The tournament began with a deafening roar from the crowd.
Jet fighters performed a flyover, painting the sky with red and white smoke. The announcers, voices booming with theatrical enthusiasm, introduced the divisions. The First, led by the promise of Kikoru Shinomiya's later appearance, received a thunderous ovation. The Third, with Hoshina as their stoic icon, garnered a respectful, appreciative cheer.
For the first few hours, the event was exactly what it appeared to be: a dazzling display of military might. Officers in advanced combat suits faced off in meticulously choreographed mock battles. New, automated defense turrets showcased their pinpoint accuracy by shooting down drone targets. It was loud, impressive, and completely meaningless.
Kafka, standing in the shadows of the competitor's tunnel, felt a growing sense of dread. It was all too perfect. A show designed to distract. His gaze kept drifting to the dark, cavernous service corridors that led to the base's lower levels. The bait.
His "adjutant" duties kept him close to Vice-Captain Hoshina, who was a picture of coiled, predatory calm. Hoshina wasn't watching the fights in the arena. His gaze was constantly sweeping the crowd, the sky, the shadowed corners of the stadium. He was hunting.
"He's here," Hoshina murmured, his voice so low only Kafka could hear. "This much organized energy, this much human emotion in one place... it's a beacon. Kaiju No. 9 can't resist a stage like this."
Kafka's blood ran cold. Hoshina wasn't just speculating. He was stating a fact. He could feel it, just as Kafka was beginning to feel a faint, sickly tingle at the edge of his senses—the whisper of another Kaiju presence nearby.
"Report your status, Hibino," Hoshina commanded, his eyes still scanning the area.
It was a test. He was asking if Kafka's "Kaiju senses" were picking anything up.
"All... clear, sir," Kafka lied, his voice tight. Admitting he felt something would confirm Hoshina's deepest suspicions.
Hoshina's gaze finally settled on him, sharp and piercing. He knew Kafka was lying. "Stay alert," was all he said, before turning his attention back to the stadium.
Meanwhile, in a specially reserved VIP box, Saitama was deeply engaged in his own tactical analysis.
"This is taking forever," he complained, slumping in his plush chair. Kikoru had arranged for them to wait in her family's private suite, a place of absurd luxury.
"Patience is a virtue, Master," Genos said, while inputting data into a high-tech tablet he had been given. He had already hacked the stadium's entire network and was now monitoring security feeds, power grid fluctuations, and the chemical composition of the hot dogs being sold at the concession stands. "The preliminary rounds are necessary to establish the competitive hierarchy. According to the tournament bracket, your designated engagement with Officer Shinomiya is scheduled for the final match, in approximately four hours."
"Four hours?!" Saitama wailed. "The sale at the supermarket ends in three!"
His priorities were, as always, a source of profound mystery.
He stared down at the arena, where two Third Division officers were engaged in a flashy but ultimately pointless display of swordsmanship. The crowd cheered. Saitama yawned. He was experiencing a new, previously unknown level of boredom: preemptive boredom. He was bored of a fight he hadn't even had yet.
His gaze drifted. He watched the spectators doing the wave. He watched a vendor trying to unjam a soda machine. His eyes scanned the rafters, the service tunnels, the maintenance catwalks high above the arena.
And then he saw it.
It was nothing most people would notice. A cleaner, dressed in a standard maintenance uniform, was moving along a high catwalk. But he was moving with a strange, deliberate purpose, and he wasn't carrying any cleaning supplies. He stopped, knelt, and placed a small, dark object on a structural support beam. Then he moved on.
Saitama watched as the man placed three more of the strange objects at key points along the stadium's superstructure.
Genos, following his Master's gaze, immediately focused a dozen different sensor suites on the figure. "Master," he said, his voice suddenly stripped of its usual formality. "That is not a human. Life signs are... amorphous. His epidermal layer is a mimicry. I am detecting multiple, high-yield explosive devices being placed on the primary support struts of the dome."
Saitama looked at the bombs. He looked at the cheering, oblivious crowd. He looked at the giant poster of the steak. If the dome collapsed, the tournament would be cancelled. The steak would be forfeited.
This would not stand.
"Genos," he said, his voice flat.
"Yes, Master."
"Take care of those bombs. Quietly."
"Understood." Genos's eyes glowed a faint, menacing red. He stood, and in a movement too fast for any human eye or security camera to follow, he simply... wasn't there anymore.
Saitama stood up and began to walk towards the exit of the VIP box. His epic quest for meat was, once again, being rudely interrupted by some overly dramatic bad guy.
High above the arena, Kaiju No. 9, in its human disguise, placed the final charge. Its plan was simple: it wasn't here to fight. It was here to create the ultimate diversion. It would cripple the stadium, trigger a mass panic, and draw every soldier on the base up to the surface. And in the chaos, it would slip down to the labs and take its prize.
It pulled out a small, remote detonator. Its thumb hovered over the button.
Just as it was about to press, a calm, metallic voice spoke from directly behind it. "I believe that is Defense Force property. Please refrain from tampering with it."
Kaiju No. 9 spun around, its human face melting away to reveal its true, monstrous visage. Genos stood there, his trench coat billowing, his chrome hands glowing with nascent energy. He had moved across the entire stadium and up a hundred-meter catwalk without making a single sound.
"The cyborg," Kaiju No. 9 hissed, its voice a chorus of stolen vocal cords.
"Correct," Genos replied. He raised his hand, his incineration cannon charging. "Your destructive actions are illogical and an inconvenience to my Master. Prepare to be eliminated."
A new battle, a secret war between the Chrome Demon and the Learning Monster, was about to begin in the heavens of the stadium, completely unseen by the thousands of spectators below. The public credit for the victory would go to the stadium's "robust safety features," but the true story was being written in fire and steel, high above the cheering crowds. And it was all in service of one man's uninterrupted path to free beef. The Silent God's presence was once again shaping events, his influence a quiet, gravitational force that pulled every plot thread into its orbit without him even being aware of it.