Chapter 91: The Scent of a Distant Fire
The gilded routine of Saitama's life in Midgar continued, a strange, predictable cycle of meals, naps, and low-stakes, municipally-sanctioned heroics. He had successfully "liberated" the city from the tyranny of corrupt fishmongers, intimidating street performers, and a particularly aggressive goose that had been terrorizing a local park. Crime in the capital had plummeted to an all-time low, not due to improved policing, but because the entire criminal underworld was now collectively terrified of being the subject of the "Grey Phantom's" next boredom-fueled quest for justice (or snacks).
Saitama, however, was not content. The "fights" were unsatisfying. The villains were weak. The praise he received from rescued citizens was nice, but it didn't fill the void. The initial novelty of his royal meal plan was beginning to wear off. Even the endless supply of Lightning Broth noodles had lost some of its charm. He was a hero built for apocalypses, living in a world of petty larceny and well-behaved poultry. It was, in a word, boring.
He spent more and more time on his balcony, not to do laundry, but to stare out at the distant line of the Dragon's Tooth Mountains, a grim, jagged silhouette against the horizon. He remembered the brief, exhilarating thrill of the fight with the Regenerator. He remembered the feeling of unleashing a "Serious Punch" on the Silent Peak. That had felt… real. This… this felt like playing make-believe.
"Something troubles you, Champion?"
Saitama turned. Lyraelle stood in the doorway to his balcony, her silver hair shimmering in the afternoon light, her expression one of quiet concern. Since their return, she had been a frequent, if silent, companion. While Iris drilled and Alexia schemed, Lyraelle seemed to be… studying him. Observing him not as a weapon or a puzzle, but as a fellow being adrift in a world that no longer quite fit.
Saitama sighed, leaning his elbows on the stone balustrade. "It's just… boring, Angel Lady. Really, really boring." He looked at his fist. "I have all this power… and I'm using it to stop guys from stealing bread. It feels like… using a sledgehammer to crack a nut."
"Perhaps," Lyraelle said softly, gliding to stand beside him, "the size of the foe does not define the heroism of the act. A life saved is a life saved, whether from a Titan or a thief."
"Yeah, I guess," Saitama mumbled, unconvinced. "But the thief doesn't even put up a fight. He just sort of… faints. It's not very satisfying." He looked at her, a rare hint of genuine frustration in his eyes. "What about you? You're, like, a super ancient, super powerful angel thingy. Are you having fun just hanging out here?"
Lyraelle's gaze turned towards the distant mountains. "My power is returning, slowly. This place… this age… it is a wound to me. Every moment is a reminder of all that was lost. But in Princess Iris, I see a flicker of the old hope. In your existence, I see a force that defies the ancient despair. 'Fun' is not a concept I am familiar with, Saitama. But… I have found a purpose. A path."
"A path, huh?" Saitama said, a little wistfully. "That sounds nice." His path seemed to lead only from the dining hall to the laundry line and back again.
It was in this moment of shared, quiet contemplation that the first tendrils of the Cult's new gambit reached them. It began not with a bang, but with a scent on the wind. A faint, acrid smell of smoke, carried from far, far away.
Saitama sniffed the air. "Huh. Someone's having a barbecue. Smells kinda… burny, though."
Lyraelle, however, stiffened. Her silver eyes narrowed, her head tilting as if listening to a distant, silent scream. "No," she whispered, a new, sharp edge to her voice. "That is not woodsmoke. That is… the scent of a pyre. And… something else. Something… corrupt."
Her reaction was enough to put Saitama on alert. He stood up straight, his bored demeanor evaporating, replaced by a quiet focus. He took a deep breath, his own senses, far more potent than anyone realized, extending beyond the city walls, beyond the rolling hills. He could smell it now, too. Burning wood, yes, but also the smell of fear, of panic, and a faint, sickly sweet odor that reminded him of the dark magic from the monastery. And beneath it all, a sound, a feeling, a vibration on the very edge of perception – the distant, terrified cries of people in peril.
At that same moment, a frantic alarm began to ring through the palace. A Royal Guard, his face pale with panic, burst onto the balcony. "Lady Lyraelle! Mister Saitama! An urgent report from the western border! The village of Oakhaven… it is under attack!"
Oakhaven. The name registered with Saitama instantly. The first place they had found after escaping the Deepwood. The place with the nice old elder and the stale bread that had tasted like the best meal of his life.
"Attacked?" Saitama asked, his voice low, the usual nonchalance gone. "By who?"
"Monsters, sir!" the guard stammered. "A horde! Pouring out of the Deepwood! And… and dark-robed figures leading them! The village is burning!"
A scrying orb was hastily brought to the King's study, where the council was already gathering. The image that formed was one of chaos and horror. Oakhaven was wreathed in smoke and fire. Monstrous creatures – Corrupted Hounds, grotesque goblin-like beings, and things that looked like twisted parodies of forest animals – swarmed through the small village, their roars and snarls echoing in the magical image. And directing them, their dark robes standing out against the flames, were Cultists. They were not attacking the villagers directly; they were herding them, rounding them up, forcing them into the village square.
King Olric's face was a mask of cold fury. "A diversion," he hissed. "This is it. Shadow's warning." He knew, instantly, that this was not a random attack. It was a message. A challenge. And it was aimed directly at the palace.
Saitama stared at the image in the scrying orb. He saw the burning cottages. He saw the terrified faces of the villagers, the same people who had given him water and shelter when he had nothing. He saw the sneering, triumphant looks on the faces of the Cultists as they tormented their helpless victims. He saw Elder Eldrin, standing defiantly before his cottage, trying to protect a group of crying children, only to be struck down by a bolt of dark magic.
Something inside Saitama, something quiet and deep and rarely ever touched, went very, very still. The boredom, the ennui, the casual indifference – it all burned away, leaving behind a cold, clear, diamond-hard focus.
He remembered the taste of that stale bread. He remembered the relief in Lyra's and Renn's eyes when they had reached safety. He remembered the simple kindness of strangers. And he saw these things being burned, violated, destroyed by sneering, arrogant bullies who thought their dark magic and ugly monsters made them strong.
"Hey, King guy," Saitama said, his voice quiet, calm, but carrying a weight that made the entire room fall silent. He didn't turn from the scrying orb.
"…Yes, Saitama?" the King replied, his own voice tight.
"How fast can a horse get to Oakhaven?"
"A full day's ride, perhaps more, at best speed," Lord Valerius answered grimly. "We can dispatch a legion, but by the time they arrive…"
"Right," Saitama said. He turned, his face a blank, impassive mask, but his eyes… his eyes held a cold, flat light that no one in the room had ever seen before. It was not the excited gleam of an impending fun fight. It was the implacable, emotionless light of a final judgment. "Then I'll be back in five minutes."
He didn't wait for a reply. He didn't ask for permission. He simply walked back out to his balcony. The entire council, the King included, followed him, a silent, apprehensive procession.
He stood at the edge, looking west, towards the distant smoke. "Kaelan," he said, his voice still quiet.
"Y-yes, Mister Saitama?" Sir Kaelan stammered, who had appeared as if from nowhere, his face a portrait of sheer terror.
"Keep my noodles warm," Saitama said. "I'll be right back."
And then he was gone.
He didn't just leap this time. He launched. The sound was not a sonic boom; it was a concussion, a violent rupture in the very fabric of the air that slammed every person on the balcony back a step, shattering the newly replaced windows once again. He became a streak of yellow and white, a guided missile of pure, cold fury, moving at speeds that defied not just physics, but belief itself. He did not arc into the sky; he flew in a perfectly straight, horizon-hugging line, a golden arrow aimed at the heart of the distant fire.
In the scrying chamber, the image of Oakhaven still showed the burning, the chaos, the triumphant sneers of the Cultists. But now, from the east, a tiny, impossibly fast golden speck was approaching.
Lyraelle watched him go, a profound, almost sorrowful, understanding in her silver eyes. The Cult, in their cleverness, in their grand, manipulative gambit, had made a fatal, catastrophic mistake. They had thought to distract a god with a triviality. They had not understood. They had not just attacked a village. They had not just threatened innocent lives.
They had messed with Saitama's friends. And they had made it personal.