The "battle" for the Obsidian Mirror had concluded not with a clash of steel and shadow, but with the quiet sobbing of a high-ranking Cult assassin and the confused blinking of a hero who just wanted to find some spicy jerky. Shadow Garden, the elite clandestine organization, found themselves in the unfamiliar role of… awkward emotional support group.
Shadow, despite the utter implosion of his planned dramatic confrontation, attempted to maintain an air of control. "Seraphina of the Night Blades," he addressed the still-kneeling, tear-streaked woman. "Your allegiance to this 'Master' has clearly brought you nothing but disillusionment. There is another path. A path away from the self-deception of the Cult." Okay, Cid, smooth recovery. Offer redemption. Classic Eminence move. Make her an asset. Or at least, get some more intel on these other twelve homicidal maniacs.
Seraphina looked up, her icy eyes now red-rimmed and filled with a weary confusion. "Another path? What path? All I have ever known is the Blade, the Shadow, the Master's will…" She gestured vaguely at the offending octopus-clown sculpture. "And apparently, a deep-seated resentment for my grandmother's taste in decorative abominations."
Saitama, who had been trying to dust off Mr. Fluffles, piped up. "Hey, it's okay. My grandpa collected garden gnomes. Like, hundreds of 'em. Super creepy. Everyone's family is a little weird."
Seraphina stared at him, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. Was it… gratitude? Or just further bewilderment at his sheer, unadulterated normalcy in the face of her existential crisis?
Alpha, ever pragmatic, stepped forward. "The Cult of Diablos offers only lies and destruction. Shadow Garden fights for a truth they seek to extinguish. You possess skills, Seraphina. Skills that could be used for a genuine purpose, not the twisted ambitions of a hidden tyrant."
This was a standard recruitment pitch for Shadow Garden – find talented, disillusioned individuals, often victims of the Cult, and offer them a new identity and purpose under the banner of Lord Shadow. Usually, it involved a bit more dramatic flair, a demonstration of Shadow's overwhelming (and often misunderstood) power, and a carefully crafted narrative of salvation.
This time, however, the "demonstration of power" had been Saitama inadvertently dismantling a feared assassin's entire worldview with an offhand comment about a statue.
Seraphina looked from Alpha's earnest face to Shadow's enigmatic, hooded form, then to Saitama, who was now trying to get Mr. Fluffles to wear a discarded Cultist's hood like a tiny, fluffy monk.
"I… I don't know," Seraphina whispered. "The Master… the other Night Blades… they will hunt me if I defect."
"Let them come," Shadow declared, his voice resonating with a chilling confidence that, for once, Cid almost believed himself. He needed to project strength, to show that Shadow Garden was a sanctuary, not a trap. "The shadows we command are deeper, more absolute, than any they can conjure. Under my protection, you will find safety. And perhaps… a clarity your former 'Master' never offered." And maybe, just maybe, you can tell us how to beat the other twelve without Saitama accidentally giving them therapy sessions until they surrender.
A long silence hung in the dusty gallery. Seraphina looked down at her cracked sword, then at her hands. The life of an assassin, a Night Blade, was all she had known. But the encounter with Saitama, his inexplicable power, his even more inexplicable normalcy, had shaken her to her core. The Cult's promises suddenly felt hollow, their power structures brittle.
Finally, she took a deep, shuddering breath. "If… if what you say is true… if there is a way to fight against the true darkness, not just serve a different shade of it… then perhaps…" She looked up at Shadow, a new, fragile resolve hardening her gaze. "Perhaps I will consider your offer, Lord Shadow."
Success! Cid internally cheered, though his external demeanor remained impassive. An actual Night Blade, recruited! This is a major intelligence coup! And I barely had to do anything except stand here and look mysterious while Saitama accidentally broke her! This… this might actually work!
Beta, who had been discreetly taking notes on Seraphina's emotional breakdown (Chapter title: "The Aesthetics of Surrender: A Case Study"), perked up. "Excellent! Another soul brought into the light of Lord Shadow's wisdom! Her knowledge of the Night Blades' inner workings will be invaluable!"
"Indeed," Alpha agreed, a rare hint of approval in her voice. "Seraphina, you will accompany us. We have much to discuss."
As Shadow Garden began the process of securing the gallery and their new, highly volatile recruit, Saitama finally managed to get the Cultist's hood onto Mr. Fluffles. The giant bunny now looked like a very fluffy, very confused, and slightly disgruntled Jedi Master.
"There," Saitama said with satisfaction. "Now he looks distinguished." He then turned to Seraphina. "So, uh, sorry about your grandma's statue. Hope she wasn't too attached to it being, y'know, appreciated."
Seraphina actually managed a small, watery smile. "She passed many years ago, Saitama-dono. And honestly… you were right. It is aggressively ugly." A tiny weight seemed to lift from her shoulders.
The aftermath of the Obsidian Mirror "infiltration" was a flurry of activity. Seraphina, despite her emotional state, proved to be a font of information once she decided to cooperate. She confirmed the existence of the Thirteen Night Blades, their unique abilities (ranging from reality-warping illusions to control over grotesque bio-mechanical constructs), and their fanatical devotion to the "Master," whose true identity and location remained shrouded in terrifying vagueness even to them. She also revealed several minor Cult strongholds and communication nodes, which Shadow Garden immediately began planning to dismantle.
Saitama and Genos, having fulfilled their role as "unintentional chaos catalyst," were largely left to their own devices, much to Cid's relief. They spent the next day exploring Midgar with a renewed focus on Saitama's interdimensional shopping list.
Their first stop was a newly reopened clothing store. Saitama was determined to find a "cool Midgar t-shirt."
"How about this one, Sensei?" Genos asked, holding up a shirt emblazoned with a snarling griffin breathing fire. "It is a symbol of royal power and ferocity."
Saitama squinted at it. "Nah, too busy. Makes my eyes hurt. Got anything simpler? Like, with just one big word on it? Or maybe a picture of a really good sandwich?"
He eventually settled on a plain black t-shirt with a single, stylized silver wolf's head on it – the symbol of a local brewery, which he mistook for a particularly cool monster. "Yeah, this one's alright. Looks kinda like dog-girl when she's angry."
Their next quest was for the spicy jerky Saitama craved. This led them to a bustling marketplace, where vendors were hawking exotic meats, strange glowing fruits, and various trinkets of questionable origin. Saitama, with Mr. Fluffles still perched on his shoulder (now sporting a tiny, custom-made Shadow Garden insignia that Beta had "discreetly" attached), caused a minor sensation. People pointed, whispered, and occasionally offered him free samples, either out of reverence or a desperate hope that he wouldn't accidentally punch their stall into the next dimension.
He finally found a jerky vendor whose sign promised "Dragon's Breath Jerky – Guaranteed to Scorch Your Insides!" Saitama's eyes lit up. He bought three large bags.
Meanwhile, back at Shadow Garden's headquarters, Shadow was feeling a strange sense of… accomplishment. The recruitment of Seraphina was a genuine triumph. The information she provided was invaluable. He was actually making progress, uncovering the Cult's deeper layers, getting closer to this mysterious "Master."
And yet… there was Saitama.
Every time Cid started to feel like he was truly in control, like he was the shadowy mastermind pulling the strings, he'd get a report from Delta about Saitama accidentally averting a natural disaster by trying to skip a rock, or a frantic message from a terrified shopkeeper about a bald man and a cyborg asking if their "slightly used interdimensional portal cleaner" was still under warranty.
It was like trying to conduct a symphony orchestra while a rogue elephant played the cymbals with its trunk, occasionally setting off fireworks.
That evening, as Shadow was dramatically reviewing star charts (which he didn't actually understand, but they looked cool), Alpha entered with a troubled expression.
"Lord Shadow," she began, "we have a… situation. Or rather, Saitama-dono has acquired a new… item."
Shadow turned, his interest piqued. "An item? A weapon? An artifact of power?" Perhaps he finally found something that will make him slightly less of a narrative black hole!
Alpha hesitated. "Not exactly, Lord Shadow. He… he bought a wardrobe."
Shadow blinked beneath his hood. "A… wardrobe? As in, a piece of furniture for storing clothes?"
"Precisely, Lord Shadow," Alpha confirmed, her voice deadpan. "A very large, very ornate, and apparently very heavy, antique wardrobe. He said, and I quote, 'Mr. Fluffles needs a proper place to keep his hats, and my hero costume is getting kinda wrinkly from being balled up in Genos's storage compartment.'"
Cid just stared at her. A wardrobe. Saitama, the being who could shatter mountains and nullify magic with a bored glance, was concerned about wrinkles in his hero costume and hat storage for his giant fluffy bunny.
"And this is a 'situation'… why, precisely, Alpha?" Shadow asked, a dangerous edge to his voice.
"Because, Lord Shadow," Alpha explained, "he is currently attempting to transport said wardrobe back to his and Genos's assigned quarters. By himself. By… carrying it. Through the city streets."
A mental image flashed through Cid's mind: Saitama, casually strolling through Midgar, a massive, antique wardrobe balanced on one shoulder, Mr. Fluffles perched on top like a fluffy figurehead, while terrified citizens scattered before him and buildings subtly rattled from the sheer, unthinking force of his passage.
"And the problem is…?" Shadow pressed, though a sinking feeling was beginning to form in his gut.
"The problem, Lord Shadow," Alpha said, her voice betraying a hint of exasperation, "is that he decided to take a shortcut. Through the Royal Gardens. And he appears to have… misjudged a low-hanging archway. The one leading to the Queen's private rose collection."
Shadow closed his eyes. He didn't need Alpha to elaborate. He could already picture the scene: the shattered ancient archway, the pulverized prize-winning roses, the bewildered Royal Guards, and Saitama standing amidst the carnage, looking vaguely confused and wondering why everyone was making such a fuss over a "slightly scraped wardrobe."
"Furthermore," Alpha continued, "he seems to have attracted the attention of a rather… persistent flock of griffins from the Royal Mews, who appear to believe the wardrobe is either a very large, mobile nest, or a challenge to their aerial dominance."
Shadow let out a long, slow breath. He pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his hood.
The Eminence in Shadow. Master of darkness. Manipulator of fate. Hunter of ancient cults.
And now, apparently, an unwilling mediator in disputes between a bald demigod, a giant piece of furniture, and a flock of angry, oversized, royal pigeons.
"Alpha," Shadow said, his voice dangerously calm. "Prepare a… diplomatic envoy. And perhaps… a very large, very sturdy net. And for the love of all that is shadowy and sacred, someone find that man some spicy jerky before he decides to 'redecorate' the entire Royal Palace."
The path of the Eminence was proving to be far more absurd, and far more reliant on damage control for an oblivious, overpowered individual, than Cid Kagenou could ever have possibly imagined. The thrill was still there, somewhere, buried under the sheer, mind-numbing weight of Saitama's wardrobe and the impending royal headache.