The Tale of the Stolen Spoon spread through the Royal Palace, and then the capital, with astonishing speed. It eclipsed, for a brief, bewildering time, even the stories of the Titan's fall and the erasure of the Valley Wards. Nobles whispered about it in hushed, scandalized tones over their morning tea. Merchants speculated wildly about its meaning in the bustling marketplaces. Even the common folk, who had only glimpsed the strange, yellow-clad figure, began to weave it into the rapidly growing legend of the "Bald Cape." Was it a sign of contempt for the Crown? A bizarre foreign custom? A symptom of madness brought on by his immense power? Or, as a few particularly imaginative minstrels began to sing, was the spoon itself an artifact of unimaginable power, drawn to its rightful wielder?
For King Olric and his council, however, the incident was less a source of amusement or folklore and more a deeply troubling data point. It added another layer of unpredictability to an already incomprehensible entity. How could they strategize around a being whose motivations ranged from planetary-scale destruction (if annoyed) to petty larceny (if… bored? Or just fond of shiny things?)?
Saitama, blissfully unaware of the diplomatic and existential crisis his pocketed spoon had caused, had returned to his opulent suite and promptly fallen asleep, the new, high-quality silken pajamas provided by the palace (after he'd declared the royal nightshirt "too frilly") remarkably comfortable. He dreamt not of Titans or stolen cutlery, but of a vast, never-ending supermarket sale where everything was 90% off and the aisles were filled with perfectly ripe cabbages.
His liaison, Sir Kaelan, had spent a sleepless night alternating between pacing the corridor outside Saitama's suite and composing increasingly desperate draft reports to Captain Valerius, none of which seemed adequate to capture the sheer, mind-bending weirdness of his charge. He had also, under duress, managed to procure a small bowl of strawberries and a pitcher of milk for Saitama's bedside, in case he woke up with a midnight snack craving – a preventative measure against potential nocturnal 'heroics' born of hunger.
The following morning, the Royal Council convened again, the atmosphere even heavier than before. The King looked like he hadn't slept. Archmagus Theron presented his detailed analysis of the spoon incident, complete with diagrams of Saitama's posture, theories on potential psychological triggers, and a cross-referenced study of historical kleptomaniacs among magically powerful individuals (there were surprisingly few). It did little to clarify the situation.
"So," Chancellor Evrard summarized grimly, after nearly an hour of arcane psychological theorizing, "we have established that the being capable of leveling this city with a bored sigh also has a penchant for pilfering dessert implements. This is… progress?"
"It is an indicator, Chancellor," Archmagus Theron corrected patiently, "of a psyche that does not operate according to our established norms of power, responsibility, or even basic social propriety. He is not merely powerful; he is… other. Understanding that 'otherness' is key."
It was into this atmosphere of high-level bewilderment that King Olric reintroduced his earlier, somewhat desperate, proposal. "The Tournament of Champions," he stated, his voice firm, cutting through the murmurs. "It proceeds. In two weeks now, not three. We accelerate the preparations."
A fresh wave of unease rippled through the council. "Your Majesty," Lord Valerius began, "with the… current situation… is hosting such a public event wise? The city is already on edge. And to potentially involve… him…"
"It is precisely because of the current situation that the tournament is essential, Valerius," the King countered. "We need a venue. A pretext. A means to observe the Tempest, to gauge his limits, to understand his reactions in a series of controlled, escalating confrontations, without overtly challenging him or appearing to treat him as a prisoner." He leaned forward, his gaze sweeping the concerned faces. "Think of it not as a traditional tournament, but as… a diagnostic. A very public, very dangerous diagnostic."
"And if he refuses to participate?" questioned a skeptical Duke. "He seems… unmotivated by conventional notions of glory or honor."
"Then we find unconventional motivations," the King replied, a glint in his eye. "A prize tailored to his… unique appetites. Bragging rights that appeal to his 'hero for fun' persona. Or perhaps," he added, a hint of grim strategy entering his voice, "we subtly arrange for circumstances that necessitate his involvement. A 'monster attack' on the tournament grounds, perhaps? One that only he can 'clean up'?"
The audacity of the suggestion caused several council members to pale. Deliberately provoking a crisis to test a being of Saitama's power? It was playing with fire, with the very fabric of reality.
"Your Majesty, that is…" Chancellor Evrard began, aghast.
"A last resort, Chancellor," the King assured him, though his expression suggested he was not entirely averse to the idea if all else failed. "Ideally, he will be… persuaded… to enter willingly. Princesses Iris and Alexia," he turned to his daughters, who had been observing the council session with keen interest, "you have both displayed a certain… rapport… with unusual individuals. Perhaps you could… sound out our guest? Ascertain his interests? Subtly guide his attention towards the opportunities the tournament might offer?"
Iris and Alexia exchanged a look. Interact with the Spoon-Stealing Titan-Slayer? It was a daunting prospect, but also… undeniably intriguing. "We will do our best, Father," Iris said, her voice betraying a hint of excitement beneath her composed demeanor. Alexia just nodded, a thoughtful, almost predatory smile playing on her lips. She had a feeling the "Tempest" might be far more interesting than any of the stuffy courtiers or predictable knights she usually had to endure.
And so, the plan was set in motion. Invitations for the accelerated Tournament of Champions were dispatched across the kingdom and to neighboring lands, heralding a grand spectacle of martial prowess and magical might. The Royal Scribes worked overtime, drafting revised rules, discreetly adding clauses that might accommodate (or at least not immediately disqualify) an entrant of… unconventional abilities. The Royal Treasurer groaned at the potential cost of the grand prize necessary to entice Saitama (rumors of a "Golden Pancake Mountain" and a "Lifetime Supply of Deluxe King Crab Legs" began to circulate). And the Royal Engineers began reinforcing the main tournament arena, just in case.
Meanwhile, Saitama, having finally woken up around noon, was "cooperating" with a team of visibly nervous Magi in a specially prepared, heavily warded chamber deep within the palace. The Magi, led by a junior but highly resilient scholar named Elmsworth, were attempting to conduct a series of non-invasive tests to understand Saitama's energy output, his physical resilience, his reaction to various magical stimuli.
The results were… frustrating. And terrifying.
Their most sensitive arcane detectors registered nothing from Saitama, no aura, no magical flow, just a baffling blankness. When asked to lift a comically oversized iron weight (designed to test the strength of siege golems), Saitama had picked it up with one hand, asked if it was supposed to be heavy, then accidentally bent it in half while trying to see if it was hollow. When a minor illusion spell was cast to see his reaction, he'd just blinked and asked if the lighting in the room was always that "wobbly." A diagnostic spell designed to assess physical toughness simply… fizzled out a few inches from his skin, its energies absorbed or negated without effect.
"Remarkable," Elmsworth muttered, scribbling furiously in his notes, sweat beading on his brow. "Subject displays no discernible arcane energy, yet exhibits physical strength exceeding all known parameters. Complete nullification of minor offensive and diagnostic magics. Biological resilience appears… absolute, or at least, beyond our current capacity to measure." He looked at Saitama, who was now trying to see if he could balance a magic wand on his nose. "Fascinating. And utterly terrifying."
It was during a brief break in these "tests" (which mostly consisted of Saitama being mildly confused and the Magi becoming increasingly agitated) that Princesses Iris and Alexia made their carefully orchestrated entrance.
"Mister Saitama?" Iris began, her voice calm, polite, though her heart was pounding. She wore a simple but elegant day dress, her silver hair gleaming. Alexia, beside her, offered a cool, appraising smile. "We trust your… assessments… are not too arduous?"
Saitama looked up from the wand (which had fallen off again). "Huh? Oh, hi. Princesses, right?" He vaguely remembered them from the feast. "Nah, it's mostly just these guys poking me with glowy sticks and asking weird questions. Kinda boring. Are you guys here for the buffet? Is it open yet?"
"Not yet, I'm afraid," Alexia chuckled, finding his directness strangely refreshing after the endless courtly circumlocutions. "But we heard you were… a hero. For fun."
Saitama brightened. "Yeah! That's me!"
"And we were wondering," Iris continued, carefully guiding the conversation, "if you'd heard about the upcoming Tournament of Champions? It's a grand event. Warriors and mages from all over come to test their strength, to prove they are the best." She paused, watching his reaction. "There are… significant prizes. And much glory."
Saitama blinked. "Tournament? Like, fighting? Against strong guys?" A flicker of something – interest? Hope? – appeared in his usually impassive eyes. "Are they actually strong? Or just, like, talk-a-good-game strong? Because most of the guys I fight are pretty disappointing."
"Oh, some of them are reputed to be very strong, Mister Saitama," Alexia purred, sensing an opening. "Champions from distant lands, legendary beast tamers, masters of forgotten arcane arts… And the Grand Champion," she added, her voice laced with subtle temptation, "receives not only a fabulous treasure but also the undying admiration of the kingdom. And, I believe this year, a rather… unique… culinary reward is being considered." She winked.
Saitama's eyes widened slightly. "Strong guys? Treasure? Unique culinary reward? Like… a giant pile of pancakes?"
"Something along those lines is being discussed, yes," Iris confirmed, trying to keep a straight face. "It would certainly be a grand stage for a 'hero for fun' to… have some fun, wouldn't it?"
Saitama tapped his chin, considering. A tournament. With potentially strong opponents. And pancakes. It sounded… almost interesting. Way more interesting than being poked with glowy sticks or trying to balance things on his nose.
"Hmm," Saitama mused. "A tournament, huh? Maybe… just maybe… that might not be boring."
The princesses exchanged a subtle, triumphant glance. The unwitting keystone of the King's desperate plan was beginning to shift into place. The Tournament of Champions was about to get a contestant unlike any it had ever seen, or would likely ever see again. The chaos was officially scheduled.