The Aria Zone was less of a training ground and more of a monument to humanity's defiance. A colossal, domed stadium rose from the center of a sprawling, man-made cityscape, capable of seating hundreds of thousands of spectators. Today, every seat was filled.
The air crackled with patriotic fervor. Jumbotrons displayed heroic, slow-motion footage of Mina Ashiro firing "Heaven's Hammer," of Kikoru Shinomiya obliterating Kaiju hordes, and of Hoshina's blindingly fast swordplay. This was a masterclass in propaganda, a celebration of the official, state-sanctioned heroes.
Backstage, in the cacophony of the contestant ready-area, the reality was far less glamorous. Cadets nervously checked their gear, while seasoned officers exuded a calm, dangerous confidence.
Kafka Hibino felt like an imposter in a land of giants. As Hoshina's "adjutant," he wasn't competing, but he was required to be on the field, a glorified water boy with a top-secret secondary mission he didn't even know he had: to be a walking Kaiju-detector.
"You look like you're about to be executed," Reno noted, clapping him on the back. Reno, due to his high marks, was a reserve competitor for the Third Division. "Loosen up. It's just a show."
"It's a show where our every move is being judged by the entire military command," Kafka muttered, adjusting the collar of his uniform. "And Hoshina keeps giving me this look, like he's trying to decide which of my organs to dissect first."
Suddenly, a path cleared through the crowded room. Kikoru Shinomiya, in a newly designed, sleeker version of her combat suit, strode through, flanked by two stern-looking First Division officers. She was the main event, the undisputed star. Her eyes briefly met Kafka's, a complex mixture of rivalry, suspicion, and a flicker of something he couldn't quite name. She gave a small, almost imperceptible nod and moved on.
On the other side of the stadium, in the public entrance, a far less dignified arrival was taking place.
"But our names are right there," Saitama said, pointing to a clipboard held by a beleaguered-looking security guard.
The guard sighed, the fifth one they had tried to get past. "Sir, for the last time, there is no registered team called 'Caped Baldy and the Chrome Demon.' And your credentials," he said, holding up a laminated card Genos had fabricated, "appear to be a drawing of a smiling egg."
"It is a minimalist representation of my Master's core concept of power," Genos stated calmly, his trench coat and fedora doing nothing to help them blend in. "The artisanal quality is intentional."
"It's a crayon drawing, pal," the guard said, his patience worn thin. "Look, if you don't have tickets, you'll have to leave."
Saitama's face fell. The path to a lifetime of beef was being blocked by... bureaucracy. It was his greatest nemesis. He was about to give up and just go home, his dreams of marbled steak turning to dust.
"Is there a problem here?"
A familiar, raspy voice cut in. Captain Izumi Orin, the scary instructor from Kafka's exam, stood behind them, flanked by two soldiers. Her dead eyes scanned Saitama, then Genos. She didn't recognize them from the official reports, which were highly classified. She just saw two bizarre civilians holding a crayon drawing.
"These two are trying to gain unauthorized entry to the competitor's area, Captain," the guard reported.
Izumi looked them up and down, a flicker of something like amusement in her gaze. "The grand prize is a lifetime supply of meat. It's attracting all sorts of strange wildlife." She turned to her soldiers. "Escort them out."
Genos's arm began to hum, a small portion of his incineration cannon readying itself. "I will not allow these low-level functionaries to impede my Master's quest—"
"No, it's fine, Genos," Saitama said, his voice full of defeat. He put a hand on Genos's shoulder, stopping him. He looked so genuinely, profoundly sad that it was almost comical. All the monsters in the world couldn't make him feel this dejected, but a failed attempt to get free food could.
It was in that moment of profound dejection that Kikoru Shinomiya, walking towards the main stage, happened to pass by the entrance. She saw the scene: the dejected bald man, the weird cyborg, and Captain Orin about to have them thrown out.
And an idea, a terrible, impulsive, and brilliant idea, sparked in her mind.
"Wait," Kikoru called out, striding over. All the soldiers, including Izumi, immediately snapped to attention.
"Captain Shinomiya," Izumi said respectfully. "An internal security matter."
"I'm aware," Kikoru said, a sly, mischievous grin spreading across her face. It was the first time Kafka had ever seen her look genuinely playful. She stopped in front of Saitama. "I remember you. You wanted to compete, didn't you? For the... meat?"
Saitama's eyes lit up again. "Yeah! But they said our team name wasn't on the list."
Kikoru turned to Captain Orin. "That's because they are not a team. He," she said, pointing a dramatic finger at Saitama, "is with me."
A collective gasp went through everyone present.
"He's... what?" Izumi asked, bewildered.
"He's a special sparring partner. A civilian consultant," Kikoru said, spinning a lie with incredible speed. "Brought in by my father to test the upper limits of the competitors. His registration is... special. Top secret." She leaned in conspiratorially. "Project Bald Cape. You understand."
Izumi Orin's eyes widened slightly. She didn't have clearance for that project, but she knew the name. It was the highest-level secret on the base. She immediately backed away. "Of... of course, Captain. My apologies. We were not briefed."
"You weren't meant to be," Kikoru said dismissively. She turned back to Saitama, her grin widening. "You want to compete for the steak? Fine. But you'll do it on my terms. You can be my 'final challenge' for the championship match. If you can beat me... maybe I'll even share the prize with you."
It was a perfect plan. She could get him into the tournament, satisfying whatever strange whim this was. She could finally have a proper, sanctioned 'spar' with him in front of the entire world. And she could use the public stage to finally, definitively, gauge his power. She would be the hero who fought the 'secret weapon' of the Defense Force.
Saitama, who hadn't followed any of the political maneuvering, only heard one thing. "So... if I beat you, I get the meat?"
"A share," she corrected. "Maybe."
"Deal," he said instantly.
And just like that, Saitama and Genos were escorted past security, now guests of honor under the personal authority of the tournament's star player. Kikoru had just unknowingly smuggled the world's biggest secret weapon into a high-security military event, right under the noses of its commanders. Her personal, romantic-comedic conflict with Saitama had just inadvertently served the secret, complex plans of Project Bald Cape perfectly.
As Saitama walked into the stadium, his gaze fixed on the giant poster advertising the glorious, marbled steak, he was completely oblivious. He didn't know he was a pawn in a plan to trap an intelligent monster. He didn't know he was being used by a prodigy to satisfy her own curiosity. He didn't even know his participation was now a part of a national security strategy.
He just knew that he had never, in his entire life, wanted to win a fight more than this one. The public was about to credit Kikoru with her greatest 'victory' yet: successfully enlisting their own secret god as her personal sparring partner. And the tension for the final act of Saga 1 had just been cranked to an explosive new level.