The "J-City Blackout," as the media dubbed it, left an indelible mark on the public consciousness. While the official story of geological faults and heroic engineers was plastered everywhere, it was too neat, too clean. In a world of Kaiju, people were primed to believe in the unbelievable.
And the stories began to trickle out.
A family in the Midori-Cho complex, their apartment wall a gaping hole now under repair, spoke in hushed tones of a "man in a hoodie" who had appeared from nowhere, wielding a piece of the building itself to save them from a "ghost monster."
Emergency responders, a scattered and confused force that night, shared fragmented reports. Some spoke of a "silver angel" streaking across the sky, pinpoint energy blasts neutralizing threats before they could even be properly identified.
But the biggest, most mythic story of all came from the western district. Dozens, then hundreds of people, all claimed the same impossible thing. In the darkest moment of the night, as monsters lurked in every shadow, a single, deep thump had echoed through the city, and a profound, peaceful silence had followed. The fear had just... vanished. The monsters had just... stopped.
The internet forums and conspiracy blogs went into a frenzy. They connected these new stories to the old ones—the gas line, the subway tunnel Honju, the impossible victory against the Cataclysm-Kaiju.
The pieces were coming together, forming a new, modern mythology.
They didn't have a name for him. They didn't have a clear picture. He was just a presence. An invisible, benevolent force that watched over their city. A protector who didn't want parades or medals, only peace.
The public, in their collective need for a hero who felt purer and more powerful than the government-sanctioned celebrities, finally gave him a name. It wasn't "Caped Baldy." It wasn't "Anomaly-Alpha." It was something simpler, more resonant.
They started calling him the Silent God of J-City.
This new urban legend became a fascinating cultural phenomenon. Street artists painted stylized, featureless murals of a figure in a cape on alley walls. Small, informal shrines with offerings of canned coffee and instant noodles began appearing at the sites of his "miracles." He became a symbol of hope, an uncredited, unseen hero for the common man. A god who was one of them.
Saitama was completely unaware of all this.
He was currently at the park, sitting on "his" bench with Kafka, who was reporting on the last, critical detail of their previous adventure.
"...so yeah," Kafka was saying, his face a mixture of guilt and anxiety. "I used the two thousand yen you left in my pocket to pay for the takoyaki Reno and I had. I still owe you."
"Nah, don't worry about it," Saitama said, staring intently at a group of pigeons pecking at some breadcrumbs. "Money's not a big deal since Genos hacked the planet's economy."
Kafka fell silent, the weight of their new, bizarre lives settling over him. He was a fugitive from the world's most powerful military organization, living with a god and a cyborg, and his biggest current concern was a ten-dollar debt. It was strange how quickly the impossible could become normal.
"So what now?" Kafka asked quietly. "What's our move?"
"What do you mean, 'our move'?" Saitama asked, finally tearing his gaze away from the pigeons. "The city's quiet. The TV works. There are no Kaiju trying to smash my stuff. This is perfect. This is the goal. We're done."
Kafka stared at him. Saitama's endgame wasn't victory or recognition. It was just... quiet. A peaceful afternoon. That was the prize.
"But... what about Kaiju No. 9? What about the Defense Force? Hoshina knows about me now. They won't just let this go," Kafka insisted.
"Sounds like a 'them' problem, not an 'us' problem," Saitama said with a shrug. "If they show up and start making a racket, we'll deal with them then. Until then..." He leaned back on the bench and closed his eyes, enjoying the sun. "...it's a nice day."
Kafka watched him, a slow, dawning realization spreading through him. Saitama wasn't a hero in the traditional sense. He wasn't a protector or a guardian. He was an immune system. He was a passive, overwhelmingly powerful force that only acted when his host—his peaceful, boring life—was infected by a problem.
And at that moment, sitting in the sun, listening to the distant sounds of the city, Saitama was in perfect remission.
The emergence of the "Silent God" legend was not missed by the powers that be.
In the bunker, Kenji Tanaka watched the social media feeds with a grim fascination. "They're creating a religion around him," he murmured. "They've taken all of his uncredited victories, all the events we've tried to cover up, and woven them into a single, cohesive narrative. It's... brilliant. And utterly terrifying."
He turned to his new second-in-command, a sharp, ambitious young woman named Analyst Kido. "What's the public reaction to the official heroes?"
Kido brought up a new set of charts. "Interesting, Chief. Captain Ashiro's approval rating is still high, but engagement is dropping. People admire her, but they're fascinated by the Silent God. She's the hero they're told they have. He's the hero they feel they have."
The government's carefully crafted political weapon was being outmaneuvered by a myth they couldn't control.
This news reached Kikoru Shinomiya, and it solidified her resolve. The public was hungry for a truth they could believe in, and she was trapped behind a wall of lies. She looked at her suit, at the media profile that called her a prodigy, and felt a profound sense of emptiness. She was famous, but the Silent God, a hero with no face and no name, was becoming a legend.
The path was clear. If she wanted to find the real war, she had to follow the legend. She had to find the truth behind the Silent God of J-City. Her investigation was no longer about a suspicious cadet; it was now a quest to unmask a god.
As Saitama dozed on the bench, a small child, no older than five, nervously approached him. She was holding a single, slightly bruised apple.
She tugged on the sleeve of his hoodie. Saitama opened one eye.
The little girl didn't say anything. She just shyly held out the apple, an offering. She didn't know he was the Silent God. She didn't know he could break planets. She just saw a simple, plain-looking man sitting on a bench in the sun, a man who seemed so quiet and calm that he felt safe. In a city of monsters and heroes, he was just... a peaceful part of the park.
Saitama, confused but not unkind, took the apple. "Uh... thanks," he said.
The girl smiled, then ran back to her mother, who was watching from a distance.
Kafka watched the entire exchange, and a profound understanding settled over him.
The public didn't need to know his name. They didn't need to see his face. His influence, his aura of profound, unshakeable calm, was so powerful that people could feel it, even if they didn't know what it was. He didn't just stop Kaiju; his very presence made the world feel a little bit safer, a little more normal.
The myth of the Silent God wasn't just a collection of stories. It was real. He truly was the city's quiet, unassuming, and completely oblivious guardian spirit. And Kafka was now the only other person in the world who sat on the bench beside him, sharing the silence.