The news that "Saitama the Tempest" – the Titan-Slayer, the Ward-Breaker, the newly (and bafflingly) appointed Royal Guest with a penchant for purloined spoons and pancakes – might actually participate in the upcoming Tournament of Champions sent a fresh series of shockwaves through the already reeling Royal Capital. It was like announcing that a recently discovered, highly unpredictable volcano was being entered into a flower-arranging contest. The reactions ranged from abject terror to morbid fascination, with a healthy dose of utter disbelief thrown in.
For the Royal Council, it was a precarious victory. They had their pretext, their "diagnostic." Now, they just had to survive it. Archmagus Theron immediately commissioned a new series of highly specialized wards to be placed around the Grand Arena – not to contain Saitama (an endeavor he now recognized as laughably futile), but to hopefully, possibly, mitigate the collateral damage to the surrounding city when (not if) Saitama decided to "have fun." Lord Valerius began discreetly reviewing the list of confirmed tournament participants, mentally calculating survival odds and wondering if he should preemptively triple the number of Royal Healers on standby. Chancellor Evrard started drafting emergency evacuation plans for the Royal Precinct, just in case.
King Olric, meanwhile, found himself presiding over a kingdom teetering on the edge of a nervous breakdown. Every day brought fresh reports of Saitama's "cooperation" with the Magi – a shattered training dummy here, a mysteriously bent adamantium bar there, a group of scholars collectively questioning their life choices after trying to explain the metaphysical concept of "mana" to someone who just wanted to know if it tasted good. The royal coffers were already feeling the strain of Saitama's "reasonable amenities," which apparently included a daily requisition for enough food to feed a small garrison and a surprisingly specific demand for "extra fluffy" towels.
Saitama himself, however, was in relatively good spirits. The prospect of a tournament, with potentially strong opponents and a grand culinary prize, had given him something to look forward to, a welcome distraction from the endless "tests" and Sir Kaelan's increasingly desperate attempts to teach him basic royal etiquette. He spent his days wandering his opulent suite (often in his new, perfectly tailored pajamas, much to Kaelan's despair), occasionally "helping" the palace staff (which usually resulted in something being accidentally broken or rearranged in a physically impossible way), and eagerly awaiting news about the pancake situation.
His conversations with Princesses Iris and Alexia became a semi-regular occurrence. They would visit him under the pretext of "cultural exchange" or "assessing his well-being," using the opportunity to subtly glean more information about him and, more importantly, to keep the idea of the tournament fresh in his mind.
Iris, with her earnest sense of duty, tried to understand his heroic philosophy. "So, Mister Saitama," she'd ask, "when you face these… 'space pirates'… what motivates you? Justice? The protection of the innocent?"
Saitama, usually in the middle of trying to build a tower out of sugar cubes, would pause. "Huh? Oh, mostly they're just loud. And they try to blow stuff up. Kinda messes with my shopping day, you know? So, I punch 'em. Then I can get back to looking for sales."
Iris would sigh, her noble ideals clashing violently with his pragmatic, grocery-focused heroism.
Alexia, on the other hand, found his responses endlessly amusing and strangely… liberating. She relished the way he effortlessly punctured the pomp and pretension of the court. "So, Saitama," she'd say, a mischievous glint in her crimson eyes, "if you win this tournament, and they offer you a dukedom, or vast lands… what would you do with it?"
Saitama would scratch his head. "Dukedom? Lands? Sounds like a lot of paperwork. And property taxes. Can I just get the pancakes instead? Maybe a lifetime supply? With extra syrup?"
Alexia would laugh, a genuine, delighted sound that was rarely heard in the stiff confines of the palace. She found his utter lack of ambition, his simple desires juxtaposed against his earth-shattering power, to be the most fascinating paradox she had ever encountered. She also started discreetly ensuring that particularly good batches of pastries and his preferred brand of (now royally sourced) instant noodles found their way to his suite. A happy Tempest, she reasoned, was marginally less likely to accidentally demolish the east wing.
The escapees – Gregor, Lyra, and Renn – had been quietly settled into a small, secure guesthouse on the palace grounds. They were debriefed extensively by Royal Intelligence officers (under Kristoph's watchful eye, ensuring they weren't unduly pressured). Their accounts of the Labyrinth, the Maw, the Shadow Walkers, and, of course, Saitama's impossible feats, were recorded, cross-referenced, and added to the rapidly growing, increasingly terrifying dossier on the "Tempest." They were treated well, given good food and medical attention, but they were, in effect, gilded prisoners, their knowledge too valuable, their connection to Saitama too significant, to allow them to simply wander off. Gregor accepted their situation with stoic resignation. Lyra and Renn, still traumatized but slowly recovering, found a strange comfort in the structured safety of the palace, a stark contrast to the chaotic horrors they had endured. They often asked about Saitama, their "savior," a mixture of awe and fear still evident in their voices.
As the days passed, the news of the accelerated Tournament of Champions, and the whispers of a mysterious, unbelievably powerful new contestant, began to ripple outwards from Midgar, carried by merchants, messengers, and migrating birds (or so it seemed, given the speed of rumor).
In a shadowy, undisclosed location deep within the labyrinthine underbelly of the Oriana Kingdom, a rival power to Midgar, a slender figure cloaked in midnight blue received a coded dispatch. The figure read it, a faint, almost invisible smile playing on their lips, their eyes, the color of twilight, glinting with amusement and calculation. "A 'Tempest' in Midgar, hmm? One who shatters Titans and eats spoons? How… diverting. Perhaps a small delegation to observe this 'Tournament' is in order. It has been too long since Oriana's champions tested Midgar's mettle."
Further north, in the frozen, magically saturated lands of the Jotunheim Hegemony, a hulking warrior chieftain, his beard braided with iron rings, listened to a scout's breathless report of the Midgar tournament and the rumors of a "Bald God of Destruction." He slammed a massive, gauntleted fist on his oaken table, rattling the drinking horns. "A challenge worthy of the Ice Lords! Prepare the war-skiffs! We sail for Midgar! If this 'Bald God' is truly strong, he will taste Jotunheim steel!"
Even further afield, in hidden enclaves and shadowed sanctums, other ears perked up. Ancient sorcerers, reclusive martial arts masters, leaders of clandestine organizations – the ripples of Saitama's name, tied to impossible feats and the promise of a grand confrontation, began to spread, drawing interest from corners of the world that rarely concerned themselves with the squabbles of kingdoms like Midgar. Some were driven by curiosity, others by ambition, a few by a dawning sense of unease, a feeling that something fundamental had shifted in the balance of power.
Within Midgar itself, the preparations for the tournament reached a fever pitch. The Grand Arena was being reinforced, its ancient stones magically strengthened, its spectator stands expanded. Merchants hawked "Tempest" themed trinkets – little bald-headed dolls, yellow capes, even (dubiously) "Titan-Slayer" brand sausages. Minstrels composed ballads, some heroic, some comedic, about the "Hero for Fun and Pancakes."
And in a quiet, unassuming tailor shop in the lower districts of Midgar, a young man with ordinary brown hair and unremarkable features, known to his neighbors as "Sid," hummed thoughtfully as he stitched a perfectly ordinary black cloak. He had, of course, heard the rumors. A new, overwhelmingly powerful player on the world stage, appearing out of nowhere, causing chaos and confusion. It was… interesting. Such individuals often served as excellent catalysts, excellent distractions. He wondered if this "Tempest" might prove useful, or perhaps, amusing, in his own long-term, meticulously crafted plans to become the true Eminence in Shadow. He made a mental note to discreetly observe this upcoming tournament. One never knew when a useful pawn – or a delightful source of chaos – might present itself.
The first ripple of Saitama's name, initially a localized phenomenon within the Deepwood and the Royal Palace, was now becoming a wave, spreading across kingdoms, drawing eyes, stirring ambitions, and setting the stage for a Tournament of Champions that promised to be unlike anything the world had ever seen. The unwitting keystone was in place. Now, the architects of fate, and of chaos, were beginning to gather.