The Royal Capital of Midgar was a city teetering on the edge of panic. The Godsbane Gauntlet, intended as a morale-boosting spectacle, had rapidly devolved into a terrifying display of unknown, overwhelming power. Cloaked figures dispatched renowned champions with a single, unseen touch. Hulking brutes shattered stone arenas with contemptuous ease. Whispers of dark magic, of soul-severing attacks, and of contestants simply vanishing after their matches, spread like wildfire through the terrified populace.
Shadow Garden's temporary headquarters, usually a haven of quiet, intense activity, was now a hive of frantic energy. Zeta and Eta were glued to their arcane monitoring devices, tracking the chaotic energy signatures emanating from the tournament grounds. Gamma was coordinating with their informants, trying to gather intel on the mysterious new combatants. Seraphina, her face pale but resolute, was providing what little insight she could into the fighting styles and potential identities of any Night Blades who might be present.
Shadow stood before a large, magically illuminated map of the city, the tournament arena a pulsing, angry red dot in its center. Alpha stood beside him, her expression grim.
"The reports are consistent, Lord Shadow," Alpha said, her voice tight. "At least three of the unknown combatants exhibit abilities consistent with the Night Blades Seraphina has described. 'Nocturne the Soul-Drinker' is a strong possibility for the one who defeated Borin the Bull-Hearted without a visible attack. And the brute who shattered the western arena wall… that matches descriptions of 'Gorgon, the Iron Juggernaut.'"
"Three Night Blades, operating openly," Shadow mused, his hidden eyes narrowed in thought. "This is bolder than I anticipated. They are not merely testing the waters; they are making a statement. Or perhaps… they are searching for something. Or someone." He glanced pointedly in the direction of Saitama, who was currently trying to teach Mr. Fluffles to juggle three slightly singed Demon-Peppers (Mr. Fluffles was, understandably, not cooperating).
"The 'Master's' plan unfolds," Beta interjected, looking up from a stack of decoded Cult communiques. "It seems the tournament is indeed a… recruitment drive of sorts. And a culling. They seek to identify and eliminate any individuals who might pose a threat to their 'Great Awakening,' while simultaneously showcasing their power to attract new, desperate followers." She paused. "There are also… persistent rumors that the ultimate prize for winning the Godsbane Gauntlet is not mere gold or glory, but an audience with a 'patron of immense power' – very likely the Master himself."
Shadow's lips curved into a grim smile. "An audience with the Master… How convenient. He delivers himself to us on a silver platter, albeit one surrounded by a horde of homicidal super-assassins and a terrified populace." This is it! The ultimate confrontation, disguised as a martial arts tournament! The drama! The intrigue! The chance for ME to finally unmask the true villain and deliver a suitably epic monologue before… well, before Saitama probably sneezes and accidentally wins the whole thing.
Saitama, having given up on Mr. Fluffles's juggling career, wandered over, munching on a surprisingly normal-looking apple. "So, this tournament thing sounds like a big mess. Lots of bad guys showing off and scaring people, huh?"
"Precisely, Saitama-dono," Shadow said, turning to him. "A confluence of dark energies and dangerous individuals. The city is in peril. The King is… indisposed with anxiety." (King Midgar had apparently locked himself in the royal wine cellar and was refusing to come out until "the scary men in the pointy hats stop making people fall down.")
Saitama took another bite of his apple. "So, we gotta go punch 'em, right? Stop 'em from being jerks and making people disappear?"
"That is the… fundamental objective, yes," Shadow conceded. "However, a direct, overt assault by Shadow Garden might incite further panic, and could drive the Night Blades underground before we can identify and neutralize them all. And we still need to ascertain the true nature of this 'Master' and his ultimate prize."
He paused, a new, audacious plan forming in his mind. A plan so reckless, so reliant on Saitama's unique brand of chaos, that it was either genius or utter madness. Probably both.
"Therefore," Shadow declared, his voice resonating with a newfound, almost giddy, resolve, "we will fight fire with… an even bigger, more unpredictable, and frankly, terrifying, fire." He looked directly at Saitama. "Saitama-dono… I believe it is time you officially entered the Godsbane Gauntlet."
Silence.
Alpha's perfectly sculpted eyebrow shot up so high it nearly disappeared into her hairline. Beta's pen clattered to the floor for what felt like the hundredth time since Saitama's arrival. Gamma gasped. Epsilon just stared. Seraphina looked like she was about to have another art-induced emotional breakdown.
Saitama, however, just blinked. "Me? In the tournament? Cool! Do I need a costume? Oh wait, I already have one." He looked down at his "OPPAI" hoodie, which he was wearing over his hero suit. "Think this is formal enough for a royal tournament?"
"Your… attire… is of secondary concern, Saitama-dono," Shadow said, trying to maintain his composure despite the sheer, unadulterated insanity of his own plan. "Your participation will serve multiple purposes. Firstly, your… overwhelming presence… will undoubtedly draw the attention of any Night Blades present. They will see you as a prime target, a rival to be eliminated. This will flush them out, force them to reveal themselves."
And hopefully, Cid thought, they'll be so focused on trying to figure out how to scratch you that they won't notice us dismantling their operations from the shadows.
"Secondly," Shadow continued, "your… progress… through the tournament will act as a beacon. It will rally the hopes of the terrified populace. They will see a champion capable of standing against these new, terrifying threats. And thirdly… if you reach the finals, if you win… you will earn that audience with the 'Master.' And then…" He let the implication hang, dark and promising.
Genos, who had been silently observing, stepped forward. "A logical, if high-risk, strategy, Lord Shadow. Sensei's participation will indeed create a significant… disruption… to the enemy's plans. I will, of course, accompany him as his… cornerman… and provide tactical support and hydration." He produced a small, high-tech water bottle with an alarming number of nozzles.
Saitama grinned. "Awesome! A tournament arc! I always wanted to be in one of those! And if I win, I get to meet the main bad guy? Sweet! Maybe he can tell me where to get some more of that spicy relish!"
Shadow resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands. Of course his primary motivation for confronting the ultimate evil mastermind is condiment-related. Of course.
"There is one… complication, Saitama-dono," Alpha interjected, her voice still tinged with disbelief. "To enter the Godsbane Gauntlet, you must officially register. And… you must provide a name. A fighting name. 'Saitama' is… not particularly intimidating. And 'Caped Baldy,' while… descriptive… lacks a certain… gravitas."
Saitama frowned. "A fighting name? Like, 'The Smashing Fist of Fury'? Or 'Captain Baldilocks'? Nah, too long." He thought for a moment, then snapped his fingers. "I got it! How about… 'Blast'?"
Shadow, Alpha, and Beta exchanged a quick, almost imperceptible glance. "Blast"… the S-Class Rank 1 hero from their world, a figure of immense power and near-mythical status, whose identity was unknown even to most of the Hero Association. The irony was… almost painful.
"A… strong name, Saitama-dono," Shadow said, his voice carefully neutral. "Concise. Evocative. It will suffice." He has no idea. No idea at all. The universe isn't just trolling me anymore; it's writing elaborate, multi-layered cosmic jokes at my expense.
And so, under the astonished gazes of the Midgar registration officials (who had been expecting another terrifying, cloaked figure, not a bald man in a hoodie asking if there was a discount for bringing his own bunny), Saitama, under the fighting moniker of "Blast," was officially entered into the Godsbane Gauntlet. Genos registered as his "Attendant Cyborg G4," a designation that sounded suitably intimidating and vague.
The plan was set. Saitama would be the anvil, drawing the Night Blades and other powerful threats into direct confrontation. Shadow Garden would be the hammer, striking from the shadows, gathering intelligence, and dismantling the Cult's operations while their attention was focused on the "unstoppable force" in the arena.
Shadow himself, along with Alpha and a select few, would use the chaos of the tournament to get closer to the "Master," using the Night Shard recovered from Valerius's castle as a potential key. It was a desperate, multi-pronged strategy, fraught with peril and an almost guaranteed certainty of unforeseen, Saitama-induced complications.
But as Shadow watched Saitama cheerfully wave goodbye to Mr. Fluffles (who was being left in the care of a very nervous Gamma, with strict instructions to provide "plenty of carrots and tiny hats"), a strange, almost reckless sense of optimism filled him. His narrative was a mess. His plans were constantly being derailed. His dignity was in tatters.
But damn, if it wasn't going to be one hell of a show.
The Godsbane Gauntlet was no longer just a tournament. It was a powder keg. And Saitama, the Hero for Fun, the Accidental Demigod, the Connoisseur of Condiments, was about to light the fuse. Not with a dramatic flourish, but probably by tripping over it while looking for the snack bar.
The roar of the crowd from the tournament grounds was already audible, a mixture of fear and a desperate, almost primal, hunger for a champion. They had no idea what kind of champion they were about to get.
Shadow allowed himself a small, almost imperceptible smile beneath his hood. Let the games begin. He just hoped the arena had good insurance. And a robust emergency snack catering service. He had a feeling Saitama was going to work up an appetite.