The two weeks leading up to the Tournament of Champions passed in a blur of frantic preparations, escalating anxieties, and Saitama's relentless, single-minded pursuit of a decent breakfast. While the kingdom buzzed with anticipation and dread, Saitama's primary concerns remained the fluffiness of his pillows, the structural integrity of his new cape (he'd already managed to accidentally rip a small seam while trying to see if it would allow him to glide from his balcony), and the persistent rumor of a "Golden Pancake Mountain" as a potential tournament prize.
Sir Kaelan, his perpetually assigned liaison, looked like he had aged ten years in those two weeks. His days were a never-ending cycle of trying to explain royal protocol to someone who considered a belch a form of constructive criticism, preventing Saitama from "helping" with tournament preparations (which usually involved punching things that weren't supposed to be punched), and fielding increasingly desperate requests from the Royal Kitchens for ingredients Saitama had vaguely remembered seeing on a cooking show once and now insisted were essential for a "proper pre-fight meal." (The request for "dragon eggs, sunny-side up, with a side of meteor cheese" had caused particular consternation.)
The Magi, under Elmsworth's increasingly frayed supervision, continued their "assessments," though they had largely given up on direct physical or magical tests after Saitama had accidentally vaporized their most powerful arcane dynamometer by "tapping it too hard to see if it was working." They now mostly observed him from a safe distance, taking copious notes on his sleep patterns (remarkably sound), his dietary habits (voracious and indiscriminate), and his reactions to various stimuli (ranging from utter indifference to mild annoyance, usually triggered by a lack of snacks or an overly complicated explanation). Their conclusion remained the same: he was an anomaly, a paradox, a walking violation of every known law, and they were no closer to understanding the "how" or "why" of his existence.
Princesses Iris and Alexia continued their visits, their motivations subtly diverging. Iris, driven by a sense of royal duty and a growing, albeit terrified, fascination, tried to instill in Saitama some understanding of the significance of the tournament, the honor of the kingdom, the expectations of the populace.
"Mister Saitama," she'd say, gesturing towards the bustling preparations visible from his balcony, "thousands will be watching. The champions of Midgar, the pride of our knightly orders, will be testing their mettle. It is a display of our kingdom's strength, our spirit."
Saitama, usually trying to see if he could skip a pebble across the palace moat and hit a specific gargoyle (he usually hit the wrong one, or overshot by several miles), would just nod. "Yeah, sounds… loud. Hope they have good snacks in the stands. Popcorn? Hot dogs? Those giant foam fingers?"
Alexia, on the other hand, seemed to actively enjoy the chaos Saitama trailed in his wake. She found his utter disregard for decorum, his simple desires, and his accidental demolition of aristocratic pretension to be a source of endless amusement. She'd often bring him unusual (and usually edible) "gifts" from the city markets, less out of genuine kindness and more to see his baffled reactions.
"I brought you something, Saitama," she said one afternoon, presenting him with a small, intricately carved wooden box. "It's a delicacy from the southern provinces. Candied griffin gizzards."
Saitama opened the box, peered at the glistening, unappetizing-looking contents, and sniffed. "Huh. Smells kinda like… old gym socks? But sweet." He popped one in his mouth, chewed thoughtfully, then his eyes widened slightly. "Hey! Not bad! Kinda chewy. But good chewy! Like… a really determined gummy bear!" He offered the box to Alexia. "Want one?"
Alexia, who wouldn't have touched a candied griffin gizzard with a ten-foot pole, just laughed, her crimson eyes sparkling. "Perhaps another time, Saitama." She leaned against his balcony railing, looking out at the city. "So, this tournament. Are you… excited? Nervous?"
Saitama shrugged, munching on another gizzard. "Excited about maybe fighting someone strong. Finally. Nervous? Nah. Why would I be nervous? Worst that can happen is I lose. Or they run out of pancakes." He paused. "Running out of pancakes would be pretty bad, actually. That might make me nervous."
The weight of expectation pressing down on the kingdom was immense. The Tournament of Champions was always a significant event, but this year, with the rumors of the "Tempest," it had taken on an almost mythical significance. People flocked to the capital from all corners of Midgar and beyond. Accommodation was scarce, prices for food and drink skyrocketed. Betting pools were established, with astronomical odds offered on (or against) the mysterious bald newcomer. Minstrels composed epic ballads predicting glorious victories or catastrophic defeats. The very air of Midgar crackled with anticipation.
King Olric felt this weight most keenly. He presided over endless council meetings, reviewed security arrangements, listened to frantic reports from his Magi, and tried to maintain an aura of regal calm while internally grappling with the reality that the fate of his kingdom might hinge on keeping a demigod supplied with enough sugar to prevent boredom-induced Armageddon. He had even, in a moment of desperation, consulted the Royal Astrologers, who had returned with a series of cryptic, unhelpful pronouncements about "a bald comet heralding an age of chaotic pastry" and "the alignment of the spoons foreshadowing a new era of condiment-based diplomacy." It was not reassuring.
The other participants in the tournament were also feeling the pressure. Renowned knights, who had trained their entire lives for this moment of glory, now found themselves facing the prospect of being overshadowed, or worse, utterly humiliated, by an unknown entity whose power was said to defy comprehension. Ambitious mages, eager to display their arcane mastery, wondered how their most potent spells would fare against someone who had reportedly erased ancient wards by rubbing his hands together. Foreign champions, who had traveled long distances seeking honor and riches, began to question the wisdom of their journey. The name "Saitama" was a shadow falling over all their ambitions, a question mark hanging over the entire event.
Gregor, Lyra, and Renn, now somewhat recovered from their ordeal and serving as reluctant "consultants" to Royal Intelligence (mostly recounting, for the dozenth time, how Saitama had tripped various monsters into oblivion), felt a strange mixture of pride and terror whenever they heard his name mentioned. He was their savior, their protector, but he was also… Saitama. They had front-row seats to the approaching chaos, and they weren't sure whether to cheer or hide under their beds.
On the eve of the tournament, Sir Kaelan made one last, desperate attempt to instill some sense of occasion in his charge. He found Saitama in his suite, wearing his new yellow jumpsuit, attempting to teach a stray palace cat how to play patty-cake. The cat looked unimpressed and slightly terrified.
"Mister Saitama," Kaelan began, his voice strained, "tomorrow… tomorrow is the Grand Opening of the Tournament of Champions. His Majesty will preside. Dignitaries from across the land will be in attendance. It is a momentous occasion."
Saitama looked up from the cat. "Oh, right. The fighty thing. Cool. Will there be an opening ceremony? With, like, fireworks? And maybe a marching band?"
"There will be… appropriate pageantry, yes," Kaelan confirmed, choosing his words carefully. "And you, as a… notable participant… will be expected to conduct yourself with… a certain decorum."
Saitama frowned. "Decorum? Is that like a special kind of fighting style? Because mostly I just punch things." He paused. "So, about those pancakes… are they, like, a guaranteed prize? Or do I have to win the whole thing? Because if I have to win, I hope these other guys are actually strong. It's no fun if they just fall over after one hit."
Kaelan closed his eyes. He could feel the migraine from two weeks ago making a triumphant return. "The culinary reward, Mister Saitama, is traditionally reserved for the Grand Champion. And yes, the participants are… formidable." (He silently prayed this was true, for the sake of the kingdom's structural integrity.)
"Formidable, huh?" Saitama's eyes lit up with that faint, almost dangerous flicker of interest again. "Okay. Sounds… promising." He stood up, stretching. "Well, I guess I should get a good night's sleep then. Big day tomorrow. Lots of potential punching. And hopefully, lots of pancakes."
He wandered off towards his fluffy cloud-bed, leaving Sir Kaelan alone with the unimpressed cat and the crushing weight of royal expectation. Kaelan looked out the window at the city of Midgar, its lights twinkling below, oblivious to the fact that its greatest champion, its most terrifying threat, its most baffling enigma, was currently anticipating victory primarily as a means to acquire a large quantity of breakfast food.
The stage was set. The players were assembling. The Tournament of Champions was about to begin. And the Kingdom of Midgar held its collective breath, wondering if it would survive the opening ceremony. The weight of expectation, for glory, for disaster, for pancakes, was almost palpable.