The silence that followed Saitama's question about pancakes was so profound, so absolute, that one could have heard a pin drop from the highest tiers of the Grand Arena – if anyone had dared to breathe, let alone drop a pin. Tens of thousands of eyes were fixed on the lone, yellow-clad figure standing over the unconscious form of Krog the Skullcrusher, a man who had, moments before, embodied savage, overwhelming power and was now a gently snoring heap on the arena sand.
The Master of Ceremonies, who had retreated to what he thought was a safe distance near the arena walls, stared, his jaw slack, his elaborately curled mustache twitching. His script, filled with rousing pronouncements of glorious battle and hard-won victories, had not accounted for… this. He had no words. He simply pointed a trembling finger towards Saitama, then towards Krog, then back again, his mouth opening and closing like a beached fish.
In the Royal Box, King Olric gripped the armrests of his throne so tightly that the ancient wood creaked in protest. His face was a mask of stunned disbelief, warring with a dawning, terrifying understanding of the sheer, casual absurdity of the power he had invited into his capital. Queen Isolde's fan had stopped mid-flutter, her usually composed features frozen in an expression of wide-eyed astonishment. Princess Iris looked pale, her hand covering her mouth. Princess Alexia, however, had a bright, almost manic glint in her crimson eyes, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across her lips. This was far, far more entertaining than she could have ever imagined.
Archmagus Theron stroked his beard, his ancient eyes narrowed, not in shock, but in deep, intense contemplation. The method… a casual catch, a flick of the wrist, a gentle pat. No visible magic, no overt display of force, yet the result was absolute, instantaneous incapacitation. It wasn't just raw power; it was… finesse? Economy? An application of force so precise, so overwhelmingly superior, that it bordered on the magical in its effect, yet was clearly, terrifyingly, physical.
Kristoph, watching from the Royal entourage, felt a grim sense of vindication. He had tried to warn them. His reports had been detailed, explicit. But seeing it, experiencing the sheer, casual ease with which Saitama had just dismantled a renowned brute like Krog… it was something else entirely. He exchanged a look with Zenon, who merely raised an eyebrow, a silent acknowledgment of the unfolding chaos. Elara just looked like she wanted to go back to the relative sanity of the Deepwood.
Gregor, Lyra, and Renn, watching from their less conspicuous seats, were perhaps the least surprised people in the entire arena, though no less awestruck. They had seen Saitama trip Chasm Guardians, obliterate Earth Titans, and make Phantasm Weavers cease to exist with a clap. Krog the Skullcrusher, for all his bluster, was just another Tuesday for the Tempest. Lyra actually giggled, a slightly hysterical sound that drew a few startled glances from nearby spectators. Renn just shook his head, a dazed grin on his face. Gregor sighed, a familiar feeling of 'here we go again' settling over him.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Saitama, growing impatient with the silence and the distinct lack of pancake-related activity, called out again, his voice echoing slightly in the stunned arena, "Hello? Anybody? Did I win? Is the pancake guy on his break? Because I'm really getting hungry here."
His voice seemed to snap the Master of Ceremonies out of his stupor. He fumbled with his speaking trumpet, nearly dropping it. "Uh… y-yes! Yes! The winner… the winner of the first bout… is… SAITAMA THE TEMPEST!" His voice cracked on the last word, a mixture of terror and disbelief.
The announcement was met not with a roar, but with a strange, hesitant, almost bewildered ripple of applause that slowly, uncertainly, gained volume. People were clapping, but they weren't entirely sure why, or what they had just witnessed. It was less a celebration of victory and more a collective acknowledgment of having survived proximity to something utterly inexplicable.
Saitama beamed. "Awesome! Winner! Okay, pancake time!" He started to walk towards the exit tunnel, clearly intending to find the nearest food source.
"Wait! Mister Saitama! Hold!" the Master of Ceremonies yelped, rushing forward, then stopping abruptly as he remembered who he was addressing. He bowed deeply, almost touching his nose to the sand. "Apologies, O Mighty Tempest! The… uh… the tournament protocol… requires the victor to remain in the arena until… uh… formally acknowledged! And… and there are more bouts!"
Saitama paused, looking disappointed. "More bouts? But I already won. And he's sleeping." He pointed at Krog, who was now snoring loudly, a sound that carried surprisingly well in the suddenly quieter arena. "Can't I just get the grand prize now? Is it the pancake mountain?"
In the Royal Box, King Olric closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and silently counted to ten. He then signaled to an aide, who hurried off.
The Master of Ceremonies, sweating profusely, tried to explain. "Ah, no, Great One! That was but the first qualifying match! There are many… many esteemed champions yet to compete! The Grand Prize is awarded only to the… uh… ultimate victor! After all rounds!"
Saitama frowned. "All rounds? How many rounds are there? Is it gonna take all day? Because I have a very important nap scheduled for this afternoon. And possibly some laundry."
"There are… several rounds, Mighty Saitama," the Master of Ceremonies stammered, his gaze flicking nervously towards the Royal Box, as if seeking guidance, or perhaps a quick escape route. He saw the King make a subtle, almost imperceptible gesture. "But! But, as a special… uh… consideration… for your… impressive victory… perhaps a small… refreshment… could be arranged here in the arena?"
Saitama's eyes lit up. "Refreshment? Like, snacks? Here? Now?"
"Indeed!" the Master of Ceremonies declared, a wave of desperate relief washing over him. "While the arena is prepared for the next bout! Absolutely!" He snapped his fingers at a group of terrified-looking arena attendants who had been trying to inconspicuously drag Krog's unconscious form out of the arena. "Attendants! Refreshments for the Victorious Tempest! At once! The finest… uh… small cakes! And… and milk!"
The attendants, startled into action, practically tripped over themselves to comply. Within minutes, a small, hastily assembled tray of pastries (suspiciously similar to the ones from the royal feast) and a goblet of milk were presented to Saitama, who accepted them with genuine delight, settling down on a surprisingly clean patch of sand near the arena wall to enjoy his mid-tournament snack. The sight of the Titan-Slaying, Skullcrusher-patting enigma happily munching on a petit four while a seven-foot barbarian was being unceremoniously hauled away by four struggling men only added to the surreal atmosphere.
The crowd watched this bizarre interlude with a mixture of fascination and utter confusion. The jeers and catcalls from earlier had vanished, replaced by hushed whispers, nervous laughter, and a dawning realization that this tournament was going to be unlike anything they had ever witnessed. The legend of Saitama, already potent, was solidifying with every baffling, anticlimactic victory.
The echoes of that first "pat" resonated far beyond the arena walls.
In the shadowed alcoves where the foreign delegations observed, there were hurried, hushed conversations. The representative from the Oriana Kingdom, the slender figure in midnight blue, allowed a small, genuine smile to touch their lips. "Intriguing," they murmured to an aide. "His control… or perhaps, his utter lack of need for it… is remarkable. He expends almost no discernible energy for such… absolute results. This bears closer observation."
The warrior chieftain from the Jotunheim Hegemony, who had initially scoffed at Saitama's unimpressive appearance, now leaned forward, his massive fists clenched, a new, respectful light in his eyes. "The small one… he broke Krog's axe with a touch? And felled him with a… caress? There is power there. Deep power. Perhaps… perhaps he is worthy of Jotunheim steel, after all." His warriors grunted in agreement, their earlier contempt replaced by a warrior's grudging admiration for sheer, undeniable strength.
Even within the city, among those not present in the arena, the news spread like wildfire, carried by fleet-footed urchins and gossiping merchants. "Krog the Skullcrusher, defeated! With a single touch!" The story grew with each retelling. Saitama hadn't just patted him; he'd stared into his soul and Krog had fainted from sheer terror! He'd whispered an ancient word of power! He'd merely willed him to fall! The reality was somehow even more unbelievable than the exaggerations.
In his unassuming tailor shop, the young man known as Sid paused in his stitching, a thoughtful expression on his face. He had, of course, arranged for discreet observation of the tournament. The initial reports were… interesting. A being of such power, operating with such apparent obliviousness… it was a delightful spanner in the works of so many carefully laid plans – others' plans, of course. He wondered how the established powers, the cults, the kingdoms, would react to such an unpredictable, uncontrollable variable. It promised much… amusement. And perhaps, opportunity. A faint smile touched his lips. The world was indeed a stage, and new, unexpected actors often made for the most entertaining plays.
Back in the arena, the next bout was being announced. Two renowned knights, clad in gleaming plate armor, were entering the arena, their expressions grimly determined, their lances held ready for a mounted charge. They had witnessed Saitama's "fight." They had seen Krog fall. And now, they had to compete in the same tournament, under the shadow of that impossible victory. The weight of expectation had shifted. It no longer rested solely on Saitama to perform; it now rested on every other participant to somehow, someway, prove that they weren't just going to be another footnote in the legend of the Bald Cape who just wanted pancakes.
Saitama, having finished his small cakes and milk, looked up as the knights began their charge. "Oh, more fighting? Cool. These guys look shiny. Hope they're stronger than the last one." He stood up, dusted off his hands, and ambled back towards the center of the arena, his stomach slightly less grumpy, ready for whatever (probably disappointing) challenge came next. The echo of that first, gentle pat still resonated, a silent testament to a power that the world was only just beginning to comprehend, and utterly failing to do so.