The approach to Diablos's Cradle was marked by an escalating sense of dread and a landscape that seemed to actively resent their intrusion. Jagged spires of obsidian-like rock clawed at the bruised sky, their peaks wreathed in sickly green mists that pulsed with a faint, unnatural light. The ground beneath their feet was a treacherous scree of loose stones and razor-sharp crystals that crunched unnervingly under the Shadow Hounds' silent paws. The air was thick with the stench Saitama had identified – burnt toast, old socks, and something else… a cloying, metallic sweetness that hinted at spilled blood and corrupted magic.
"The miasma intensifies," Shadow observed, his voice a low thrum that barely cut through the oppressive silence. "The very stones here are saturated with demonic energies. Lesser beings would find their sanity unraveling, their bodies succumbing to corruption. Maintain your focus. Your will is your strongest armor." He directed this last part particularly at Iris, Alexia, and Rose, who were visibly steeling themselves against the palpable malevolence.
Iris gripped the hilt of Crimson Fang, its familiar weight a small comfort. Alexia had a defiant glint in her eye, though her knuckles were white where she clutched her own blade. Rose held her glowing amulet tighter, her lips moving in a silent prayer or perhaps a complex warding incantation.
Saitama, however, seemed utterly unfazed. He was humming a slightly off-key tune – the theme song from some obscure mecha anime – and trying to skip stones across a particularly viscous-looking puddle of black ooze that bubbled sluggishly at the side of their path. "Hey, Genos, think this stuff would make good bouncy balls if it dried out?"
Genos, after a micro-second analysis, replied, "Negative, Master. The substance exhibits extreme corrosive properties and emits low-level mutagenic radiation. Prolonged contact is inadvisable. And its elasticity coefficient is negligible."
"Aw, bummer," Saitama said, abandoning the ooze. "Would've been cool."
Finally, through a narrow, winding defile, they saw it: Diablos's Cradle. It wasn't so much built on the mountain as it was gouged out of it, a monstrous black fortress of cyclopean an GLOOMstones and twisted metal, fused directly into the sheer cliff face. Its architecture was a nightmarish parody of a cathedral, with grotesque gargoyles leering from every buttress and windows like vacant, staring eyes glowing with an internal, hellish red light. A single, massive gate of what looked like solidified shadow, twice the height of the Royal Palace's main doors, barred the entrance. Pulsating veins of dark energy throbbed across its surface.
"Behold," Shadow intoned, a note of grim satisfaction in his voice. "Diablos's Cradle. The heart of the Cult's power in this region. Within those walls, they enact their blasphemies, dreaming of a world remade in their dark master's image."
Even from this distance, they could feel the oppressive weight of the demonic energy emanating from the fortress. It was a physical pressure, a suffocating blanket of pure malice that clawed at the senses and whispered insidious promises of power and despair.
"Impressive defenses," Alexia admitted grudgingly, her eyes scanning the sheer walls and the lone, formidable gate. "How do you propose we get past that, Shadow? Even Saitama-san might have trouble with a gate that… substantial."
Shadow's unseen lips curved. "The gate is merely a… suggestion, Princess. An invitation to those foolish enough to attempt a conventional assault. Our approach, as previously discussed, will be somewhat more… direct, courtesy of our Caped associate." He turned his hooded gaze towards Saitama. "Caped One. The stage is yours. Announce our arrival in a manner they will… appreciate."
Saitama squinted at the massive gate. "Huh. Big door. You want me to knock? Or just…?" He made a vague punching motion.
"The latter, I believe, would be more in keeping with your… particular brand of diplomacy," Shadow said, his voice laced with anticipation. 'Let them witness it. Let the Cult, in their hubris, understand the sheer, unadulterated folly of opposing a force that can unravel their strongest defenses with a casual gesture. This will be a lesson etched in screams and rubble.'
Iris took a deep breath. "Alright, Saitama-san. As planned. Create a diversion. Draw their attention. We'll use the chaos to find an alternate entry point."
"Gotcha. Big boom, lots of yelling, then you guys sneak in. Easy peasy." Saitama cracked his knuckles again, a sound like dry branches snapping. He started walking towards the gate, his yellow suit a shockingly bright splash of color against the grim desolation.
Genos immediately moved to flank him. "Master, I will provide covering fire and neutralize any immediate aerial threats. My scans indicate multiple energy signatures within the fortress, some of them… exceptionally powerful. Proceed with caution."
"Caution's my middle name, Genos," Saitama said cheerfully, though his middle name was actually just… Saitama. "Well, not really. But you get the idea."
As Saitama approached the gate, shadowy figures appeared on the battlements above – more cultists, these ones clad in ornate, black-and-red armor, wielding staves that crackled with dark lightning. One of them, clearly a commander, pointed down at Saitama and bellowed, his voice magically amplified, "Halt, intruder! You defile sacred ground! Identify yourself and prepare to be judged by the acolytes of Diablos!"
Saitama stopped about fifty feet from the gate. He cupped his hands around his mouth. "Hey! You guys got a bathroom in there? Kinda urgent!"
The commander on the battlements sputtered. "Bathroom?! Blasphemer! You mock the sanctity of Diablos's Cradle with such vulgarity! You will die screaming for your insolence!" He raised his staff, and a bolt of jagged black lightning shot down towards Saitama.
Saitama watched it approach with mild interest. Then, just as it was about to hit him, he sneezed.
Achoo!
It wasn't a particularly forceful sneeze, more of a polite, restrained one. But the air in front of him rippled. The bolt of black lightning, which could have disintegrated a lesser knight, simply… vanished. Puffed out of existence like a candle flame in a breeze.
The commander on the battlements stared, his staff lowering slightly. The other cultists looked confused.
Saitama sniffled. "Ugh. All this dust. Really gets to you." He then looked up at the gate again. "So, no bathroom, huh? Well, can't say I didn't try." He took a deep breath. "Okay then. Plan B."
He cocked back his right fist. There was no visible energy gathering, no dramatic pronouncements, no shifting of his stance into some legendary martial arts form. He just… wound up for a punch. A normal, everyday kind of punch, if your everyday involved casually rewriting the laws of physics.
"Here goes nothing," he muttered. And then, he punched the Gate of Diablos's Cradle.
NORMAL PUNCH.
What followed was not an explosion. Explosions are loud, messy, and involve a rapid expansion of gases. This was… different.
The moment Saitama's fist connected with the solidified shadow of the gate, a wave of pure, silent, irresistible force radiated outwards. The gate didn't shatter, it didn't buckle, it didn't explode. It disintegrated. It ceased to exist. One moment, a fifty-foot high, magically reinforced barrier of impenetrable darkness. The next, a gaping, perfectly circular hole leading into the shadowy depths of the fortress, surrounded by a fine, shimmering dust that was all that remained of the gate.
The shockwave, however, was not silent. It hit the fortress like an invisible battering ram. The entire mountain groaned. Cracks spiderwebbed across the cyclopean stones. The leering gargoyles on the buttresses trembled, and several of them, ancient and heavy, simply detached and plummeted into the abyss below with echoing crashes. The red light in the windows flickered violently, some extinguishing altogether.
The cultists on the battlements were not so lucky. The commander who had threatened Saitama was simply… gone. As were most of his companions. Those further away were thrown back like rag dolls, their screams swallowed by the sudden, deafening roar of collapsing stonework and the shriek of tortured metal.
Inside the carriage, which Shadow had discreetly maneuvered to a safer distance behind a rocky outcrop, the occupants were thrown against their seats. Iris, Alexia, and Rose stared at the gaping hole where the gate had been, their faces pale with a mixture of awe and terror.
"By the… First Hero's… beard," Alexia stammered, her usual bravado completely gone. "He… he didn't just open the gate. He… he un-gated the gate!"
Rose Oriana was speechless, her hand pressed to her mouth. The sheer, casual devastation was beyond anything she had read about, even in the most apocalyptic prophecies.
Shadow, however, was practically vibrating with a dark, suppressed glee. His hands were clenched into fists, and if he were capable of it, he might have been cackling maniacally. 'YES! GLORIOUS! He didn't just knock; he delivered a divine eviction notice! The sheer, unadulterated contempt for their defenses! The beautiful, elegant simplicity of absolute power! They prepared for a siege; he gave them an existential crisis! This… this is art! This is the poetry of destruction I have always dreamed of witnessing!'
The goosebumps on his skin were now forming complex sigils of adoration. This wasn't just a diversion; this was a declaration of war against the very concept of fortified structures.
Saitama lowered his fist, examining his knuckles. "Huh. Little bit tougher than I thought. My hand's kinda tingly." He then peered into the dark, gaping maw of the fortress. "Well, door's open! You guys coming, or…?"
Alarms began to blare from within Diablos's Cradle – a cacophony of discordant horns and shrieking sirens. Red lights flashed erratically, casting dancing, demonic shadows. The entire fortress seemed to awaken, a wounded beast roaring in fury and confusion.
Genos, who had braced himself for the impact, immediately powered up his incinerator cannons. "Master, multiple high-energy signatures are converging on your position from within the fortress! Hostile reinforcements incoming!"
"Reinforcements? Already?" Saitama sounded mildly disappointed. "Thought they'd at least offer me a welcome drink first. Bad hosts."
Shadow materialized beside the carriage, his form coalescing from the deepest shadows. "The overture is complete, ladies. Now, the true performance begins. While our Caped friend entertains the masses, we make our entrance." He pointed towards a newly formed, jagged crack that had appeared high up on the fortress wall, a consequence of Saitama's 'door-opening' technique. "There. An unforeseen vulnerability. Perfect for a discreet infiltration."
Iris, shaking off her shock, nodded, her warrior instincts taking over. "Right. Saitama-san has their attention. Let's move!"
Alexia, her eyes still wide but now shining with a manic excitement, grinned. "This is insane! I love it! Let's go kick some cultist butt while they're still trying to figure out where their front door went!"
Rose, though still pale, firmed her resolve. "May the spirits of light guide our steps, and may his… distraction… be sufficient."
As the three women, followed by the silently gliding Shadow, began to make their way towards the crack in the wall, using the chaos and crumbling debris as cover, Saitama turned back to face the dark entrance of Diablos's Cradle. From within, a horde of cultists, heavily armed and armored, their eyes burning with fanatical rage, were beginning to pour out, led by several towering, monstrous figures that looked like demonic knights.
One of the demonic knights, its voice like grinding glaciers, roared, "You! Abomination! You will pay for this desecration! Diablos will feast on your soul!"
Saitama sighed, a sound of weary resignation. "Look, can we just skip the monologues? I'm on a bit of a schedule here. And I'm pretty sure my favorite show is on later. So, let's just get this over with, okay?" He raised his fists. "Who's next?"
The battle for Diablos's Cradle had begun. And for the Eminence in Shadow, watching his meticulously (and now hilariously revised) plan unfold, it was a symphony of beautiful, cataclysmic chaos. The thrill was almost unbearable. The goosebumps were now petitioning for sainthood. This was going to be so much better than he'd ever imagined.