The Hall of Origins. Secure Chambers.
The room smells of crushed ambrosia and ancient ozone. It is a sanctuary designed to withstand the collapse of galaxies, yet the atmosphere inside is brittle as dried leaves.
Zeus sits on a throne of recovery, hooked up to tubes pumping golden ichor directly into his veins. His body is no longer in Adamas form; he looks like a withered old man, shrunken and trembling. His right arm is encased in a cast made of starlight.
"He didn't fight," Zeus whispers. The words whistle through the gap where his tooth used to be. "He didn't... use a technique."
"Rest, brother," Ares pleads, pacing the marble floor. The God of War is red-eyed. "We will gather the armies. We will drop the entirety of Olympus on his head. No mortal can withstand—"
"SHUT UP!" Zeus snaps. The exertion makes him cough blood. "You saw him. The vacuum of his punch... it wasn't aim. It was force. Pure, mindless force. If we send an army, we are not sending soldiers. We are feeding meat to a grinder."
Shiva sits cross-legged in the air, floating near the ceiling. His third eye is wide open, darting nervously.
"Odin's spear," Shiva mutters. "Broken like a twig. Thor. Smashed. Mjolnir. Defeated. And he asked about... vegetables?"
"Meat," Hermes corrects, standing by the door. His notebook is open. "Specifically, beef short ribs."
"Whatever!" Shiva waves all four arms. "The point is, his motivation is zero. He isn't here to conquer. He isn't here to destroy heaven. He just wants to go home."
"Then let him!" Ares yells. "Open a portal! Throw him back to whatever hell he crawled out from!"
"We cannot."
The voice is cold. Arctic. It freezes the fear in the room and replaces it with shame.
Poseidon stands at the entrance. The God of Gods. The Tyrant of the Seas. He holds his trident, indistinguishable from his spine—rigid, perfect, flawless. His face is a mask of absolute disdain.
"Brother," Zeus wheezes. "You didn't see..."
"I saw," Poseidon cuts him off. He walks into the room, not looking at anyone. To look is to acknowledge, and gods have no peers to acknowledge. "I saw the 'King of the Cosmos' flayed by a monkey. I saw the 'All-Father' cowed by a finger. I saw the 'Strongest Norse God' weeping in the dirt."
Poseidon stops. He taps his trident once. A ring of water ripples outward, cleaning the blood from the floor.
"Pathetic," Poseidon states. "Gods do not lose. Gods do not bleed. And gods certainly do not negotiate with filth because they are afraid."
"He isn't normal filth!" Ares argues, stepping back.
Poseidon's eyes shift. He doesn't turn his head. He just slides his irises to the corner to look at his nephew. The weight of that glance drops Ares to one knee.
"There is no such thing as strong filth," Poseidon says. "There is only perfection, and everything else."
He turns and walks toward the door.
"I will sanitize the arena. Then I will finish the tournament."
"Poseidon!" Odin warns, stepping out of the shadows. "Do not engage alone. We must strategize. We must combine—"
"Plotting," Poseidon speaks without stopping, "is for those who cannot simply command. I require no strategy. I require no allies. I am a God."
He exits. The temperature in the room rises five degrees, but the chill remains in their marrows.
The Golden Corridor of Asgard.
"Genos," Saitama asks, his voice echoing in the vaulted hallway. "Why is everything gold? The floor is gold. The walls are gold. The plants are gold. It's tacky."
Genos scans a statue of a valkyrie. "Gold is a non-reactive metal, Master. It signifies eternal preservation. However, it is soft. As a construction material for high-traffic areas, it is illogical. It dents easily."
"Yeah," Saitama says. He pokes a wall. His finger sinks in an inch. "See? Shoddy craftsmanship. My apartment has drywall rot, and it's tougher than this."
They walk past terrified nymphs who scatter like pigeons. A lesser deity of wine drops his amphora and dives behind a pillar.
Saitama ignores them. He is looking at the pamphlet he took from a display rack.
Visit Valhalla: Eternity Awaits!
"This map sucks," Saitama complains. "It lists 'Hall of Valor,' 'Fountain of Wisdom,' and 'Pit of Despair.' Where is the food court? Usually, big stadiums have a food court near section C."
"I am detecting biological scents from the East sector," Genos reports. His chassis hisses as he recalibrates his gyroscope. "Master, my self-repair systems are at 40%. The damage from Odin's guard... I may need to scavenge parts."
"Don't steal," Saitama chides. "We aren't villains."
He pauses. He looks at a decorative suit of armor standing in the hall. It is made of unknown celestial alloys.
Saitama looks at Genos's missing arm. He looks at the armor.
"Okay," Saitama points. "Just the left arm. But wipe it off first."
"Understood."
They turn a corner.
The hallway changes. The gold disappears, replaced by polished lapis lazuli. The air grows humid and salty. The sound of crashing waves echoes, though they are indoors.
Water covers the floor. An inch deep. Pristine, clear seawater.
"Great," Saitama lifts a foot. His red boot drips. "Now my socks are going to get wet. Wet socks are the worst. You get blisters."
"Halt."
The single word stops the air currents in the hallway.
A figure stands thirty meters ahead. Blonde hair, pale skin, clothing that exposes a perfectly sculpted chest. He holds a trident. He does not blink. He does not breathe. He stands perfectly still, as if he is a painting of a god rather than a living being.
Poseidon.
Genos steps in front of Saitama, his single remaining arm charging up. "Master. Hostile detected. Threat level: Unstable. I detect hydro-kinetic manipulation on a molecular level."
Saitama peers around Genos's shoulder.
"Hey," he calls out. "You work here? The floor is flooded. A pipe burst or something. You should call a plumber before the mold sets in."
Poseidon does not respond. He does not speak to insects.
He raises the trident.
The water on the floor rises. It forms a perfect circle around the duo. It isn't just water anymore; it's pressurized liquid hard as steel, sharp as diamond.
"You," Poseidon speaks to the air, refusing to make eye contact with Saitama. "You have dirtied the Halls of Asgard with your breathing. You have humiliated the concept of divinity by existing."
"Genos," Saitama whispers loud enough to be heard. "Is he talking to us? Or is he on a Bluetooth headset?"
"I detect no communication devices, Master. I believe he is monologue-ing."
Poseidon's eye twitches. The insolence.
He moves.
Amphitrite.
The god doesn't lunge. He flows. It is the movement of a tsunami compressed into the shape of a man. The trident strikes fifty times in a single heartbeat. A cage of thrusts, encompassing every angle of dodge, every retreat.
Saitama is scratching his shin when the attacks arrive.
Swish. Swish. Swish.
The trident tips pierce the space where Saitama's vital organs were milliseconds ago.
Saitama sways.
Left. Right. Duck. Lean back.
He moves with the grace of a plastic bag caught in an updraft. Unpredictable. Sloppy. Yet... completely untouchable.
Poseidon accelerates. The air screams.
Thrust-thrust-thrust-thrust.
"Die," Poseidon says calmly. "Die, trash. Die, insect. Die."
Saitama steps on a dry patch of floor. He checks his shoe.
"Almost stepped in a puddle," he mutters.
Poseidon freezes.
He stops the assault. He steps back, perfect composure slightly cracked. His breathing is steady, but his mind is reeling.
He didn't parry. He didn't block. He just... stepped out of the way.
And he was looking at his shoes.
"Look at me," Poseidon commands. His voice drops an octave. The ocean hovering around them begins to boil. "LOOK AT ME, YOU WORM."
Saitama looks up.
He makes eye contact.
Poseidon flinches.
He expected fear. He expected defiance. He expected hatred.
He finds... nothing.
Eyes like dead fish. A profound, abyssal emptiness. It isn't the emptiness of a void; it's the emptiness of a man who is thinking about whether he left his stove on.
"You're loud," Saitama says. "And you're wet. Go away."
Saitama walks forward.
Poseidon thrusts. A kill shot to the throat.
Saitama's hand comes up. He catches the middle prong of the trident.
CLANG.
The vibration travels up the shaft. Poseidon's perfect hands go numb.
Saitama holds the weapon. He looks at it.
"Is this a giant fork?"
"Release it," Poseidon commands, pulling. It doesn't move. The god pulls with the strength to drag continents. The bald man doesn't budge.
"You eat with this?" Saitama asks, genuinely curious. "The spaghetti would slip right off. You need a spoon for soup, you know."
Poseidon's calm shatters.
"IT IS NOT CUTLERY!"
The god releases the trident and summons water. The fluid creates a dome, a whirlpool of grinding pressure intended to shred the molecules of the intruder.
Divine Wrath: 40-Day Flood.
The hallway disappears. They are underwater. The pressure is crushing—equivalent to the bottom of the Mariana Trench.
Genos's warning lights blink red. "Pressure critical! Hull integrity failing!"
Saitama is standing in the water. His cape floats upward. He holds his breath. His cheeks puff out.
He looks annoyed.
Holding breath is annoying.
He punches.
Not at Poseidon.
At the water.
Normal Punch.
Impact.
The physics of hydrodynamics breaks down. The shockwave hits the water molecules, and instead of displacing them, it deletes the concept of liquid in a straight line.
The tunnel of water vaporizes instantly. The remaining water is blown out of the corridor, through the walls, out into the Valhalla courtyard, taking the lapis lazuli floor with it.
Moisture vanishes.
The hallway is dry. Bone dry.
Poseidon is dry. His hair is frizzed from the static shock of instant evaporation.
Saitama exhales.
"Phew," he says. "Better. Much drier."
He looks at Poseidon.
The Perfect God is shaking. Not from fear—he cannot process fear—but from glitching reality. He is the God of the Sea. And this man just... punched the sea away.
Saitama walks past him.
As he passes, he pats Poseidon on the shoulder.
"Nice fork, though," Saitama says sympathetically. "Good for barbecues."
He walks on. Genos clanks after him, clutching a piece of salvaged golden armor.
Poseidon stands alone in the ruined hallway.
His hand reaches up to his shoulder. The place where the mortal touched him.
"Dirty," he whispers.
He looks at his hand.
"Filthy."
But he doesn't turn around. He doesn't chase.
For the first time in his eternal existence, the God of Gods does not want to test his perfection. Because deep down, in a place he locks away, he suspects...
He suspects he is not the ocean.
He is just a puddle. And the man in the yellow suit is the sun.
Humanity's VIP Box.
Sasaki Kojiro is vomiting into a bucket.
"Are you okay?" Okita Souji asks, poking the swordsman.
"I saw it," Sasaki gasps, wiping his mouth. "I scanned the new fight."
"And?"
"Poseidon... died," Sasaki says, trembling. "Seventeen thousand times in two minutes. The bald man didn't kill him. He just... chose not to end the sentence."
Brunhilde is pacing. She is chewing her nails down to the cuticles.
"He ignored Poseidon," she mutters. "He broke Zeus. He humiliated Odin. Who is next? Who is stupid enough to challenge him next?"
A shadow falls over the group.
A man with dreadlocks, sucking on a lollipop, floats down. He sits in the air, legs crossed in a lotus position.
One eye covered. A tank top. The coolest aura in the universe.
Buddha.
"Yo," Buddha says. He pops the candy out of his mouth.
"You guys seeing this? This is wild."
"Lord Buddha!" Göll squeaks.
"Chill, little one." Buddha points a finger towards the hallway where Saitama vanished.
"That guy?" Buddha smiles. A real, enlightened smile. "He's achieved it."
"Achieved what?" Brunhilde asks sharpish. "Nirvana?"
Buddha laughs. "Nah. Something cooler. He stepped off the wheel. Karma doesn't stick to him. Destiny slips off his bald head."
Buddha stands up, stretching his arms.
"I wanna meet him. Maybe he wants some chips."
The Inner Sanctum of the Void.
Beelzebub sits in his laboratory. Dark vibrations hum around him.
On his screen, data scrolls. Readings from the arena.
The vibrations Saitama created. The resonance.
"It defies logic," Beelzebub whispers. "Destruction without malice. Power without source."
He picks up a skull.
"If I fight him..." Beelzebub's dark eyes glimmer with a twisted hope. "...maybe he can finally kill me."