A week passed. The sky healed.
The kingdom buzzed with rumors about Captain Yami's "ultimate attack," a story so ludicrous it circled back around to being believed. Yami, for his part, leaned into it, dropping vague, intimidating comments about his "limit-breaking ki" whenever another captain questioned him.
Life at the Black Bulls base settled into a new kind of chaos.
Saitama was given a room, which he mostly used for napping. Genos turned his assigned space into a humming magitech laboratory, cross-referencing the grimoire's schematic with his own world's science. The blank grimoire itself spent most of its time hovering near Saitama's head while he slept, doing nothing.
The rest of the squad adapted in their own ways. Luck stopped asking Saitama to fight, instead watching him with a frighteningly analytical stare, trying to comprehend power that wasn't tied to bloodlust. Vanessa tried to read Saitama's fate and got a metaphysical migraine for her troubles.
Asta, however, couldn't let it go.
He found Saitama in the base's makeshift training yard. The bald man was doing laundry, hanging his yellow jumpsuit on a line to dry.
"Mr. Saitama!" Asta called, running up to him, wooden training sword in hand. "Please! I need to understand!"
Saitama clipped his last clothespin on. "Understand what?"
"Your strength! I know what you said about your training… but it can't be that simple!" Asta planted his feet. "I have no magic, so my whole life, all I've had is physical strength! I train every single day until I can't even stand, but I'm not a hundredth as strong as you! There has to be a secret! A trick!"
Saitama looked at Asta. He saw the desperate, burning sincerity in the boy's eyes. It was a familiar look. It reminded him of how he used to be, before… well, before.
He sighed. "There's no trick."
"Then spar with me!" Asta pleaded, raising his sword. "Just a light spar! Let me feel it for myself! Let me feel the difference!"
Saitama looked at the flimsy wooden sword, then back at Asta. "...Fine. But don't expect much."
They stood opposite each other in the yard. The other Bulls, sensing a spectacle, began to gather.
"Asta's really gonna fight him?" Magna whispered from a balcony. "Does he have a death wish?"
"This isn't a magic battle," Noelle observed, a thoughtful frown on her face. "It's purely physical. This is Asta's home turf. Or it should be."
Asta took a deep breath, channeling Ki into his muscles, his stance a perfect copy of Yami's. His senses were on high alert, trying to read the intent, the breath, the faintest shift in weight from the man across from him.
He felt nothing. Saitama just stood there, hands in the pockets of his track pants. It was the most unnerving thing Asta had ever faced.
"I'm coming!" Asta yelled, and he charged.
He was fast. Years of relentless, superhuman training had made his body a weapon. He closed the distance in a blink, swinging his wooden sword in a powerful arc aimed at Saitama's shoulder.
Saitama tilted his head, ever so slightly.
The sword whiffed past, missing by a millimeter. Asta stumbled, surprised by the lack of impact. He spun, reversing his grip and thrusting at Saitama's ribs.
Saitama took one small step to the side. The sword slid past his shirt.
Asta unleashed a furious barrage of strikes, each one fast enough to shatter stone. He swung high, low, with slashes and thrusts. It was a whirlwind of expertly applied force.
Saitama simply walked. He took small, shuffling steps, turning his body, ducking his head, letting every single blow pass harmlessly through the space where he had been a fraction of a second before. He never took his hands out of his pockets.
He wasn't dodging. It wasn't even evasion. It looked like the world's laziest dance.
Asta grit his teeth, pouring every ounce of his stamina into one final, desperate overhead smash.
Saitama stopped moving. He just stood there and let the sword come down on his bald head.
CRACK!
The wooden sword shattered into splinters.
Saitama didn't even blink. He reached up and scratched the spot where the sword had hit, like he was brushing away an insect.
"See?" he said, his voice as flat as ever. "I told you. Nothing special."
Asta stared at the broken handle in his hand, his chest heaving. Sweat and tears stung his eyes. He hadn't landed a single blow. He hadn't even come close. It wasn't a duel; it was a child trying to punch the wind.
The other Black Bulls were silent. They'd seen his power against monsters. But to see it up close, on a personal scale… it was so absolute it was comical. And terrifying.
Just then, a calm, authoritative voice echoed through the yard.
"A most curious demonstration."
Everyone turned. Standing by the entrance to the base, flanked by his Royal Guard attendant Marx, was Julius Novachrono. The Wizard King himself.
His eyes, glowing faintly with his time magic, weren't on the shocked Black Bulls or the recovering Asta.
They were locked entirely on Saitama. And they were shining with an unholy amount of glee.
"You must be the new recruit," Julius said, a wide, fascinated smile on his face. "Yami failed to mention you were quite so… durable."
He took a step forward, his presence radiating an ancient, incomprehensible power that made the very air crackle.
"My name is Julius Novachrono. And I must confess," he said, his smile growing wider, "I am incredibly interested in what makes you tick."