Dusk bled across the sky in hues of bruised purple and blood orange as the unlikely fellowship departed the Royal Capital. They travelled not on horseback, which would be too slow and conspicuous, nor by any grand magical conveyance, which might attract unwanted attention from afar. Instead, Shadow had procured… something else.
It was a heavily modified, low-slung carriage, painted a matte, non-reflective black, its wheels muffled and its frame reinforced with strange, dark metals that pulsed with a faint, almost imperceptible thrum. It was drawn not by horses, but by two hulking, shadowy beasts that looked like wolves carved from solidified night, their eyes glowing with a faint, internal crimson light. They moved with an unnatural silence and an eerie grace, their paws barely disturbing the ground.
"Shadow Hounds," Shadow explained, his voice a low murmur as they boarded the surprisingly spacious interior. "Creatures of the borderlands, loyal and… discreet. They can traverse terrain impassable to mortal steeds and their presence dissuades… unwanted curiosity."
Iris and Alexia exchanged uneasy glances. The hounds radiated an aura of palpable menace, yet they obeyed Shadow's unspoken commands with perfect subservience. Rose Oriana observed them with a mixture of caution and academic interest. Genos, after a quick scan, commented, "Fascinating bio-mechanical structure. Organic, yet exhibiting properties of condensed dark energy. Their efficiency rating appears high for terrestrial locomotion in hostile environments."
Saitama, however, was more concerned with the seating arrangements. "Shotgun!" he declared, trying to clamber into the driver's seat next to where Shadow was currently materializing from the ambient gloom.
"The Hounds respond to my will alone, Caped One," Shadow said, a hint of dry amusement in his tone. "There is no… 'shotgun.' Perhaps you would be more comfortable in the rear, where the vibrations are less pronounced?"
Saitama grumbled but settled onto a surprisingly plush bench next to Genos. "Fine. But if we see any cool monsters, I'm calling dibs on punching them first."
The journey north was unnervingly swift and silent. The Shadow Hounds devoured the miles, their shadowy forms blending seamlessly with the deepening twilight. Inside the carriage, the atmosphere was thick with unspoken tension. Iris and Alexia reviewed maps and weapon schematics with grim focus. Rose read from a small, leather-bound book, its pages filled with ancient runes, occasionally murmuring soft incantations under her breath – likely wards of protection.
Shadow remained an enigmatic presence, occasionally offering cryptic pronouncements about the nature of the Desolation Peaks or the psychology of the Cult. "The Peaks are not merely mountains, Princesses," he'd said at one point, his voice a silken rasp. "They are a monument to forgotten evils, a place where the echoes of ancient screams still cling to the stones. The very air is tainted, seeking to pry open the cracks in one's soul."
Saitama, meanwhile, had produced a well-worn copy of "Jump" magazine from somewhere (Genos confirmed it had been stored in a dimensional sub-pocket within his hero suit) and was engrossed in the latest chapter of "Chainsaw Man," occasionally chuckling or muttering, "Whoa, that Pochita is a good boy."
Genos, ever vigilant, monitored their surroundings through the carriage's specially treated, one-way windows, his optical sensors sweeping for threats. He also provided periodic updates on Saitama's vital signs, which remained, as always, "remarkably and almost offensively normal, despite the impending doom and unnatural G-forces exerted by the Hounds' acceleration."
As they drew closer to the Desolation Peaks, the landscape began to change. Lush forests gave way to gnarled, twisted trees, their branches like skeletal fingers clawing at the sky. The ground became barren and rocky, the air growing colder, carrying a faint, metallic tang. A pervasive sense of unease settled over them, a primal dread that had nothing to do with the Cult and everything to do with the ancient, brooding malevolence of the place itself.
"We are entering their domain," Shadow announced, his voice barely a whisper above the silent rush of the carriage. "From this point forward, expect the unexpected. The Peaks are not merely guarded by cultists; the land itself is hostile."
Indeed, they soon encountered their first… incident. A narrow pass between two jagged cliffs suddenly began to constrict, the rock faces groaning and shifting as if alive, threatening to crush the carriage.
Before Iris or Alexia could even draw their blades, or Shadow could utter a suitably ominous incantation, Saitama, without even looking up from his manga, casually punched the side of the carriage.
Not hard. Just a light thump.
The entire mountain shuddered.
The constricting cliffs froze, then, with a series of grating, protesting groans, they slowly, reluctantly, began to recede, widening the pass once more. A shower of pebbles and dust rained down.
Saitama turned a page. "Man, Denji's really going through it this week."
Iris stared at the now-docile cliffs, then at Saitama, then back at the cliffs. "Did… did you just punch the mountain into submission?"
Saitama looked up, blinked. "Huh? Oh, was that me? Felt a little bump. Thought maybe one of the Shadow Dogs tripped."
Shadow's hidden face was a mask of pure, unadulterated ecstasy. 'He doesn't even realize! He perceives a minor inconvenience and casually reshapes the geology of a mountain range as an afterthought! The sheer, unconscious arrogance! The glorious indifference to the laws of physics and nature! This is beyond anything I could have orchestrated! He is not merely a diversion; he is a walking, talking, manga-reading act of God!'
The goosebumps on Shadow's skin were practically forming their own cult in awe of Saitama.
As they ascended further into the Peaks, the oppressive atmosphere intensified. Whispers seemed to slither on the wind, too faint to decipher, yet burrowing into the mind like maggots. Illusory figures flickered at the edge of vision – grotesque, shadowy shapes that vanished when directly observed. The temperature plummeted, and a biting wind howled through the crags, carrying the scent of old blood and decay.
Alexia shivered, clutching her sword hilt tighter. "This place… it feels like it's trying to get inside my head."
Rose Oriana's face was pale, and she held a small, glowing amulet clutched tightly in her hand. "The demonic miasma is strong here. It preys on doubt, on fear. We must remain focused."
Even Iris, the stoic Sword Saint, felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. The whispers were insidious, dredging up old failures, forgotten insecurities.
Genos, however, seemed unaffected. "My positronic brain is shielded against psychic interference, Master. However, I am detecting anomalous energy fluctuations that could potentially induce auditory and visual hallucinations in organic beings. I recommend increased vigilance."
Saitama, having finished his manga, was now trying to see if he could make a spitball stick to the roof of the carriage. "Huh? Hallucinations? Cool. Hope I see a giant talking hot dog. That'd be pretty funny."
Suddenly, the Shadow Hounds let out low, guttural growls, their crimson eyes flaring. The carriage jerked to a halt.
"We have company," Shadow stated, his voice flat.
Through the swirling mist that now clung to the mountainside, figures began to emerge. They were cultists, but different from the fanatics in the palace. These were clad in heavier, more archaic armor, their faces obscured by grotesque, beast-like masks. They wielded crude, heavy weapons that pulsed with a dark, unstable energy. And there were dozens of them, materializing from the rocks and shadows as if born from the mountain itself.
"The Guardians of the Cradle," Shadow identified them. "Zealots bound by ancient pacts, their bodies warped by prolonged exposure to the nexus. More beast than man. They will not be reasoned with."
One of the masked guardians, larger than the others, pointed a massive, serrated axe towards the carriage and let out a guttural roar that was more animal than human. The others echoed the cry, a chilling chorus of bloodlust.
"Alright!" Saitama said, cracking his knuckles, a sudden grin splitting his face. "Finally, some action! Been sitting for way too long. My butt was starting to fall asleep."
Before anyone could outline a strategy, before Shadow could deliver a cool, pre-battle monologue, Saitama kicked open the carriage door (which promptly flew off its hinges and embedded itself in a nearby rock face like a discarded throwing star) and hopped out.
"Hey there, ugly mask guys!" he called out cheerfully. "Nice night for a brawl, huh? So, who wants to go first? Try not to all rush at once, okay? Makes it hard to keep track."
The lead Guardian roared again and charged, his massive axe raised, clearly not understanding or caring about Saitama's polite request.
Saitama sighed. "Guess they don't speak polite." He raised a single fist.
What happened next was less a fight and more… a rapidly escalating series of unfortunate impacts for the Guardians of the Cradle.
The lead Guardian's axe, which looked capable of cleaving a boulder in two, met Saitama's casually raised fist. The axe didn't just shatter; it vaporized. The shockwave, a silent ripple of pure kinetic force, travelled up the Guardian's arms, through his body, and he simply… came apart. Like a badly made clay statue dropped from a great height. No gore, no blood, just a sudden, surprising disintegration into dust and falling armor fragments.
Saitama blinked. "Huh. Guess these guys are even more fragile than that vase."
The other Guardians, witnessing their champion reduced to component parts by a single, almost bored-looking punch, hesitated for a fraction of a second. It was all the time Saitama needed.
He moved. Not in a blur, not with superhuman speed that could be tracked, however imperfectly. He was simply… among them. One moment he was by the carriage, the next he was in their midst, a yellow and red meteor sowing chaos.
Thwack. Pop. Crunch. (Though the crunch was more the sound of armor crumpling than bones breaking, as the bodies inside seemed to cease existing upon impact.)
He wasn't using named attacks. No "Consecutive Normal Punches." No "Serious Series." Just… punches. Casual, almost lazy swings of his fist, each one connecting with a Guardian and resulting in their immediate, unceremonious deletion from reality. He moved through them like a bored janitor sweeping up particularly stubborn, heavily armored dust bunnies.
Iris, Alexia, and Rose watched from the carriage, their jaws agape. Even Shadow, who had anticipated a display of overwhelming power, found himself momentarily speechless. The sheer, unadulterated efficiency was breathtaking. There was no struggle, no effort, no wasted motion. Just… erasure.
Genos, however, was providing commentary. "Master's current output is at approximately 0.0003% of his estimated maximum potential. He is clearly conserving energy. Perhaps he is anticipating a more challenging encounter further ahead? Or maybe he's just trying to finish quickly so he can ask about that snack bar again."
Within thirty seconds, the clearing was empty save for Saitama, a scattering of empty, dented armor, and a fine layer of dust settling on the ground. The menacing howls of the wind through the crags were the only sound.
Saitama dusted off his gloves. "Well, that was a decent warm-up. Little bit one-sided, though. You guys okay in there?" He peered back into the carriage.
Iris swallowed hard. "We're… we're fine, Saitama-san. That was… remarkably effective." Understatement of the millennium.
Alexia just stared, a muscle twitching in her cheek. All her training, her royal lineage, her pride as a warrior… felt utterly insignificant in the face of what she'd just witnessed.
Shadow finally found his voice, a low, resonant hum. "The… overture… has concluded. Impressive, Caped One. You have certainly… cleared the path." 'He didn't just clear the path,' Shadow thought, his mind reeling, 'he power-washed the mountain with their pulverized remains! The sheer, unadulterated disrespect for established power hierarchies! It's… it's poetry!'
The goosebumps were now conducting a full-blown symphony orchestra on his skin, complete with a choir of awestruck phantoms. The initial shock was wearing off, replaced by a giddy, almost terrifying sense of anticipation for what Diablos's Cradle itself would witness.
As they prepared to proceed, Saitama sniffed the air. "Hey, you guys smell that? Kinda smells like… burnt toast. And maybe… old socks?"
Genos's sensors whirred. "I am detecting concentrated demonic energy signatures ahead, Master. Significantly higher than the 'Guardians.' The source appears to be emanating from a large, fortified structure embedded within the mountainside, approximately two kilometers distant. That is likely Diablos's Cradle. The olfactory component you describe is consistent with high-level demonic miasma and… poor ventilation."
Saitama nodded. "Right. Burnt toast and old socks. Definitely sounds like a bad guy lair." He grinned, a genuine, almost eager grin. "Well, what are we waiting for? Let's go tell 'em to air the place out!"
The march to Diablos's Cradle had begun, heralded by the casual annihilation of its first line of defense. The whispers of the Peaks seemed to quiet momentarily, as if even the ancient malevolence of the mountains was taking a moment to process what had just transpired. The real show was about to begin.