The dawn of the Grand Championship Final rose over Midgar not with the bright clarity of previous tournament days, but with a sky the color of bruised plums, heavy with unspoken portent. A restless wind whipped through the city, snatching at banners, stirring dust in the streets, and carrying with it a faint, almost imperceptible tension that settled over the capital like a shroud. The usual boisterous energy of the populace was subdued, replaced by a kind of hushed, almost reverent anticipation. Today was the day. The day the Tempest would finally face the kingdom's (and perhaps the world's) finest. Or, more accurately, the day the kingdom's finest would face the Tempest.
In his opulent suite, Saitama was remarkably, almost aggressively, calm. He had slept soundly (his snores, according to a terrified Sir Kaelan, had occasionally caused the tapestries to ripple), and was now enjoying a breakfast that could only be described as "heroically proportioned." A mountain of actual pancakes (the Royal Chefs, driven by a mixture of fear and professional pride, had finally perfected a recipe they hoped would meet his unspecified standards), several platters of sausages, eggs cooked in at least five different ways, a tureen of Lightning Broth noodles (for "palate cleansing"), and a small bowl of candied griffin gizzards (a personal offering from a surprisingly thoughtful Princess Alexia, who had also included a note that read: "Try not to break the arena too much. It's a historical landmark.").
Saitama ate with focused determination, his attention divided between the syrup-to-pancake ratio and a small, brightly colored bird that had landed on his balcony and was attempting to steal a piece of sausage.
"Hey! Get your own sausage!" Saitama admonished the bird, waving a fork vaguely in its direction. The bird, unimpressed, made off with a small piece. Saitama sighed. "Bold bird. Respect."
Sir Kaelan hovered nearby, looking even more haggard than usual. He had spent the night reviewing contingency plans with Captain Valerius – plans that mostly involved variations on "try to evacuate the Royal Family before the Tempest accidentally triggers a localized black hole" and "have a very large, very strong apology letter ready for whichever neighboring kingdom gets hit by stray debris."
"Mister Saitama," Kaelan ventured, his voice tight, "the… final… is scheduled to begin in two hours. Are you… feeling prepared? Any… last-minute requirements? Perhaps a pre-battle pep talk? Or a… a blessing from the Royal Magi?"
Saitama, mouth full of pancake, shook his head. "Nah, I'm good. Pep talks are boring. And blessings usually involve itchy water. Just gotta finish my breakfast. Don't wanna fight on an empty stomach. That's, like, rule number one for heroes. Or maybe it's rule number seven. I always get them mixed up." He took another massive bite. "This syrup is pretty good, though. Not too runny."
The other finalists, meanwhile, were experiencing a very different kind of morning.
Hrolf the Iron-Beard, the Jotunheim chieftain, had spent the night in ritualistic combat meditation, his twin axes gleaming beside him, his mind focused on the glorious death or impossible victory that awaited him. He had faced down ice giants, wrestled krakens in frozen seas, and led his warriors through blizzards that would kill lesser men. Fear was an alien concept to him. But the stories of the "Bald God," the casual, almost contemptuous ease with which he dispatched powerful foes… it stirred something new in Hrolf's icy heart: a thrilling, terrifying anticipation of a challenge unlike any he had ever known. He would meet this Tempest head-on, with the full fury of Jotunheim, and either break him or be broken in the attempt. There was no other way for a true warrior.
His opponent for the right to face Saitama was a figure far less… direct. She was known only as "Seraphina the Silent," a mysterious swordswoman from a reclusive order in the southern deserts. Clad in flowing white robes that concealed her form and a featureless silver mask that hid her face, she moved with an eerie, silent grace. Her swordsmanship was said to be a dance of death, her blade so swift it was invisible, her strikes landing with pinpoint precision, often before her opponents even realized they were under attack. She had glided through her qualifying bouts, defeating renowned duelists and heavily armored knights with an almost effortless elegance, her silence as unnerving as her skill. She spent her morning in quiet contemplation, her silver mask reflecting the bruised dawn sky, her thoughts, like her fighting style, hidden, enigmatic. She saw the Tempest not as a god or a monster, but as a… phenomenon. A disruption in the flow of things. And she was curious to see if her blade, honed by years of silent discipline, could find a way to sever that disruption.
The Royal Palace was a hive of controlled activity. King Olric, dressed in his most imposing state robes, presided over a final briefing with his military commanders and arcane advisors. The mood was grim.
"The arena wards have been tripled, Your Majesty," Archmagus Theron reported, his voice heavy. "They are designed to absorb and redirect kinetic and arcane energy up to… well, up to levels previously considered purely theoretical. Whether they will suffice against the Tempest's… unique output… remains to be seen." He did not sound optimistic.
"Evacuation routes for the Royal Box and the nearest city sectors are finalized," Lord Valerius added, pointing to a series of complex diagrams. "Elite Knight units are on standby, not to engage the Tempest, but to manage crowd control and… mitigate immediate post-impact consequences." The euphemism for "deal with the flaming wreckage and screaming survivors" was not lost on anyone.
King Olric nodded slowly. "And the… prize?"
Chancellor Evrard cleared his throat. "The 'Golden Pancake Mountain of Eternal Syrup' has been… commissioned, Your Majesty. It is currently under construction by a terrified team of Royal Bakers and Engineers in a heavily reinforced section of the palace kitchens. They assure me it will be… structurally sound. And… very large." He paused. "We have also secured a lifetime supply of Oriana Lightning Broth noodles, as per Princess Alexia's… insightful suggestion. And a voucher for a custom-made, 'extra-flappy' cape from the Royal Tailor."
The King just stared at his Chancellor, a muscle twitching in his cheek. Pancake mountains. Noodle supplies. Cape vouchers. This was what the fate of his kingdom, the awe of his people, the terror of his enemies, had been reduced to. It was a farce. A terrifying, potentially world-ending farce.
"See to it that the… prizes… are prominently displayed," the King said, his voice flat. "Perhaps the sight of them will… focus… our guest's attention." He doubted it, but one had to try.
As the hour of the final approached, a hush fell over Midgar. The streets leading to the Grand Arena were packed, but the usual boisterous cheers were subdued, replaced by a low, anxious murmur. People clutched good luck charms, whispered prayers, and placed last-minute, desperate bets. This wasn't just a tournament anymore; it felt like a reckoning.
In the waiting area beneath the arena stands, the atmosphere was thick with tension. Hrolf the Iron-Beard stood alone, his massive form radiating a primal energy, his axes resting on his shoulders. Seraphina the Silent was a still, white shadow in a corner, her presence almost imperceptible until one looked directly at her. Other tournament officials, healers, and guards scurried about, their faces pale, their movements jerky.
Saitama, having finished his breakfast and a brief, unsuccessful attempt to teach Sir Kaelan the Macarena ("No, no, your hips gotta be more… swishy!"), arrived looking refreshed and mildly bored. He wore his new, slightly-less-flappy-but-still-yellow hero suit.
"So," he said, looking around at the tense faces. "Big fight today, huh? Hope it's a good one. Last few were kinda… quick." He yawned. "Anyone got any gum?"
Hrolf the Iron-Beard turned his burning gaze upon Saitama. He grunted, a sound like grinding glaciers. "You. Bald One. They say you are strong."
Saitama blinked. "Oh, hi. Big axe guy, right? Yeah, I guess I'm pretty strong. Are you strong? You look strong. Lots of muscles."
"I am Hrolf!" the chieftain roared, slamming his axes together, sending sparks flying. "And I will taste your blood or die in the attempt!"
Saitama frowned. "Taste my blood? Kinda gross, man. And dying sounds like a bummer. Can't we just, like, shake hands after? Or maybe get some ice cream?"
Seraphina the Silent, who had not moved or spoken, tilted her silver-masked head slightly, her unseen gaze fixed on Saitama. She felt no fear, no aggression, only a profound, analytical curiosity. This being… he was a void in the tapestry of fate, a thread that had no beginning and no discernible end. Her blade hummed faintly at her side, eager to test that void.
The trumpets blared from the arena above, signaling the start of the Grand Championship Final. The roar of the crowd, a vast, primal wave of sound, washed down into the waiting area.
Sir Kaelan approached Saitama, his face a mask of forced calm. "Mister Saitama… it is time. The… the kingdom awaits." He looked like he was about to escort someone to their execution, rather than a championship bout.
Saitama shrugged. "Okay. Let's get this over with." He stretched, his joints popping softly. "Hope they got my pancake order right."
He turned and began to amble towards the arena tunnel, leaving behind a fuming Jotunheim chieftain, an enigmatic silent swordswoman, a despairing royal liaison, and an entire kingdom holding its breath. The calm before the storm was over. The culinary prize, and perhaps the fate of Midgar, awaited.