with a casual backhand mid-flight, Boros was swatted clean out of his luminescent state, his physical form disintegrating into airborne blood mist.
The cyclopean eye floating within the mist quivered with manic delirium.
That strike just now... what was that...?
He could not decipher the mechanics of the blow, yet the man's absolute supremacy was beyond dispute.
Feeling his cells wail beneath the strike, tasting the cold biological dread rising from his soul, Boros watched the bald man turn his back to march toward the dragon without delivering a finishing blow.
A euphoric intoxication overflowed within his chest.
Yes... this is it. This is the power!
He looked toward his "destined rival," Mercenary Tao. That man had been hunting for this exact presence all along.
That was why Mercenary Tao had appeared so composed, forever giving the impression that he had never fully committed his complete might during their duel.
This was the entity Mercenary Tao had been waiting for!
"Hah... AARGH!"
Incandescent energy erupted from within Boros's core. The energy reactor inside his chest fractured with a sharp crack, his life force suffering irreversible, existential trauma.
The next second, Saitama was struck by a beam of concentrated light, propelled across the curvature of the planet toward the opposite hemisphere.
Boros chased in his wake, striking Saitama repeatedly mid-air to alter their trajectory.
He was dragging Saitama away from this battlefield.
Tracking Boros's tactical intent, Kaito's eyes flickered with subtle nuance.
It was an elusive sensation, stripped of morality, calculation, or profit.
The unvarnished, mutual reverence shared between two pilgrims seeking the ultimate summit.
Kaito understood what Boros truly sought.
That alien had abandoned all desire to survive; he wished only to gaze upon Saitama's authentic, unconstrained might before he burned out.
ROAR!
A draconic bellow shook the heavens. Reality convulsed as elements fell into violent disorder and gravitational vectors inverted. Behind Neltharion, a tapestry of overlapping Authorities flared into being.
Kaito suddenly extended both arms, clamping his hands around the skull of the hybrid dragon.
Rip!
Neltharion's tail sheared downward through Kaito's torso, carving through muscle and bone. Yet Kaito displayed zero neurological reaction, tightening his grip on the horned skull and driving it down with irresistible kinetic force.
"Lower your head. A beast like you isn't worthy of watching that duel."
The next instant, Kaito snapped his knee upward.
Moon-Kick!
CRUNCH!