The Critic's ultimatum descended upon the world like a death sentence, delivered with the placid finality of an accountant reading a ledger. Ten days. A planetary "performance review" with a pass/fail grade of existence versus utter, absolute nullification. The celebratory cheers of a moment ago had died in the throats of the allied armies, replaced by a cold, silent, and profound despair that the Critic's own conceptual aura could never have hoped to achieve.
The man in the suit did not linger. With a final, indifferent nod, as if concluding a mildly interesting business meeting, he simply… ceased to be there. He did not vanish in a flash of light or melt into the shadows; the space he had occupied was just… empty again, leaving behind only the echo of his impossible challenge and the weight of a ten-day countdown.
King Olric, observing from the command hill, felt the wine goblet in his hand turn to dust from the force of his unconscious grip. The victory against the Cult, the alliances, the strategies… it was all dust. They had won their little war, only to be informed that their entire reality was a failing television pilot about to be replaced by static.
Princess Iris stood on the plateau, her hand on Lyraelle's arm for support, her own immense courage feeling small and fragile against the sheer, cosmic indifference of their new reality. "What… what do we do?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Lyraelle, for the first time since her reawakening, looked truly, deeply, uncertain. "We… prepare," she said, her own ancient wisdom offering no comfort. "But how does one prepare for a battle against… the adjudicator of all things?"
All eyes, filled with a mixture of terror and a new, desperate, almost pathetic flicker of hope, turned to the only person on the mountain who wasn't despairing.
Saitama was radiating an energy that no one had ever seen from him before. It was not the calm, cold fury of Oakhaven. It was not the happy glee of the Regenerator fight. It was… a profound, almost spiritual, serenity. A quiet, joyous calm. The look of a man who, after a lifetime of starvation, had finally been seated before an infinite, perfectly cooked banquet.
He was still smiling. Not a wide, manic grin, but a small, soft, contented smile that reached his eyes, making them burn with a quiet, brilliant intensity. He ignored the panicked, questioning stares of his companions. He simply turned, walked to the very edge of the plateau, and sat down, his legs dangling over the vast, now-silent world below. And he began to wait.
The ten days that followed were the strangest, most surreal in the planet's history. Humanity, and indeed all sentient life, reacted to the impending, undeniable apocalypse in a predictable spectrum of ways. There was chaos – riots in some cities, a rise of doomsday cults in others. There was despair – people abandoning their homes, their duties, lost in a quiet, hopeless stupor. But there was also, surprisingly, a great deal of… unity. Old grudges, petty disputes, national borders – they all seemed suddenly, profoundly, insignificant in the face of a shared, final deadline. People spent time with their families. Lovers were reconciled. Debts were forgiven. It was a global, terminal fever of humanity and kindness.
The leaders of the world, however, had a different focus. They gathered in Midgar, not as rivals, but as a unified World Council. The King of Oriana, the Jotunheim Chieftain, even the elusive Spymaster and the Benefactor's representatives – they all came, their own grand plans and secret wars rendered moot. They all had one, single, desperate question: What was Saitama doing?
The answer was: nothing.
He did not train. He did not strategize. He did not eat, sleep, or even seem to breathe in the same way. He just sat, day after day, on the edge of the plateau at the Crown of the Heavens, watching the sun rise and set. His stillness was absolute, more profound than any technique the Matriarch of the Silent Blade had ever dreamed of. He was gathering himself, centering himself, not his power – which was a constant, infinite wellspring – but his will. His purpose.
For the first time in his heroic career, he was preparing for a fight. Not just reacting to a problem, but actively, meditatively, preparing his mind, his body, and his soul for a single, ultimate confrontation. He was giving his opponent, the ultimate Critic, the one thing he had never given any other foe: the respect of his full, undivided attention.
Iris, Lyraelle, and his other companions visited him, but their words felt small, intrusive in the face of his profound, silent focus. They would bring him food and water, which he would politely decline with a quiet shake of his head. He was fueling himself on something else now: the sheer, exhilarating anticipation of a fight that might not end in one punch.
Even Sid, in the hidden heart of Shadow Garden, found himself utterly, completely, sidelined. His grand narrative, his master plan… what was the point? The final act had been hijacked by a playwright of a far higher, and more final, authority. He did not approach Saitama. He did not try to manipulate the situation. There was nothing left to manipulate. He just… watched, a silent, unseen, and for the first time, truly insignificant, spectator, as the world counted down its final days. He had wanted to be the hero in the shadows of the world's grandest stage play. He had not anticipated that the entire theatre was scheduled for demolition.
On the morning of the tenth day, a profound quiet fell over the entire world. The riots had ceased. The weeping had stopped. Everyone, from the King in his palace to the humblest farmer in their field, walked out of their homes and simply… looked up at the sky. They knew this was the day. The day of the review. The day their fate would be decided by a single, one-on-one "conversation."
On the plateau, Saitama finally stood up. He stretched, a slow, deliberate movement that was no longer just a release of stiffness, but a conscious act of unfurling his own, long-dormant potential. The very air around him seemed to thicken, not with a visible aura, but with the sheer, undeniable weight of his presence, now fully, calmly, focused.
He looked at Iris, Lyraelle, Gregor, and the handful of others who had remained on the mountain with him, a silent, supportive vigil.
"Thanks for the company," he said, his voice quiet, calm. "And… for all the snacks." He offered them a small, genuine smile. It was a look of profound, almost sorrowful, peace. It was the look of a hero, going to his final, and perhaps his first, real fight.
As the sun reached its zenith, he appeared. The Critic. He coalesced in the center of the plateau, the same simple man in the same simple dark suit, his expression as placid and as indifferent as ever.
**
Saitama just looked at him. "Nah," he said. "I'm not good at speeches."
He took a step forward, his own calm mirroring the Critic's, a perfect symmetry of opposite forces. "You wanted something interesting. You wanted to see if my power was just a 'dead end'." He slowly, deliberately, raised his fists, settling into a stance that was both perfectly balanced and utterly relaxed.
"I don't have any fancy answers," Saitama said, his voice still quiet, but now resonating with the full, silent weight of his own, infinite power. "I'm just a guy who's a hero for fun."
He met the Critic's calm, empty gaze, and his own eyes, for so long dormant and bored, now burned with the light of a thousand supernovas, a final, beautiful, and utterly terrifying declaration of his own simple, unshakable, truth.
"But I can promise you," he said, the quiet, happy smile of a true challenger finally returning to his face. "This… won't be boring."
The Critic's own, impassive smile widened fractionally. **
And as the world watched, holding its collective, final breath, the Hero for Fun, the ultimate anticlimax, finally, truly, and without any restraint, began his first, and last, serious fight.