The morning of the Grand Opening of the Tournament of Champions dawned bright and clear, a perfect azure sky arching over the Royal Capital of Midgar. It was as if the heavens themselves were holding their breath, anticipating the spectacle to come. The city, however, was anything but calm. From the earliest hours, a torrent of humanity flowed towards the Grand Arena, a colossal stone amphitheater nestled just outside the Royal Precinct, its ancient walls now adorned with colorful banners and royal crests.
Street vendors hawked roasted meats, sweet pastries, and dubious "Tempest Tonic" (guaranteed to grant "one-punch strength," or at least indigestion). Minstrels sang rousing ballads of past champions and nervously composed new verses about the mysterious bald newcomer. Betting stalls were mobbed, the odds on Saitama fluctuating wildly with every new rumor – he could fly, he ate mountains for breakfast, he was secretly the King's illegitimate, overly powerful son, he was an escaped god of laundry who had misplaced his divine washboard. The theories grew more outlandish by the hour.
Inside the Royal Palace, a different kind of controlled chaos reigned. Knights in polished armor hurried through corridors. Officials barked orders. Servants rushed to and fro, laden with platters and documents. Sir Kaelan, looking like he hadn't slept in a week (which was largely true), was attempting to coax Saitama into a slightly more formal version of his hero suit – one with a marginally less conspicuous cape and perhaps, Kaelan had prayed, fewer complaints about the lack of pockets suitable for storing emergency snacks.
"Mister Saitama," Kaelan pleaded, holding up a pristine, slightly less billowy white cape, "this one is… more streamlined. For aerodynamic efficiency. During combat." He was making that last part up, but he was desperate.
Saitama, who was trying to see if he could balance a grapefruit on his head, eyed the new cape skeptically. "Streamlined? Does that mean it makes me go faster? Or is it just… less fun to flap around?" He picked it up. "Feels kinda… stiff. My old one was way more flowy. Good for dramatic entrances. If I ever bothered with dramatic entrances." He shrugged, then put it on. "Fine. But if it chafes, I'm blaming you."
The journey from the palace to the Grand Arena was a spectacle in itself. Saitama, flanked by a nervous Sir Kaelan and a heavily armed honor guard (more for the crowd's protection than Saitama's, everyone suspected), walked through streets lined with cheering, jeering, and utterly bewildered citizens. They threw flowers (which Saitama tried to catch and eat, mistaking them for exotic vegetables), shouted encouragement ("Punch 'em all, Baldy!"), and offered unsolicited advice ("Try a left hook, Tempest!"). Saitama mostly just waved, occasionally asking if anyone knew where the good pancake stalls were.
The Grand Arena was a sea of noise and color. Tens of thousands of spectators crammed into the stone tiers, their roars and cheers echoing off the high walls. Banners representing noble houses, knightly orders, and distant kingdoms fluttered in the breeze. In the center of the vast, sand-covered arena floor, a raised dais had been erected for the Royal Box, draped in crimson and gold.
King Olric, Queen Isolde, and the Royal Princesses made their grand entrance to a deafening fanfare of trumpets and a roar of adulation from the crowd. They took their seats, their expressions regal and composed, though the King's grip on the armrest of his throne was notably tight. Archmagus Theron and the Royal Council flanked them, their faces a mixture of solemn duty and barely concealed trepidation. Gregor, Lyra, and Renn had been given seats in a less conspicuous, though still well-guarded, section, their presence a quiet reminder of the origins of this strange new champion.
The initial pageantry was impressive. A procession of champions from previous years, grizzled veterans and proud heroes, paraded around the arena. Knights in gleaming armor performed intricate mounted drills. Magi conjured spectacular illusions – roaring griffins made of pure light, shimmering fountains of arcane energy – that drew gasps of wonder from the crowd.
Saitama, watching from a specially designated (and heavily reinforced) waiting area beneath the stands with the other registered participants, was mostly unimpressed. "Lots of sparkly stuff," he commented to a nervous-looking, seven-foot-tall barbarian warrior from the northern wastes who was trying very hard not to make eye contact. "But is it edible? Because that light-griffin looked kinda like a giant, glowing chicken wing."
The barbarian just grunted and edged away slightly.
Finally, the Master of Ceremonies, a portly man with a booming voice and an elaborately curled mustache, stepped onto the arena floor. "People of Midgar! Honored Guests! Welcome! Welcome to the most glorious, most anticipated Tournament of Champions in a generation!" His voice, magically amplified, echoed throughout the arena. The crowd roared its approval.
"Today," the Master of Ceremonies continued, his voice swelling with dramatic importance, "we witness the best of the best! Warriors of unparalleled skill! Mages of breathtaking power! Heroes whose names will be sung for centuries to come!" He paused, milking the anticipation. "And this year… we have a new entrant. A mystery. A legend in the making! A man whose deeds in the dark depths of the Valgothian Deepwood have already shaken the foundations of our kingdom! I speak, of course, of the one, the only… SAITAMA THE TEMPEST!"
A hush fell over the crowd, a sudden, collective intake of breath. Then, a roar even louder than before, a chaotic mixture of cheers, jeers, and pure, unadulterated curiosity. All eyes turned towards the entrance tunnel from which the participants would emerge.
Saitama, hearing his name called, blinked. "Oh. That's me, right?" He looked at Sir Kaelan, who was frantically gesturing for him to go out. "Okay. Guess I should… go fight someone now?"
He ambled out of the tunnel and onto the sun-drenched arena floor, blinking in the bright light, his new, slightly less flowy cape fluttering mildly behind him. He looked around at the tens of thousands of screaming, staring faces, at the imposing Royal Box, at the vast, empty expanse of sand.
"Wow," he said, mostly to himself. "Big crowd. Hope they have good crowd control. And enough bathrooms."
His entrance was… anticlimactic. No dramatic pose, no battle cry, no visible aura of power. Just a bald man in a yellow suit, looking slightly bewildered, as if he'd wandered into the wrong party.
The crowd's roar faltered for a moment, replaced by a wave of confused murmurs. Was this the Titan-Slayer? The Ward-Breaker? He looked… disappointingly ordinary. Unimpressive, even. A few jeers and catcalls started up from the cheaper seats.
In the Royal Box, King Olric leaned forward, his expression unreadable. Archmagus Theron stroked his beard thoughtfully. Princess Alexia smirked, clearly enjoying the cognitive dissonance sweeping through the arena.
The Master of Ceremonies, recovering quickly, boomed, "And his first opponent! A warrior renowned for his brute strength and untamed ferocity! Hailing from the savage peaks of the Dragon's Tooth Mountains! Give a thunderous welcome to… KROG THE SKULLCRUSHER!"
From the opposite tunnel, a truly terrifying figure emerged. Krog the Skullcrusher was aptly named. He was easily seven feet tall, built like a siege engine, his skin a patchwork of old scars and crude tribal tattoos. He wore minimal armor – just a loincloth and some spiked leather bracers – revealing a physique rippling with inhuman muscle. He carried a colossal, two-handed stone axe that looked like it could fell an oak tree with a single blow. He roared, a deafening, bestial sound, and slammed his axe onto the sand, sending up a shower of grit. The crowd, particularly those who appreciated brute force, roared back in approval. This was more like it!
Krog glared across the arena at Saitama, his small, bloodshot eyes burning with contempt. He saw not a legend, but a small, soft-looking city dweller in a ridiculous outfit. An easy first kill. A stepping stone to glory.
Saitama looked at Krog. "Huh. Big guy. Nice axe. Looks heavy. You gonna chop wood with that? Or is it for, like, tenderizing really big steaks?"
Krog just roared again, spitting on the sand, and began to advance, his massive axe held ready, his expression one of pure, murderous intent. The ground seemed to tremble slightly with each heavy step.
The Master of Ceremonies, sensing the imminent carnage, quickly shouted, "Let the first bout of the Tournament of Champions… BEGIN!" He then hastily retreated to a safe distance.
The entire arena fell silent, all eyes fixed on the two figures in the center of the vast expanse. The tiny, bald man in yellow, and the hulking, axe-wielding barbarian. It looked like a foregone conclusion. A brutal, bloody, and very short foregone conclusion.
Krog charged, covering the distance with surprising speed for his bulk, his axe raised high, preparing to bring it down in a devastating, skull-crushing blow. He roared, a sound designed to paralyze his opponents with sheer terror.
Saitama watched him come. He didn't move. He didn't brace himself. He just stood there, hands loosely at his sides, his expression one of mild, almost bored, observation. He looked like he was waiting for a bus.
As Krog reached him, the colossal stone axe whistling downwards with enough force to shatter a castle gate, Saitama finally reacted. He sighed. A small, almost inaudible sigh of resignation.
Then, he performed an action so simple, so mundane, yet so utterly out of place in the context of a life-or-death gladiatorial combat, that it took everyone a moment to process.
He raised his right hand and… caught the axe.
Not blocked it. Not deflected it. Caught it. His open palm connected with the flat of the descending axe blade, inches from his head, stopping its earth-shattering momentum instantly, dead in its tracks.
The sound was… a dull thunk. Like a wet log hitting soft earth.
Krog froze mid-swing, his eyes bulging in disbelief, his massive arms straining, veins popping on his neck, as he tried to force the axe downwards. But it wouldn't budge. It was as if his colossal weapon, imbued with all his monstrous strength, had slammed into an immovable object. He grunted, roared, put every ounce of his savage power into the blow, but the axe remained perfectly still, held effortlessly in the bald man's open palm.
A stunned, disbelieving silence fell over the Grand Arena. Tens of thousands of people stared, mouths agape, minds struggling to comprehend what they were seeing. Even the King leaned forward, his knuckles white on the throne.
Saitama looked up at Krog, whose face was now a mask of bewildered fury. "Hey, you're pretty strong," Saitama commented, his voice calm, almost conversational. "This axe is really heavy. You must work out."
Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, Saitama twisted the axe.
There was a sound like a giant redwood tree snapping in half – a sharp, explosive CRACK! – and the thick, magically hardened stone axe head shattered into a dozen pieces, the haft splintering in Krog's hands.
Krog stared at the ruined remnants of his ancestral weapon, then back at Saitama's empty hand, then back at the shattered axe. His brain seemed to short-circuit.
Saitama looked at the broken axe pieces on the sand. "Oops. Guess it wasn't that well made." He looked back at Krog, who was still standing there, utterly dumbfounded. "So… you got another one? Or are we done here? Because, you know… pancakes."
Krog, his rage and confusion finally boiling over, let out another deafening roar and lunged forward, abandoning his broken weapon, deciding to tear this insolent whelp apart with his bare hands. He threw a punch, a haymaker with the force of a battering ram, aimed at Saitama's head.
Saitama, with the same casual, almost bored, air, simply… leaned his head slightly to the side.
Krog's massive fist, which could pulverize boulders, whistled past Saitama's ear, missing by a hair's breadth. The wind of its passage ruffled Saitama's cape.
Saitama then delivered a single, open-palmed tap to Krog's exposed, charging chest. A gentle tap. The kind you might give a friend to get their attention.
Pat.
The sound was almost inaudible.
But Krog the Skullcrusher, the seven-foot-tall mountain of muscle and rage, stopped dead. His eyes widened, then rolled up into his head. His jaw went slack. His entire body went limp. And he collapsed. Straight down. Like a felled tree. He hit the sand with a heavy thud, completely unconscious, a thin trickle of dust rising from his inert form.
Silence. A profound, absolute, ringing silence that filled the entire Grand Arena. Tens of thousands of people, from the King in his Royal Box to the poorest peasant in the highest tiers, stared at the scene, utterly, completely, speechless.
Saitama looked down at the unconscious Krog, then around at the silent, staring crowd. He scratched his bald head.
"Huh," he said, mostly to himself. "Guess he wasn't that strong after all. One pat. Bummer." He then looked towards the Royal Box, specifically in the direction where he thought the food might be. "So… does this mean I win? Can I get those pancakes now?"
The roar of the crowd, when it finally came, was not one of cheers or jeers. It was a roar of pure, unadulterated, reality-breaking shock. The Tournament of Champions had begun. And the foundations of the world had just been casually, hilariously, terrifyingly, patted.