Chapter 90: The Gilded Leash and the Echoes of a Name
Life for Saitama in the Royal Palace settled into a new, carefully managed rhythm. The "Great Appeasement" was in full effect. His suite was perpetually stocked with every variety of instant noodle the Royal Purveyors could scour from the continent. A dedicated team of chefs was on 24-hour "Pancake Alert," ready to whip up a fresh stack at a moment's notice. His laundry line, polished daily by a terrified but dutiful palace servant, gleamed on his balcony, a strange monument to the kingdom's precarious peace.
His nightly "crime-fighting" patrols, however, had been subtly… curated. Under the discreet guidance of Princess Alexia, who had taken on the role of his unofficial mission dispatcher with an unnerving degree of enthusiasm, Saitama was now provided with a nightly "list of disturbances." These lists, presented to him by a long-suffering Sir Kaelan, were carefully crafted to direct his boredom-fueled heroism towards targets that aligned with the Crown's (and Alexia's) interests, while keeping him far away from anything too politically sensitive or structurally important.
"Tonight's disturbances, Mister Saitama," Kaelan would announce, reading from a scroll with the air of a man announcing his own execution, "include… a suspected ring of… illegal cheese smugglers… operating out of the Old Granary. They are reportedly… hoarding vast quantities of rare, aged cheddar."
"Cheese smugglers?!" Saitama would exclaim, his eyes lighting up. "The fiends! Denying the good people of Midgar their right to delicious, affordable dairy products! This injustice will not stand!" And off he would go, a yellow-clad missile of righteousness aimed at a problem the Royal Guard had been trying to build a case against for months, a problem that would be "resolved" by dawn with a single, very confused, cheese-dusted punch.
He dismantled a ring of artifact forgers (who were "making fake, knock-off spoons"), broke up a gang of extortionists (who were "charging way too much for their protection, which is just bad business"), and once, memorably, "rescued" a noble's prized poodle from a tree by punching the tree so precisely that it gently tilted over, allowing the poodle to walk down the trunk as if it were a ramp.
He was, in effect, on a gilded leash. A very long, very comfortable leash with excellent catering, but a leash nonetheless. And a part of him, a small, quiet part buried deep beneath the satisfaction of a full stomach and a clean cape, knew it. The "bad guys" he fought were weak. The "mysteries" were simple. The city, for all its new challenges, was beginning to feel as boringly safe as his own monster-free neighborhood back in Z-City had been. The thrill he had felt fighting the Regenerator, that brief, glorious spark of a real challenge, had faded, leaving behind the familiar, hollow ache of ultimate power and ultimate boredom.
This new status quo, however, was having profound effects outside the palace walls. The name "Saitama" was now more than just a rumor; it was a fact of life in Midgar. The common folk revered him as a strange but effective folk hero, the "Ghost of the Alleys" who punished criminals and occasionally asked for directions. The criminal underworld was in a state of terrified disarray, its leaders either apprehended, in hiding, or actively changing careers to something less likely to attract the attention of a man who could flip a gambling den.
And in the wider world, the ripples continued to spread. The intelligence gathered by the various factions during the tournament and its aftermath was being analyzed, debated, and acted upon.
In the Oriana Kingdom, the slender, twilight-eyed figure known as the 'Spymaster' reviewed the consolidated reports. "So," they mused, tapping a long, elegant finger on a detailed schematic of Saitama's "Normal Punch" energy dispersal. "The Benefactor's faction believes they can devise a 'counter-frequency.' Ambitious. And likely foolish. Attempting to counter a fundamental force of reality is like trying to build a dam to stop the concept of 'wet'."
"Our agents confirm the Midgar Kingdom is attempting to… domesticate him," an aide reported. "They are using him as a… city-wide pest control service, baited with pastries."
The Spymaster chuckled. "Crude, but effective, for now. It keeps him localized. Predictable." Their gaze turned to a map of the region, focusing on the borderlands between Oriana and Midgar, where several key assets of the Cult of Diablos were known to operate. "And a predictable Tempest creates… opportunities. While Midgar is busy keeping their pet god entertained, perhaps it is time we… cleaned our own backyard. Quietly." Oriana's shadow war against the Cult began to intensify, using the smokescreen of Saitama's presence to their own advantage.
The most significant ripple, however, was felt within the Cult of Diablos itself. The destruction of the monastery base and the neutralization of Prelate Malakor had been a major blow. But the subsequent reports of Saitama's continued, albeit mundane, activities in the capital were even more disturbing.
In a dark, undisclosed location, the "Fingers of Diablos," the inner circle of the Cult's leadership, convened. They were not raving fanatics like Malakor, but cold, ancient, and terrifyingly powerful beings, each a master of a different dark art.
"The Midgar King plays a dangerous game," one of them, a being whose form was hidden within a swirling vortex of shadow, hissed. "He seeks to leash the apocalypse, to turn it into a household pet."
"His 'power' is an aberration," said another, a woman whose skin was pale as porcelain and cracked like ancient pottery, her voice like dry leaves skittering across a tombstone. "It does not follow the laws. It does not respect the ancient pacts. It simply… is. It is an insult to our Master, to the very nature of power itself."
A third figure, larger than the others, a being of fused bone and corrupted metal, slammed a fist on their obsidian table. "Then it must be erased. The King's pet must be put down. We will gather our strength, summon the Abyssal Lords, and wipe Midgar and their 'champion' from the face of this earth!"
"No," a fourth voice said, cutting through the others. It was quiet, calm, yet it silenced the room instantly. This figure sat at the head of the table, their features completely obscured by a cowl so deep it seemed to contain a pocket of true, starless night. This was the true leadership, the will that guided the Fingers. "Direct confrontation is… unwise. As Valerius and Morwen discovered. This 'Saitama' is not a problem to be solved with overwhelming force. Because his force," the figure paused, a note of something akin to intellectual respect in their voice, "will always be more overwhelming."
"Then what is your command, Lord of the Abyss?" the porcelain-skinned woman asked.
The cowled figure seemed to smile, a chilling, unseen expression. "The King believes he is clever, using Saitama to disrupt our plans. Let him. Let the Tempest be the bright, noisy distraction. Let him believe he is fighting for 'noodle justice'."
"But the sacred sites…" the vortex of shadow hissed. "The Heart of the Abyss…"
"The Royal Pilgrimage moves slowly," the leader replied calmly. "And the Tempest, their ultimate weapon, is currently occupied with apprehending cheese smugglers." A dry, humorless chuckle echoed from beneath the cowl. "We will not fight the storm head-on. We will use its own chaos against it. We will let them get closer to the final site. We will let them believe they are winning."
The leader raised a hand, and an image formed in the air above the table – an image of a young woman with silver hair and luminous, twilight-colored wings. Lyraelle.
"Our primary objective has not changed," the leader continued. "The 'Celestial Echo' is the key. Her power, her blood, her connection to the First Hero's legacy… that is what we need to complete the ritual for the Heart. The Tempest is merely her guardian. A very powerful, very stupid, very distractible guardian."
The new plan began to form, a plan of misdirection, of sacrifice, of luring the heroes into a trap so vast and so insidious they would not see it until it was too late. They would not try to defeat Saitama. They would simply… remove him from the board at the crucial moment, by preying on his only discernible weaknesses: his heroic impulse and his mundane attachments.
"We will create a new crisis," the leader of the Cult declared, their voice a low, confident whisper that promised ages of darkness. "A crisis so dire, so personal to the Tempest's simple code, that he will have no choice but to respond. And while he is busy being a 'hero' somewhere else… we will claim our prize."
The echoes of Saitama's name, of his power, had forced his greatest enemies to abandon brute force and adopt a new, more dangerous strategy. They would no longer try to fight the god. They would simply… give the god something else to do. And in the quiet before that manufactured storm, the fate of the world would be decided not by a clash of titans, but by a simple, deadly act of misdirection.