The world became a ramen shop.
It wasn't an illusion. Tanjiro could smell it—the rich, fatty scent of simmering tonkotsu broth, the sharp tang of bamboo shoots, the savory aroma of braised chashu pork. It was real. His feet were on polished wooden floorboards. In front of him was a lacquered counter, impossibly long, stretching into the chaotic horizon. The psychic noise abated, replaced by a low, humming warmth.
But it was wrong. Beneath the comforting scents, there was a deeper one: grief. A profound, universe-sized loneliness emanating from the boy in the school uniform.
This new arrival, Mob, simply stood there, the epicenter of the imposed normalcy. He was a silent god in a world he was unconsciously making in his own image.
Anos Voldigoad watched, his usual amusement replaced by academic curiosity. "Fascinating. Not magic. Not a source-based miracle. It is pure will, forcing a subjective reality onto the objective. A power of emotion, not logic." He saw the weakness in it, the instability, but also its terrifying potential. It was a power he couldn't just dismiss or rewrite, because it wasn't playing by any established rules. It was a tantrum on a cosmic scale.
Goku looked at Mob, and for the first time since arriving, he wasn't itching for a fight. He could feel the boy's energy. It felt… sad. Like a storm cloud about to burst, not with rain, but with tears. "He's not a bad guy," Goku stated simply. "He's just scared."
Denji, whose chainsaw head had retracted back into a human one, sniffed the air. His eyes, usually half-lidded with apathy, widened. "Food?" he mumbled, his priorities instantly re-aligning. He took a tentative step towards the counter.
From behind the makeshift tavern wall, Kazuma peeked out. "You have got to be kidding me. The apocalypse is postponed for a noodle break?" He saw Saitama standing there, completely unfazed, and pointed. "See?! That bald guy gets it! This is just another Tuesday for him!"
Yuno and Noelle just stared, trying to process the event in magical terms and failing completely. "His mana… it's nonexistent," Yuno murmured. "This is impossible."
It was Saitama who broke the tense silence. He walked over to the newly formed ramen counter, pulled out a stool that had just finished materializing, and sat down. The squeak of the stool against the wood was the loudest sound in the world.
He placed his hands on the counter. "So, uh… is the ramen free?"
???% Mob's head tilted slightly. His hollow eyes registered Saitama. The question wasn't hostile. It wasn't fearful. It was… normal. It was a request that belonged in a ramen shop.
In the vast, silent storm of Mob's consciousness, Saitama's question was the first piece of data that fit the reality he was trying to create. And his power, raw and untamed, responded to it.
A simple, unadorned ceramic bowl faded into existence on the counter in front of Saitama.
It was empty.
Tanjiro knew this was the moment. Force wouldn't work. Logic wouldn't work. But empathy might. He began walking slowly towards Mob, his hands held up in a placating gesture. Asta tensed, ready to charge, but Goku put a hand on his shoulder. "Wait. Let him try."
"I smell your sadness," Tanjiro said, his voice soft, not wanting to spook a creature that could unmake them with a stray thought. "You don't want to hurt anyone, do you? You just want to feel safe. Like you're at home."
Mob's blank expression flickered. A crack in the psychic armor. The boy inside heard him.
Saitama tapped the empty bowl. "I'll take a miso chashu ramen. Extra noodles." He said it to Mob, but it was really directed at the universe at large. He was hungry. The world had gone insane. Therefore, ramen should appear. It was simple cause and effect.
In front of him, the empty bowl began to fill.
First with steaming, opaque broth. Then a perfect nest of noodles materialized within it. Slices of perfectly cooked pork, a soft-boiled egg, and green onions faded into existence on top. A wisp of steam curled into the air. It looked, and smelled, perfect.
A single, tear-like drop of gray rain sizzled on the wooden counter, a discordant note in the fragile harmony. Then another. The upward rain was starting again, phasing through the 'roof' of the imaginary shop. Anos's gaze snapped upwards. "Something is coming. This stabilization… this pocket of peace… it has been noticed."
Saitama picked up a pair of chopsticks that had appeared next to the bowl. He was about to take his first bite of impossible ramen when the world went sour.
The scent of the broth turned rancid in an instant. Tanjiro gagged, the smell hitting him like a physical blow. It was the scent of rot. Of decay. Of a corpse left in the sun for a week.
Saitama looked down. The noodles in his bowl writhed. They weren't noodles anymore. They were pale, squirming worms. The chashu pork had dissolved into a black, bubbling sludge.
The ramen shop was dying. The polished wood of the counter was covered in a creeping black mold that spread in fractal patterns. The chrome stools rusted over in seconds. Mob's haven of normalcy was being corrupted from the outside in.
A figure descended through the ceiling, phasing through the illusion like it was smoke. It wasn't a Herald. It was different. Sleeker. Scarier. It was tall and unnaturally thin, clad in what looked like interlocking shards of obsidian that shifted and flowed like liquid. It had no face, only a single, vertical line of burning purple light.
"Anomaly detected," it spoke, its voice a discordant symphony of grinding gears and whispering static. "Stabilization is a malfunction. Order is stagnation. The Axiom demands evolution through chaos. Reality-warpers are designated for immediate system cleansing."
Its gaze of purple light fell upon Anos Voldigoad.
Then it swept over to the trembling form of ???% Mob.
The being, a Cleaner, raised a razor-sharp, obsidian hand. A wave of pure anti-reality shot out, not aimed at a person, but at the concept of the ramen shop itself. The remaining structure dissolved into digital noise, leaving them all standing once again on the broken, mismatched ground.
"All laws are temporary," the Cleaner hissed, its focus locked onto Mob. "Your will is an error."
It lunged, moving at a speed that defied physics, its claws aiming to erase Mob from existence.
Mob couldn't react. Anos prepared to intercept, his own power flaring. Goku's muscles tensed, ready to go Super Saiyan. Asta was already screaming, charging forward with his useless swords.
None of them were fast enough.
Except for the one guy who had just lost his lunch.
There was a quiet thump.
The Cleaner was on its back twenty yards away, a perfect fist-sized crater in the center of its obsidian chest. It wasn't dead. The liquid armor was already flowing back to seal the hole. But it was stunned. Knocked clear across the battlefield.
Saitama stood over where Mob was, one fist extended. His expression wasn't bored anymore. It wasn't sad.
He was pissed.
"You made me lose my crab leg," he said, his voice dangerously low. "And now you turned my ramen into worms."
His head snapped up, his simple face suddenly a mask of terrifying, baleful intensity.
"Okay. I'm listening now."