The two knights, Sir Gideon the Steadfast and Sir Malachi the Valiant, were paragons of Midgarian chivalry and martial prowess. Their armor, polished to a mirror shine, gleamed under the arena sun, emblazoned with the proud crests of their ancient noble houses. Their warhorses, magnificent beasts bred for battle, snorted impatiently, their hooves pawing at the sand. Lances, long and wickedly sharp, were couched expertly, aimed with deadly precision. They were masters of the mounted charge, a devastating tactic that had broken enemy lines and won countless battles for the kingdom. Their entry into the arena was met with a respectful, if somewhat subdued, roar from the crowd. These were familiar heroes, known quantities.
Their expressions, however, were anything but confident. They had witnessed Saitama's dismantling of Krog the Skullcrusher. They had seen the casual, almost contemptuous ease with which he had dealt with a renowned brute. Now, they were slated to fight each other in a qualifying joust, but the shadow of the yellow-clad enigma loomed over the entire proceedings. Every cheer from the crowd felt tinged with an unspoken question: "But are you as strong as him?"
Saitama, having returned to the center of the arena, watched them with mild interest. "Oh, horses again. And long pointy sticks. Is this like… medieval bumper cars? Or are they gonna try to poke each other off?" He looked genuinely curious. The concept of a joust, with its intricate rules and specific skill set, was entirely alien to him.
The Master of Ceremonies, still looking slightly shell-shocked but regaining some of his professional bluster, announced, "And now, for our second qualifying bout! A classic display of knightly skill and valor! The noble Sir Gideon versus the courageous Sir Malachi! Champions, prepare yourselves! On the signal, you will charge! May the truest lance and the strongest arm prevail!" He then hastily retreated again, not wanting to be anywhere near the potential impact zone, especially with Saitama inexplicably loitering nearby.
A trumpet blared, the signal to begin.
Sir Gideon and Sir Malachi spurred their horses. The two magnificent warhorses surged forward, thundering across the sand, their riders perfectly balanced, lances leveled, aimed at each other's shields. It was a classic, awe-inspiring sight – the epitome of knightly combat. The crowd leaned forward, a momentary flicker of traditional tournament excitement returning.
Saitama watched them charge. "Whoa. They're going pretty fast. Hope they don't crash. That would be messy. And probably hurt the horses."
The two knights were on a collision course, the distance between them rapidly shrinking. Their focus was absolute, their training taking over. For a moment, they almost forgot about the strange bald man watching them. This was their moment, their chance to display their skill, to remind the kingdom of the valor of its true knights.
They were about twenty feet apart, seconds from impact, when Saitama, apparently deciding he had a better view from a slightly different angle, took two casual steps to his left.
His movement was entirely unrelated to the joust. He was just… repositioning himself. Perhaps he thought he was in their way. Perhaps a particularly interesting cloud formation had caught his eye. Perhaps he'd spotted a dropped sugar cube. His motivations, as always, were inscrutable.
But those two casual steps placed him directly, precisely, unbelievably, in the path of Sir Gideon's thundering charge.
Sir Gideon, his vision narrowed, focused entirely on his opponent, saw only a sudden, unexpected blur of yellow enter his peripheral vision an instant before impact. He had no time to react, no time to swerve, no time to even comprehend what was happening. His horse, equally focused on its own charge, had no chance to avoid the sudden, stationary obstacle.
Saitama, realizing a moment too late that he had inadvertently stepped into the path of a charging, multi-ton warhorse and a heavily armored knight, just blinked. "Oops," he muttered.
THWUMPH-CRUNCH-SCREEEEECH-WHUMP!
The series of sounds was complex and deeply unfortunate.
Sir Gideon's warhorse, a creature of immense power and momentum, slammed headfirst into Saitama's unyielding, unexpectedly present form. There was no give. The horse's charge stopped instantly, as if it had run into a mountain made of unobtainium. The poor beast let out a single, terrified, abruptly cut-off whinny as its neck snapped and its entire skeletal structure seemed to compact from the sheer force of the impact. It collapsed in a heap, instantly dead, its momentum transferring catastrophically upwards.
Sir Gideon, still holding his lance, was catapulted from the saddle like a stone from a trebuchet. He flew through the air, a gleaming arc of polished steel and bewildered chivalry, his perfectly aimed lance now pointing uselessly at the sky. He traveled a good thirty feet before crashing down hard onto the sand in a cloud of dust and a symphony of clanging armor, landing in a stunned, undignified heap, his lance shattering beside him.
Sir Malachi, meanwhile, having seen his opponent and his opponent's horse suddenly and inexplicably vanish in a blur of yellow and a horrifying impact sound, instinctively tried to pull up his own mount, his mind reeling. His horse, startled by the sudden, violent demise of its counterpart, reared wildly, throwing Sir Malachi from the saddle as well. He landed less spectacularly than Sir Gideon, but with equal indignity, rolling several times before coming to rest in a tangled heap of armor and bruised pride. His lance, too, went flying.
All of this happened in the space of about three seconds.
Silence. Another profound, echoing, "what in the name of all the gods just happened?" silence descended upon the Grand Arena. The crowd stared. The Royal Box stared. The Master of Ceremonies stared, his jaw now permanently unhinged.
Saitama stood amidst the carnage – one dead warhorse, two unseated and dazed knights, shattered lances, and a rapidly settling cloud of dust – looking slightly sheepish. He brushed some horsehair off his yellow jumpsuit.
"My bad," he announced to the silent arena. "Totally didn't see him coming. Guess I should have looked both ways before crossing the… uh… jousting lane." He walked over to Sir Gideon, who was groaning and trying to sit up, his helmet askew. "You okay, buddy? That looked like a nasty fall. Need a hand?" He offered a hand.
Sir Gideon just stared up at him, his eyes, visible through his askew visor, wide with a mixture of pain, confusion, and dawning, horrified realization. He had been unhorsed, his steed killed, his lance shattered, not by his opponent, but by accidentally running into the strange bald man who had just been standing there. The sheer, ignominious absurdity of it was almost worse than the physical pain.
Arena attendants and healers rushed onto the field, carefully tending to the fallen knights and respectfully covering the dead warhorse. Sir Gideon and Sir Malachi were helped to their feet, bruised, battered, their armor dented, their pride in tatters. They were escorted from the arena, their dreams of tournament glory shattered by the most bizarre, anticlimactic joust in the history of Midgar.
Saitama watched them go, scratching his head. "So… who won that one? Was it a draw? Or do I get disqualified for, like, accidental horse-tripping? Are there rules about that?"
The Master of Ceremonies, after a hurried, frantic, whispered consultation with a visibly distressed tournament official who had rushed down from the Royal Box, finally found his voice, though it trembled precariously.
"Uh… due to… unforeseen… equestrian complications… and… and the mutual incapacitation of both noble combatants… this bout is declared… a… uh… a nullification! Yes! A nullification! No victor! No vanquished! We shall… we shall proceed to the next qualifying match after a brief… very brief… intermission for arena clearance and… and collective regaining of composure!" He then practically fled the arena floor.
The crowd didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or simply go home and question all their life choices. The Tournament of Champions was rapidly devolving into the Tournament of Utterly Baffling Anticlimaxes, starring Saitama the Accidentally-Horse-Stopping Tempest.
In the Royal Box, King Olric slowly, deliberately, poured himself a very large goblet of wine. He did not look at his advisors. He did not look at his family. He just stared out at the arena, at the spot where a perfectly good warhorse had just met its untimely, physics-defying end, and wondered if there was enough wine in the entire kingdom to get him through the rest of this tournament.
Archmagus Theron was making copious notes, his expression one of intense, almost gleeful, scientific fascination. "Subject's passive inertial resistance appears to be absolute," he murmured to himself. "Kinetic energy transfer resulting in catastrophic failure of the impacting biological entity… Fascinating! Utterly horrifying, but fascinating!"
Princess Alexia was trying very hard not to laugh out loud, hiding her amusement behind a delicately raised fan. This was, by far, the most entertaining public event she had attended in years. The sheer, unadulterated chaos Saitama generated without even trying was a thing of beautiful, destructive purity.
Princess Iris, however, looked deeply troubled. The accidental death of the warhorse, the humiliation of the knights… this wasn't heroism. This was… a force of nature blundering through their carefully constructed world, leaving a trail of bewildered destruction in its wake. She wondered, with a growing sense of dread, what would happen when Saitama encountered something, or someone, he couldn't accidentally neutralize. Or worse, what if he actually tried to be serious?
Saitama, meanwhile, had found another small cake that an attendant had nervously offered him during the "intermission." "Nullification, huh?" he mumbled around a mouthful of pastry. "Sounds complicated. As long as I still get a shot at the pancake mountain, I guess it's fine." He looked around the arena. "Wonder who's next? Hope they're not on a horse. Horses seem kinda fragile around me."
The joust of anticlimax was over. But the ripples of its absurdity, and the dawning horror of Saitama's passive indestructibility, were just beginning to spread through the stunned, bewildered, and increasingly terrified Kingdom of Midgar. The tournament was young. The chaos had barely begun.