The arrival of the man in the simple, dark suit was an event so profound and so subtle that it defied all categories of experience. He did not radiate power in the way a mage did, nor project an aura of dread like a demon. His presence was, instead, a quiet, absolute declaration of fact. The grass beneath his feet did not wither; it simply acknowledged his superiority and respectfully ceased to exist, leaving a patch of bare, sterile earth. The air around him did not crackle; it just… got out of his way.
Every being on the mountain, from the lowliest soldier to the Celestial Echo Lyraelle, felt it. It was a pressure not of force, but of sheer, unadulterarated authority. As if the author of reality had just walked into the room, and was politely, but firmly, about to cancel their entire universe for violating some cosmic terms of service.
Saitama was the only one who seemed immune to the suffocating pressure. He looked at the new arrival, his earlier, manufactured villainous persona completely forgotten, his eyes wide with a look that was no longer just hope, but genuine, almost religious, awe. This… this was different. This wasn't a monster. This wasn't a big, flashy bad guy. This man in the suit… he felt strong. He felt… final. Like the end of a very long, very boring road.
Shadow, hidden in the crags, was experiencing a sensation he had thought himself long past: primal, gut-wrenching, paralyzing fear. His own, immense, carefully cultivated power felt like a child's crayon drawing next to a supernova. All his plans, his narratives, his cool, enigmatic poses… they were dust. Irrelevant. This newcomer wasn't a piece on the board; he was the one who had just folded the board, put it in his pocket, and was now deciding whether to set the table on fire.
"New management?" Saitama asked, his voice breaking the stunned silence. He took a single, almost eager, step forward. "Does that mean you're the… real final boss?"
The man in the suit smiled, a thin, placid, almost bored expression. **<'BOSS' IS SUCH A HIERARCHICAL, LIMITED TERM. I AM NOT HERE TO BE DEFEATED. I AM HERE TO CONDUCT… A PERFORMANCE REVIEW. AND YOURS…> ** his gaze swept across the entire planet, from the armies, to the heroes, to the shadows, **<…HAS BEEN FOUND LACKING.> **
"Lacking in what?" Princess Iris managed to gasp, her hand trembling on Anathema, whose golden light was now flickering like a dying candle.
The man in the suit turned his calm, terrifyingly indifferent gaze to her. **
He then looked back at Saitama, his smile fading slightly. **
He was not just an observer. He was a Critic. The Critic. An entity from beyond, whose purpose was to wander the multiverse, pruning realities that had grown stagnant, trite, or simply… uninspired. He was the force behind the Great Filter.
"So…" Saitama said slowly, processing. "You're the big TV producer. And you're here to cancel the show."
** ** the Critic acknowledged with a slight nod. **
He raised a single, immaculate, gloved hand. He pointed it, not at Saitama, not at Iris, but at the horizon. **
A wave of pure, absolute despair washed over the armies below. The war was over, but the world was ending anyway.
**
It was a challenge. A true one. Not born of rage, or greed, or a desire for conquest. But of a cold, indifferent, and infinitely powerful sense of artistic criticism. He was challenging Saitama not just to a fight, but to a battle for the very soul of his own existence, for the very meaning of his power.
Saitama stood there, a slow, wide, almost reverent, grin spreading across his face. All the weariness, all the boredom, all the lonely emptiness of the last six years, melted away in an instant, replaced by a pure, blinding, brilliant light.
He looked at the man in the suit. He felt no killing intent. He felt no malicious aura. He just felt… an absolute, infinite, unshakeable wall of pure power. An opponent who was not just strong. An opponent who was the very definition of the game itself.
This was it.
This was the one.
He began to tremble. Not with fear. But with an excitement so profound, so long-suppressed, that his entire body thrummed with it. He laughed. A loud, joyful, and utterly terrifying laugh that echoed across the silent, despairing world.
"Ten days," Saitama said, his voice a low, happy rumble. He looked at the Critic, his own eyes burning with a fire no one had ever seen before.
"Don't be late."
The phony war was over. The stage play had been cancelled. The final, true battle, the one that Saitama had been dreaming of, the fight for the very right of his world to exist, was finally, truly, about to begin. The boredom was dead. And the hero… was about to get serious. For real this time.