Q2
All heads turned to see a tall, slender man in an immaculate business suit ascending the stairs. His face was handsome in a corporate way, with slicked-back hair and designer glasses that caught the morning light. Despite the early hour, he looked as though he'd stepped directly from a board meeting, not a crease out of place.
"Sweet Mask," the Association leader acknowledged with visible surprise. "This matter doesn't fall under your jurisdiction."
The idol hero's smile was perfect and utterly cold. "As the Hero Association's A-Class Rank 1 and public relations representative, any matter that could potentially impact our public image falls precisely under my jurisdiction." He glanced at the assembled Servants with calculated assessment. "And six unregistered individuals with S-Class energy readings definitely qualifies."
Saitama suppressed a groan. His interactions with Sweet Mask had been limited but universally unpleasant.
"These individuals have already agreed to register," he explained tiredly. "We were going to come in today."
Sweet Mask's perfect smile didn't waver. "Then this expedited process should be no inconvenience. The Association simply wishes to properly classify their abilities."
"Tests conducted under coercion produce unreliable data," Nightingale observed clinically, eyeing the medical equipment with professional skepticism. "Your methodology is fundamentally flawed."
Sweet Mask's attention shifted to her, his expression sharpening with interest. "A medical professional, I presume? Your concern for proper procedure is noted, but the Association's protocols are quite thorough."
"Protocols designed for human subjects," Shiki stated quietly from where she stood. "We are not human."
This simple declaration created a ripple of unease among the technical staff. Sweet Mask's smile tightened almost imperceptibly.
"All the more reason for proper assessment," he countered smoothly. "For public safety."
"THE PHARAOH DOES NOT ENDANGER THE PUBLIC!" Nitocris declared indignantly. "THE PHARAOH PROTECTS THE WORTHY!"
"And who determines worthiness?" Sweet Mask inquired, his voice silky with challenge. "In a society of laws, such judgments require oversight."
The tension in the narrow hallway was palpable. The Association agents shifted nervously, their equipment forgotten as they watched the exchange. The exoskeleton soldiers maintained their ready stance, though uncertainty had crept into their postures.
Surprisingly, it was Okita who broke the impasse, stepping forward with formal dignity despite her casual attire.
"As warriors of honor," she began, her voice clear despite a slight cough, "we recognize the necessity of order. However, as beings beyond ordinary understanding, we request appropriate protocols." She bowed slightly, formally but without submission. "We propose a demonstration rather than clinical testing. Allow us to show our capabilities in a controlled environment of your choosing."
Sweet Mask considered this for a long moment, his calculated gaze moving from one Servant to another before finally settling on Saitama.
"An interesting proposition," he acknowledged. "Perhaps this could be arranged as a public exhibition. The Association has been seeking ways to increase civilian engagement with hero activities."
The original mission leader looked alarmed. "Sir, protocol dictates that unknown power assessments must be conducted in secured facilities with—"
"Exceptions can be made when public relations opportunities arise," Sweet Mask interrupted smoothly. "I will personally oversee the arrangements." He produced a business card from his immaculate suit and handed it to Saitama. "Tomorrow, 10 AM. The address is the Association's demonstration arena. Bring your... associates."
With that, he turned and descended the stairs with perfect poise, leaving the assessment team looking confused and somewhat deflated.
"But the protocols..." the leader began weakly.
"I believe your instructions have been superseded," Altera observed with tactical precision. "Continued persistence would constitute bad civilization."
After a few more moments of awkward uncertainty, the assessment team retreated, their equipment still packed and unused.
As the door closed behind them, Saitama turned to Okita with genuine appreciation. "That was pretty smooth. Thanks."
Okita inclined her head modestly. "Negotiation is as much a battlefield as any other. Sometimes yielding terrain strategically prevents unnecessary conflict."
"THE PHARAOH WOULD HAVE PREFERRED A MORE DECISIVE VICTORY!" Nitocris declared, though her volume had decreased slightly from her usual proclamations. "BUT ACKNOWLEDGES THE TACTICAL WISDOM OF THIS APPROACH."
"This 'Sweet Mask' individual exhibits concerning psychological patterns," Nightingale observed clinically. "Control mechanisms disguised as procedure. Authority complexes. Potential narcissistic tendencies."
"He smells of ambition and decay," Shuten Douji added with a wrinkle of her nose. "An unpleasant combination."
"He sees only what can be categorized," Shiki noted quietly. "And fears what cannot."
Saitama looked down at the business card in his hand, the embossed logo catching the light. "So... I guess we're doing a demonstration tomorrow?"
"A public spectacle," Altera confirmed with a slight frown. "Inefficient, but potentially necessary for establishing operational parameters in this realm."
"It will require preparation," Nightingale stated, already mentally cataloging requirements. "Controlled displays of ability that demonstrate capability without revealing strategic vulnerabilities."
"A performance," Shuten Douji purred, a mischievous smile playing across her lips. "How delightful."
"THE PHARAOH SHALL PREPARE HER MOST IMPRESSIVE DIVINE MANIFESTATIONS!" Nitocris declared enthusiastically.
Okita coughed lightly. "We should establish boundaries beforehand. Our powers could easily cause... collateral damage."
Saitama nodded, suddenly feeling the weight of responsibility. These weren't just eccentric houseguests anymore—they were immensely powerful beings about to be scrutinized by the Hero Association and, apparently, the public.
"Maybe we should practice or something?" he suggested uncertainly.
Six pairs of eyes turned to him with varying expressions of surprise and consideration.
"Master wishes to evaluate our combat capabilities personally," Altera interpreted, something like approval in her usually stoic expression. "Tactical assessment before deployment. Good civilization."
"A controlled demonstration would allow optimization of our coordinated responses," Nightingale agreed with clinical precision.
"THE PHARAOH WELCOMES THE OPPORTUNITY TO DISPLAY HER DIVINE MIGHT!" Nitocris proclaimed, staff already glowing with anticipation.
"I know just the place," Saitama said, thinking of the deserted rocky plateau where he sometimes trained. "We can go after breakfast."
As if summoned by the word 'breakfast,' a knock came at the door—the precise, measured pattern instantly recognizable as Genos. When Saitama opened it, his disciple stood holding several large bags of takeout food, his expression as serious as ever.
"Sensei, I anticipated increased nutritional requirements given your current circumstances," he explained, entering and setting down the bags. "I have procured a balanced selection of proteins, carbohydrates, and essential micronutrients from the new restaurant in District 7."
"Genos, you're a lifesaver," Saitama said with genuine gratitude.
As they distributed the food—a process that quickly became a complex negotiation of preferences and positions—Saitama explained the morning's events and the upcoming demonstration.
Genos processed this information with typical efficiency. "A public demonstration presents both opportunities and risks. It would establish legitimate operational status for your Servants, but also exposes their capabilities to potential adversaries."
"A calculated risk," Altera acknowledged, accepting a container of food with a small nod of thanks. "But necessary for establishing functional parameters within this society's structures."
"The Association's primary concern will be power classification and controllability," Genos continued analytically. "They will want to assign disaster level countermeasures to each individual."
"Disaster level?" Okita inquired between small, precise bites.
"A threat classification system," Genos explained. "Wolf, Tiger, Demon, Dragon, and God, in ascending order of danger. Heroes are similarly classified by their ability to counter these threats."
"THE PHARAOH TRANSCENDS SUCH SIMPLISTIC CATEGORIZATIONS!" Nitocris declared, somehow managing to eat with royal dignity despite using disposable chopsticks.
"Nevertheless, they will attempt to apply them," Nightingale observed pragmatically. "Humans instinctively seek to quantify that which they do not fully understand. It provides illusory control."
Shuten Douji smiled mysteriously over her food. "How fascinating to be reduced to numbers and categories. Do you suppose I'll be classed as a natural disaster, Master?"
"You're certainly destructive enough," Saitama replied dryly.
To his surprise, Shuten laughed—a genuine sound of delight rather than her usual calculated amusement. "How refreshingly honest! Most Masters would offer flattery or stern correction."
"Honesty is more efficient than deception," Altera stated approvingly. "Good civilization."
As breakfast continued, the conversation flowed with unexpected ease. Plans were made for the training demonstration, preferences were expressed for how abilities should be revealed, and even Nitocris eventually conceded that perhaps some moderation in her "DIVINE DISPLAYS" might be strategically sound.
Throughout it all, Saitama found himself watching these extraordinary beings with a strange sense of... not quite belonging, but something approaching comfortable familiarity. They were still bizarre by any normal standard—Egyptian royalty eating takeout noodles, an oni discussing public relations strategies, a legendary swordsman debating the merits of modern hero rankings—yet somehow it felt increasingly natural.
Only Shiki remained somewhat apart, eating quietly and observing more than participating. Occasionally, her gaze would meet Saitama's, and something unspoken would pass between them—a shared recognition of the absurdity and wonder of their situation.
## Chapter 7: Training Grounds and Hidden Depths
The rocky plateau Saitama had chosen for their practice session lay on the outskirts of Z-City, a barren landscape of shattered stone and sparse vegetation. Deep craters dotted the area—evidence of his own training sessions and past battles. The isolation made it perfect for their purposes, far from civilian populations and prying eyes.
The journey there had been an adventure in itself. Public transportation proved challenging with six distinctly unusual individuals, each drawing stares despite their relatively civilian attire. Nitocris had insisted on bringing her staff ("A PHARAOH IS NEVER SEPARATED FROM THE SYMBOL OF HER DIVINE AUTHORITY!"), while Okita's refusal to part with her katana had required some creative explanations to concerned passersby about "historical reenactment props."
Now, standing in the center of the desolate landscape, Saitama turned to address his assembled Servants.
"So... I guess this is where you can show me what you can do. Without breaking too much stuff, ideally."
"Parameters for the demonstration?" Altera inquired, already surveying the terrain with tactical assessment.
"Uh, just show me your basic abilities. The stuff you'd use in a normal fight, I guess."
The six Servants exchanged glances, a silent communication passing between them.
"I shall begin," Nightingale volunteered, stepping forward. "As my class is Berserker, my abilities may seem contradictory. I am a healer foremost, but in pursuit of treatment, I become... single-minded."
With that understated introduction, she suddenly blurred into motion. The air around her shimmered as she charged toward a massive boulder, her movements transcending human limitations. Her fist—now somehow encased in a complex mechanical gauntlet that hadn't been there moments before—struck the boulder with precision.
The impact was shocking—not a wild, destructive blow, but a surgical strike that caused the massive stone to split perfectly along natural fault lines, crumbling into neat sections rather than exploding outward.
"Battlefield triage often requires removing obstacles to reach the wounded," she explained calmly, returning to her position. "I can identify structural weaknesses in any barrier, organic or inorganic, and neutralize them with minimal collateral effect."
"That's... actually pretty useful," Saitama acknowledged, genuinely impressed by the control displayed.
Altera stepped forward next, her casual clothing shimmering and transforming into her full battle regalia—intricate armor that seemed both ancient and alien, her massive sword materializing in her hand.
"My Noble Phantasm is called Photon Ray," she stated matter-of-factly. "It channels the divine power of destruction that once razed civilizations."
She raised her sword toward a distant cluster of boulders. The blade began to glow with unearthly light, patterns of energy swirling around it in complex geometries. With a single, precise swing, she released a beam of concentrated energy that lanced across the plateau.
The targeted boulders didn't merely shatter—they disintegrated, the very matter that composed them breaking down into constituent elements that scattered on the wind. A perfect semicircular section of the plateau had simply ceased to exist, leaving a smooth, glassy surface behind.
"Total cellular disruption," Genos observed from where he stood recording the demonstrations. "Matter-energy conversion at the atomic level."
Altera lowered her sword, the glow fading. "At full power, this attack can erase cities. I have demonstrated approximately 2% of its potential."
Saitama nodded, impressed despite himself. "Good control."
"THE PHARAOH SHALL NOW DEMONSTRATE HER DIVINE AUTHORITY!" Nitocris proclaimed, stepping forward with staff raised high. Her casual clothes shimmered and transformed into her full royal regalia, headdress gleaming in the sunlight.
The ground beneath her feet began to glow with hieroglyphic symbols that spread outward in concentric circles. The air shimmered with heat haze, and suddenly the barren plateau seemed to flicker between realities—one moment rocky wasteland, the next a vision of ancient Egyptian temples and flowing waters.
"I command the boundaries between life and death, between this world and the next," she explained, her voice temporarily dropping its usual volume for something deeper and more resonant. "The Medjed come at my call to pass judgment."
Ghostly figures materialized around her—spectral entities with simplified humanoid forms, each bearing ancient weapons. At her gesture, they converged on a large rock formation, passing through solid matter with ethereal grace before converging within it. For a moment, nothing happened—then the entire formation collapsed inward, crumbling to dust from within.
"They can pass through any physical barrier to strike from within," Nitocris explained as the spectral figures returned to her side. "No fortress can withstand the judgment of those who guard the afterlife."
"Dimensional phasing," Genos noted clinically. "Fascinating."
Okita stepped forward next, her movements graceful despite her occasional cough. Unlike the others, she didn't transform her attire, remaining in her modified modern clothing.
"My ability is simpler," she stated modestly. "I am merely very fast."
With that significant understatement, she drew her katana in a movement too quick for the human eye to follow. One moment the blade was sheathed, the next it was extended—no visible transition between states.
She moved toward a tall rock spire, her form seeming to blur and multiply. Three perfectly synchronized strikes occurred simultaneously at different points along the spire's height, though she appeared to execute only a single drawing cut.
The rock didn't fall immediately. Okita resheathed her blade with calm precision, and only then did the spire slide apart, separated into four perfectly even sections by impossibly clean cuts.
"Three-Stage Thrust," she explained between small coughs. "I can strike multiple targets simultaneously by temporarily stepping outside normal time flow."
"Time manipulation within a localized field," Genos observed with increased interest.
Shuten Douji laughed softly, stepping forward with sinuous grace. "Such serious demonstrations. Perhaps I should lighten the mood?"
Unlike the others, her transformation was subtle—her horns becoming more prominent, her eyes shifting to a deeper crimson, her nails lengthening into delicate but deadly claws. The gourd at her side glowed with soft purple light.
"My abilities stem from my nature as an oni," she explained, her voice taking on a hypnotic quality. "Intoxication, charm, and poison—the beautiful arts of subtle destruction."
She unstoppered her gourd, and a mist of glowing purple liquid emerged, coiling through the air like a living thing. Where it touched stone, the rock hissed and bubbled, organic patterns eating into the inorganic matter.
"My breath and blood are potent intoxicants," she continued, blowing gently toward another formation. The air before her lips shimmered, and the stone began to warp and flow like wax under heat. "They can dissolve barriers, cloud minds, or inspire... various states of altered consciousness."
With a graceful gesture, she called the mist back to her gourd. "At full strength, my sake can melt flesh from bone and turn armies against themselves in mad desire." She smiled sweetly. "But that would be impolite to demonstrate."
Saitama blinked, making a mental note never to accept drinks from Shuten without careful consideration.
Finally, Shiki stepped forward, still in her red leather jacket and blue kimono, knife held casually in one hand.
"My ability is the Mystic Eyes of Death Perception," she stated quietly. "I see the lines and points where all things will eventually die."
Her eyes shifted color subtly, taking on an almost luminescent quality. She gazed at the landscape around them, seeing things invisible to others.
"Everything that exists has a conceptual ending inscribed upon it," she explained, voice soft but carrying clearly. "I can perceive these endpoints and... actualize them."
She walked to a large, flat section of unbroken stone. With delicate precision, she traced a single line across its surface with her knife—not striking hard, barely making contact. She stepped back, and for a moment nothing happened.
Then reality itself seemed to recognize what she had done. The massive stone sheet separated along the line she had traced, the cut impossibly clean, as if the very concept of connection had been severed rather than the physical material.
"I can kill anything that can die," she concluded simply. "Objects, beings, even abstract concepts if they possess a theoretical endpoint."
A heavy silence followed her demonstration, the implications hanging in the air.
"That's..." Saitama searched for the right words. "Pretty intense."
Shiki nodded once, acknowledging without pride or modesty.
"Conceptual manipulation beyond physical laws," Genos observed, his voice uncharacteristically subdued. "The theoretical applications are... concerning."
Saitama looked at his six Servants, each now standing quietly after their demonstrations. The casual atmosphere from breakfast had evaporated, replaced by the weighty reality of what these beings truly were—not just eccentric houseguests with unusual habits, but entities of immense and terrifying power.
"So," he said after a long moment, "that's what we're working with for tomorrow's demonstration."
"These were merely basic applications," Altera clarified. "Our Noble Phantasms and conceptual abilities extend considerably further when fully deployed."
"THE PHARAOH RESTRAINED HERSELF SIGNIFICANTLY!" Nitocris added, though with less bombast than usual.
"You haven't shown us your capabilities yet, Master," Shuten Douji observed with curious interest. "Fair exchange would suggest a demonstration of your own."
All eyes turned to Saitama, who looked momentarily uncomfortable with the attention.
"I just punch things," he explained with characteristic simplicity. "Nothing fancy like conceptual death or time manipulation."
"Yet you exhibit no death lines," Shiki noted quietly. "And your physical form contains power that contradicts fundamental laws."
Saitama shrugged, then pointed to a distant mountain peak visible on the horizon. "See that mountain?"
They all turned to look at the jagged silhouette kilometers away.
With casual ease, Saitama drew back his fist and punched the air in the mountain's direction. The shockwave from his casual gesture parted the clouds in a straight line toward the horizon. A moment later, the visible peak of the mountain simply vanished, replaced by a rising cloud of dust.
The six Servants stared in varying degrees of shock and assessment.
"Atmospheric displacement consistent with hypersonic impact," Genos noted clinically, though even he sounded impressed. "Complete structural failure of igneous formation at a distance of approximately 7.8 kilometers."
"That was approximately 3% of my serious punch," Saitama explained casually. "I try not to use more than that. It gets messy."
The silence that followed was profound. Even Nitocris seemed momentarily speechless.
Finally, Altera spoke, her tactical mind processing what she'd witnessed. "Your power transcends conventional parameters. It explains much about our summoning."
"Only a Master of exceptional capability could maintain contracts with six Servants simultaneously," Nightingale observed clinically. "The mana requirements would be astronomical."
"THE PHARAOH IS PLEASED TO SERVE SUCH A WORTHY MASTER!" Nitocris declared, recovering her voice with enthusiasm.
Okita bowed formally, respect evident in her posture. "Your strength honors us."
Shuten Douji's eyes gleamed with fascinated interest. "How deliciously unexpected. Such power in such an unassuming package."
Only Shiki's reaction was subdued—a slight nod, as if confirming something she had already suspected.
"For tomorrow's demonstration," Saitama continued, bringing the focus back to practical matters, "maybe we should tone things down a bit? I don't think the Hero Association wants their arena turned into a crater."
"A reasonable tactical assessment," Altera agreed. "Displaying 0.5% power would be sufficient for classification purposes while minimizing collateral damage."
"Medical applications can be emphasized over combat potential," Nightingale suggested practically. "My healing abilities are less likely to cause structural concerns."
"THE PHARAOH CAN LIMIT HER DIVINE MANIFESTATIONS TO PURELY VISUAL DISPLAYS!" Nitocris offered, surprisingly accommodating.
"I shall restrict my techniques to demonstration forms rather than combat application," Okita assured him with a formal nod.
"I can be very restrained when the occasion calls for it," Shuten Douji promised with a smile that somehow failed to be entirely reassuring.
"And you?" Saitama asked, turning to Shiki.
She considered for a moment. "I will not cut anything important," she finally offered, which seemed to be the best guarantee available given her abilities.
As they prepared to leave the training grounds, Saitama found himself walking beside Genos, slightly separated from the Servants.
"What do you think?" he asked his disciple quietly. "About all this?" He gestured vaguely at the six extraordinary women now discussing tomorrow's demonstration among themselves.
Genos considered the question with characteristic seriousness. "Their power levels are exceptional, Sensei. Each would likely qualify for S-Class ranking individually. Together..." He paused, searching for the right words. "Together they represent a force comparable to several Hero Association branches combined."
"That's not what I meant," Saitama clarified. "I mean... all this Master and Servant stuff. Them living in my apartment. Following me around. It's weird, right?"
Genos studied his mentor's face, perhaps searching for the underlying concern. "Is their presence unwelcome, Sensei?"
Saitama thought about this seriously. "Not exactly unwelcome. Just... complicated. My life used to be simple."
"Simple but isolated," Genos observed with unexpected insight. "I have noticed that they bring a certain... vibrancy to your daily existence."
Saitama glanced at his disciple with mild surprise. "That's pretty perceptive."
"I observe everything about you, Sensei, to better learn from your example," Genos stated with his usual intensity. "Your expression has changed approximately 37% more frequently since their arrival. You engage in 83% more conversation. Your daily routine has diversified by an estimated 64%."
"You've been keeping track of all that?"
"Of course, Sensei. It is part of my training to note all variables that might contribute to your exceptional abilities."
Saitama shook his head with a small smile. "You really need to work on normal conversation skills, Genos."
"I shall add that to my training regimen immediately, Sensei."
As they rejoined the group for the journey back to the city, Saitama found himself considering Genos's observations. His life had certainly become more complicated—more chaotic, louder, and considerably more crowded. Yet something about the chaos felt strangely... invigorating.
He watched as Nitocris gesticulated dramatically while explaining something to a politely attentive Altera. Nearby, Nightingale was scolding Okita for overexerting herself, while the swordswoman assured her between coughs that she was perfectly fine. Shuten Douji was attempting to coax a smile from the ever-serious Shiki with limited success.
They were bizarre, powerful, occasionally infuriating—and somehow, they had become his responsibility. A strange warmth settled in his chest at the thought, unfamiliar but not unpleasant.
Perhaps complicated wasn't entirely bad. ## Chapter 8: Evening Revelations and Morning Preparations
The return journey to Saitama's apartment was surprisingly subdued. The power demonstrations had shifted something in the group dynamic—a previously unacknowledged truth now lay exposed: these were not merely eccentric houseguests with unusual habits, but beings of extraordinary capability and cosmic significance.
As they crowded into Saitama's modest apartment, the contrast between their nature and their surroundings seemed more pronounced than ever. Legendary heroes of myth and history gathered around a discount kitchen table, perched on cushions bought on clearance.
"So," Saitama broke the silence as they settled in, "anyone hungry? I think we have leftover noodles."
"THE PHARAOH WOULD APPRECIATE SUSTENANCE AFTER EXPENDING DIVINE ENERGIES!" Nitocris declared, though with notably less volume than her usual pronouncements.
As Saitama moved to the kitchenette to prepare the simple meal, Nightingale approached with clinical purpose.
"Your caloric intake should be increased by approximately 37% to compensate for the energy expenditure demonstrated earlier," she informed him, examining the food with critical assessment. "These processed noodles provide inadequate nutritional balance."
"They were on sale," Saitama replied, as if this explained everything. And perhaps, to him, it did.
"Efficiency in resource acquisition is tactically sound," Altera acknowledged from her position near the window. "However, strategic planning requires balanced resource distribution for optimal performance."
"She means we should eat better food," Okita translated with a slight smile, followed by a delicate cough.
"Perhaps," Shuten Douji suggested, gracefully inserting herself into the kitchenette beside Saitama, "I could prepare something more substantial? I was known for my... hospitality, once upon a time."
"Your hospitality typically involved sake-marinated human flesh," Shiki observed quietly from her corner.
Shuten smiled wickedly. "Only for special guests."
"No human flesh," Saitama stated firmly, the absurdity of having to establish such a rule in his apartment not lost on him. "But if you want to cook something that isn't people, that would be okay."
The oni's eyes lit with surprising enthusiasm. "I accept this challenge, Master. Modern ingredients, traditional techniques. You will be pleasantly surprised."
What followed was the unexpected sight of a legendary Japanese demon delicately preparing a meal in Saitama's tiny kitchen. Her movements were graceful and precise, turning simple ingredients into something that soon filled the apartment with tantalizing aromas.
"You're actually pretty good at this," Saitama observed, watching her work.
"The art of preparation applies to many domains," Shuten replied with a knowing smile. "Food, drink, poison, seduction—all require attention to detail and proper... timing."
Despite this somewhat concerning comparison, the meal she produced was undeniably impressive—simple ingredients transformed through skill and care into dishes that seemed to belong in an upscale restaurant rather than Saitama's humble apartment.
As they gathered around to eat, the earlier tension gradually dissolved, replaced by something almost approaching comfortable domesticity.
"This is quite satisfactory," Altera pronounced after careful assessment of her first bite. "Efficient nutrition delivery with optimal flavor compounds. Good civilization."
"THE PHARAOH FINDS THIS OFFERING WORTHY!" Nitocris declared, her enthusiasm genuine despite her royal affectations.
Nightingale examined her portion with clinical precision before nodding approval. "Balanced macronutrient profile. Acceptable micronutrient diversity. The antimicrobial properties of these spices provide additional immunological benefits."
Okita ate with disciplined appreciation, her military background evident in her precise movements. "The technique is impressive. Traditional methods applied with respect for the ingredients."
Even Shiki seemed to enjoy the meal, eating quietly but with evident satisfaction.
Saitama, for his part, approached the food with his usual straightforward enthusiasm. "This is really good," he acknowledged between bites. "Way better than cup noodles."
Something in his simple, honest appreciation seemed to please Shuten more than the formal compliments of the others. Her usual calculated sensuality softened into something almost resembling genuine warmth.
"It pleases me to provide for my Master," she said, and for once the seductive undercurrent in her voice was muted, replaced by something more sincere.
As the meal progressed, conversation flowed more naturally than it had since their arrival. The barrier between Master and Servants seemed temporarily lowered, allowing glimpses of the individuals beneath their legendary personas.
"I admit to curiosity," Nightingale said during a lull in conversation. "How did you acquire such extraordinary physical capabilities, Master? Medical science suggests theoretical limits to human strength that you far exceed."
Saitama shrugged, finishing his second helping. "Just trained really hard. One hundred push-ups, one hundred sit-ups, one hundred squats, and a ten-kilometer run. Every day for three years."
The Servants exchanged skeptical glances.
"That... doesn't seem sufficient to explain your power level," Okita observed carefully.
"THE PHARAOH SUSPECTS DIVINE INTERVENTION!" Nitocris suggested dramatically. "PERHAPS THE GODS THEMSELVES BLESSED YOUR MORTAL FORM!"
"Genetic mutation is a more likely explanation," Nightingale hypothesized clinically. "Spontaneous adaptation triggering exponential capability enhancement."
"Or perhaps," Shiki suggested quietly, "you simply broke through the conceptual limitation of human potential by refusing to acknowledge it existed."
Saitama considered this for a moment, then shrugged again. "Maybe. All I know is I kept training until my hair fell out, and then I could beat anything with one punch. It's actually kind of boring now."
"Boring?" Altera's brow furrowed slightly. "Ultimate combat efficiency should be satisfying, not boring."
"It's not the same when there's no challenge," Saitama explained, a rare note of something like melancholy creeping into his voice. "Fighting used to make me feel something. Now it's just... one punch, and it's over."
The apartment fell quiet as the Servants absorbed this unexpected revelation. It was perhaps the most personal thing their Master had shared since their arrival.
"The burden of unmatched power," Okita observed softly. "The warrior who cannot find worthy opponents faces the greatest battle against themselves."
"Sensory adaptation occurs in all physiological systems," Nightingale analyzed, though her clinical tone held a hint of sympathy. "Repeated identical stimuli eventually fail to trigger meaningful neural response."
"THE PHARAOH UNDERSTANDS THE ISOLATION OF SUPREME POWER!" Nitocris declared, with unexpected empathy beneath her usual bombast. "DIVINE AUTHORITY SEPARATES ONE FROM COMMON EXPERIENCE!"
"It is the curse of bad civilization," Altera stated with quiet certainty. "To create warriors so powerful they lose their purpose."
Shuten Douji studied Saitama with new interest. "So the strongest hero seeks not greater power, but the return of feeling itself. How beautifully tragic."
Throughout this exchange, Shiki remained silent, her penetrating gaze fixed on Saitama with an intensity that suggested deeper understanding than the others. When she finally spoke, her quiet words carried particular weight.
"You see no end to your path," she observed. "No death to your strength. That is both liberation and prison."
Saitama blinked, seemingly surprised by the sudden depth of conversation that had emerged from a simple question about his training regimen.
"It's not that dramatic," he demurred, characteristically deflecting the moment. "I just think it would be nice to find a monster that doesn't explode when I tap it."
Despite his attempt to lighten the mood, something had shifted in the room—a new understanding that flowed between Master and Servants. For the first time, they glimpsed the paradox at the core of Saitama's existence: unlimited power coupled with unfulfilled purpose.
And perhaps, in that moment, they began to understand why six legendary beings had been summoned to the side of a seemingly ordinary hero.
---
Morning arrived with uncharacteristic tension. Today was the Hero Association demonstration, and despite their outward confidence, even legendary Heroic Spirits felt the pressure of public performance.
Saitama awoke to find his apartment already buzzing with activity. Altera had covered one wall with tactical diagrams of the Hero Association arena, complete with entry points, spectator positions, and optimal demonstration zones. Nightingale was methodically checking a medical kit she had somehow assembled overnight, muttering about "insufficient trauma response protocols" and "substandard emergency evacuation routes."
Nitocris was practicing scaled-down versions of her spiritual manifestations, tiny spectral Medjed floating around her head like ghostly pets as she muttered incantations. Okita moved through sword forms with fluid grace, her blade never fully drawn but her movements precisely controlled to suggest its power without revealing it completely.
Shuten Douji was carefully arranging her appearance, her usual sensuality refined into something more strategically presentable while still unmistakably exotic. And Shiki simply sat cross-legged near the window, eyes closed in what appeared to be meditation, her knife resting across her lap.
"Everyone's up early," Saitama observed, yawning as he shuffled toward the bathroom.
"Proper preparation prevents poor performance," Nightingale stated with clinical precision. "This demonstration has significant implications for our operational parameters in this world."
"It's just showing off some moves," Saitama replied, bemused by the seriousness with which they were approaching the event. "No big deal."
"THE PHARAOH MUST PRESENT HERSELF WITH APPROPRIATE MAJESTY!" Nitocris declared, dismissing her miniature specters with a flick of her wrist. "FIRST IMPRESSIONS ESTABLISH DIVINE AUTHORITY!"
"Public perception shapes operational freedom," Altera added pragmatically, making a final notation on her tactical diagram. "Strategic advantage requires careful image management."
"Simply put, Master," Okita explained with a slight smile, "we wish to represent you well."
This simple statement seemed to catch Saitama off guard. "Represent... me?"
"Of course," Shuten confirmed, adjusting her kimono with deliberate precision. "We are your Servants. Your standing affects ours, and ours reflects upon you."
"As Master and Servants, our fates are intertwined," Shiki added quietly, opening her eyes to regard him with that penetrating blue gaze. "Our presentation today speaks to your worth as much as our own."
Saitama scratched his head, seemingly uncomfortable with this perspective. "You don't need to worry about making me look good. Just do your thing, don't break too much stuff, and it'll be fine."
Despite his casual dismissal, the Servants exchanged knowing glances. Their Master's apparent indifference to status and appearance was precisely why they felt compelled to represent him properly—his lack of concern for such matters made it their responsibility to address them.
As Saitama disappeared into the bathroom, Nightingale approached his disciple, who had arrived moments earlier with breakfast for the group.
"Genos-san," she began formally, "you have observed our Master longer than we have. What reception can we expect from this Hero Association? Will they treat him with the respect his power deserves?"
Genos's expression darkened slightly. "Sensei's relationship with the Association is... complicated. His power is undeniable, yet his rank remains far below his capability due to bureaucratic metrics that prioritize popularity and administrative compliance over combat effectiveness."
"Politics," Okita noted with distaste. "The battlefield extends beyond physical combat."
"Inefficient evaluation systems," Altera assessed with a slight frown. "Bad civilization."
"THE PHARAOH FINDS THIS DISRESPECT INTOLERABLE!" Nitocris declared indignantly.
"Perhaps," Shuten suggested with calculating precision, "today's demonstration offers an opportunity to... adjust these perceptions."
"Our performance reflects on our Master," Shiki stated quietly. "But it also speaks to his choice in Servants. We demonstrate his judgment as much as our power."
A silent understanding passed between the six Servants. Today's exhibition would serve multiple purposes beyond simple registration and classification. It would establish their own positions within this world's power hierarchy, yes—but more importantly, it would reflect on the Master who had summoned them, whether he cared about such matters or not.
When Saitama emerged from the bathroom, dressed in his familiar yellow jumpsuit and white cape, he found his Servants arranged with formal precision, each having transformed into their full battle regalia.
Nightingale stood in her military nurse's uniform, medical kit at her side but with the underlying suggestion of barely restrained combat potential in her stance. Altera's alien armor gleamed with otherworldly light, her massive sword casually held as if it weighed nothing. Nitocris's royal Egyptian attire and headdress caught the morning light, her staff glowing with subtle power.
Okita had donned her full Shinsengumi uniform, her sword at her side and her posture reflecting military discipline despite her occasional cough. Shuten Douji's kimono had shifted to its true form, revealing her oni nature more prominently while maintaining a dangerous elegance. And Shiki remained in her red leather jacket and blue kimono, seemingly ordinary until one noticed the otherworldly quality of her eyes.
"We are prepared, Master," Altera stated formally.
Saitama blinked, taken aback by their transformation. "Uh... great. I guess we should head out then."
As they filed out of the apartment, each Servant positioned themselves with tactical precision around their Master—not because he needed protection, but because the formation itself made a statement about their nature and purpose. They moved as a unit, coordinated despite their vastly different origins and powers.
For perhaps the first time since their arrival, they truly looked like what they were: legendary Heroic Spirits bound to a Master of extraordinary power.
And as they moved through the streets toward the Hero Association headquarters, even Saitama seemed to unconsciously adjust his usually slouched posture, walking with the straight-backed confidence of someone who commanded respect not because he demanded it, but because it was his natural due.
## Chapter 9: Public Demonstrations and Private Revelations
The Hero Association's demonstration arena was an impressive structure—a circular stadium with reinforced walls, specialized observation areas protected by blast shields, and a central performance zone designed to withstand impacts that would level ordinary buildings.
As Saitama and his Servants were led through the service entrance, they could hear the murmur of a substantial audience. Apparently, Sweet Mask had made good on his mention of a "public exhibition."
"This way," a staff member directed them, clearly nervous in the presence of beings whose power readings had triggered organizational protocols. "The, uh, technical assessment team will brief you on safety parameters before the demonstration begins."
"Safety parameters?" Saitama echoed, his expression suggesting he found the concept somewhat amusing given what he'd witnessed during their practice session.
They were guided to a preparation area where several Association officials waited, along with monitoring equipment and a familiar face—Sweet Mask himself, looking as immaculately polished as ever.
"Ah, our special guests have arrived," he greeted them with his perfect, cold smile. "I trust you're prepared to demonstrate your capabilities within appropriate constraints?"
"THE PHARAOH IS ALWAYS PREPARED TO MANIFEST HER DIVINE MIGHT!" Nitocris declared, staff glowing slightly as if to emphasize her point.
"Within tactically sound parameters," Altera added smoothly, her eyes assessing every detail of the facility with military precision.
Sweet Mask's smile didn't waver, though his eyes narrowed slightly at Nitocris's volume. "Excellent. Allow me to explain today's format. Each of you will be provided a five-minute demonstration period. Various targets and obstacles have been arranged in the arena for you to... interact with. The assessment team will monitor power outputs and assign provisional rankings."
"And the audience?" Nightingale inquired, glancing toward the sounds of the crowd beyond the preparation area walls.
"A selection of media representatives, Association sponsors, and high-ranking heroes," Sweet Mask explained smoothly. "Public confidence in the Association requires transparency when integrating new powered individuals."
"Especially those associated with B-Class Caped Baldy," one of the officials muttered, apparently forgetting the enhanced hearing that several Servants possessed.
Okita's hand drifted subtly toward her sword hilt before she mastered herself with military discipline. Shuten Douji's smile took on a dangerous edge, while Nitocris bristled visibly, preparing what was undoubtedly going to be a very loud response.
It was Shiki who defused the moment, stepping forward with quiet intensity.
"We represent our Master," she stated simply, her blue eyes fixing on the official who had spoken. "Judge us as you will, but remember that judgment reflects as much on the evaluator as the evaluated."
The official paled slightly under her gaze, instinctively stepping back despite Shiki having made no threatening move.
Sweet Mask studied this interaction with calculating interest before smoothly continuing. "The demonstrations will begin in fifteen minutes. I suggest you prepare accordingly." With that, he turned and departed, leaving them with the nervous assessment team.
Once the officials had moved to a respectful distance to review their equipment, Saitama addressed his Servants in a low voice.
"Remember, try not to break too much of their stuff. They get really annoying about property damage."
"A reasonable tactical constraint," Altera acknowledged. "Controlled power projection demonstrates greater mastery than unconstrained destruction."
"THE PHARAOH SHALL RESTRAIN HER DIVINE MIGHT TO MERELY AWESTRUCK LEVELS!" Nitocris promised, though her definition of "restraint" remained somewhat concerning.
"Master," Okita began hesitantly, "that official's disrespect—"
"Doesn't matter," Saitama interrupted with a shrug. "People say stuff like that all the time. I'm used to it."
"That you are accustomed to disrespect does not make it acceptable," Nightingale observed with clinical precision that did little to hide her disapproval.
"Perceptions can be... adjusted," Shuten suggested with a dangerous smile. "Perhaps a subtle demonstration of the consequences of underestimating our Master?"
Saitama shook his head. "Just do your thing out there. Don't worry about my reputation."
"As you command, Master," Altera acknowledged, though the look that passed between the Servants suggested they had their own ideas about the matter.
When the time came for the demonstrations to begin, they were led to the arena entrance. The crowd noise increased as Sweet Mask's voice announced the beginning of the "special exhibition of extraordinary abilities from international consultants."
"International consultants?" Saitama whispered, eyebrow raised.
"A simplified explanation for complex origins," Genos suggested from where he stood beside them. "The Association often employs such terminology for unusual circumstances."
One by one, the Servants were called to demonstrate their abilities.
Nightingale went first, entering the arena with military precision. Rather than immediately displaying her tremendous strength, she began with a demonstration of her medical capabilities—healing a deliberately injured test subject (a brave Association volunteer) with such skill and speed that the crowd gasped in appreciation. Only then did she transition to combat ability, shattering reinforced concrete blocks and precisely neutralizing moving targets with surgical strikes that disabled rather than destroyed.
Altera followed, her demonstration a masterclass in tactical efficiency. She wielded her massive sword with perfect control, slicing targets with precision that spoke of millennia of battlefield experience. When she finally activated a fraction of her Noble Phantasm, the controlled beam of energy disintegrated exactly one designated target while leaving everything around it untouched—a display of power made more impressive by its surgical restraint.
Nitocris, surprisingly, managed to contain her usual volume as she summoned her spectral guardians. The ghostly Medjed materialized throughout the arena, passing through solid objects to strike targets from within. The crowd's initial nervous murmurs turned to appreciative applause when she commanded her spirits to form elaborate patterns in the air—turning raw power into what resembled performance art.
Okita demonstrated her extraordinary speed with elegant precision, drawing and resheathing her blade so quickly that only the highest-speed cameras could capture the movements. Targets fell in perfect slices, and when multiple objects were launched at her simultaneously, she neutralized all of them in what appeared to be a single motion—her Three-Stage Thrust executed with such control that it seemed almost beautiful rather than deadly.
Shuten Douji approached her demonstration as a performance, her movements graceful and hypnotic. The purple mist from her gourd formed intricate patterns in the air rather than dissolving everything it touched. When she finally directed it toward designated targets, the objects didn't melt or disintegrate—instead, they transformed, taking on new shapes that demonstrated the precision of her control rather than its destructive potential.
Finally, Shiki entered the arena, her ordinary appearance in stark contrast to the more visually impressive Servants who had preceded her. She stood quietly for a moment, surveying the space with those penetrating blue eyes. Then, with movements so casual they seemed almost dismissive, she drew her knife and made a series of precise gestures in the air.
For several seconds, nothing happened. The crowd's murmurs suggested confusion or disappointment—until every target in the arena simultaneously separated along perfect lines, each falling apart with impossible precision. Without having visibly engaged with any object, Shiki had affected them all simultaneously, demonstrating a power so subtle and absolute that it elicited stunned silence rather than applause.
Throughout these demonstrations, Saitama watched from the entrance with a complex expression—interest mixed with something like pride, though he would likely never admit to the latter. Beside him, Genos meticulously recorded every detail, his mechanical eyes capturing data that the Association's equipment couldn't hope to match.
When all six had completed their demonstrations, they returned to stand with their Master as Sweet Mask addressed the audience once more.
"As you can see, these international specialists bring extraordinary capabilities to our hero roster," he announced with practiced charm. "The Association welcomes such diverse talents in our ongoing mission to protect civilization from monster threats."
One of the assessment officials approached nervously, clipboard in hand. "Based on preliminary readings, we're assigning provisional S-Class designations to all six subjects," he informed Saitama, unable to completely hide his surprise at this outcome. "Full classification will follow more comprehensive testing, but their base capabilities clearly exceed A-Class parameters."
"Six S-Class heroes," Genos observed quietly. "An unprecedented addition to the Association's resources."
"Great," Saitama replied with characteristic understatement. "Does this mean we're done with the paperwork now?"
Before the official could respond, a commotion erupted from the audience section. A hero in samurai-inspired armor—Iaian, one of Atomic Samurai's disciples—had vaulted over the barrier and approached with focused intensity.
"You," he called out, pointing directly at Okita. "Your swordsmanship... it defies conventional techniques. I request a direct comparison."
Okita glanced at Saitama, seeking permission with a slight tilt of her head.
"Up to you," Saitama shrugged. "Just don't hurt him too badly."
Okita stepped forward with formal military precision, bowing slightly to the challenging swordsman. "I accept your request for demonstration," she stated politely. "Please specify the parameters."
Iaian drew his blade with impressive speed. "A single exchange. Test cuts on those targets," he indicated a fresh set of reinforced posts that had been brought into the arena.
What followed was less a contest than a lesson. Both swordsmen struck their targets simultaneously—Iaian with impressive skill that reflected his A-Class ranking, Okita with movement so subtle it barely registered to the watching crowd.
When they resheathed their blades, Iaian's target fell into four pieces, cleanly cut—a demonstration of exceptional swordsmanship by any normal standard. Okita's target remained standing for precisely three seconds before separating into sixteen perfectly equal sections that arranged themselves in a neat pattern as they fell.
The arena fell silent, then erupted in appreciative murmurs and scattered applause.
Iaian stared at the result, then bowed deeply to Okita. "I have much to learn," he acknowledged with genuine humility.
"Your foundation is excellent," Okita replied generously. "Few modern swordsmen maintain such classical discipline."
This exchange seemed to break some invisible barrier. Suddenly, other heroes were approaching with questions and challenges of their own. Child Emperor hovered near Nitocris, scientific curiosity evident as he scanned her staff with various devices. Superalloy Darkshine was engaged in a surprisingly technical discussion with Nightingale about muscle density optimization and recovery protocols. Atomic Samurai himself had appeared to observe Okita more closely, his usual arrogance tempered by professional interest in her technique.
Even Sweet Mask's perfect composure showed cracks of genuine interest as he studied the Servants' interactions with the established heroes. Only the strongest S-Class heroes maintained their distance—Tatsumaki floating above the proceedings with obvious disdain, and Blast nowhere to be seen, as usual.
Throughout this unexpected socializing, Saitama stood somewhat apart, watching with his usual neutral expression. Yet there was something different in his posture—a subtle straightening of his shoulders, perhaps, or a slight lift of his chin. For perhaps the first time since the Servants had arrived, he seemed to be viewing them not as strange interlopers in his simple life, but as extraordinary beings who had, for whatever cosmic reason, chosen to align themselves with him.
Shiki materialized beside him silently, her ability to move unnoticed impressive even among Servants.
"They recognize quality when it's undeniable," she observed quietly. "Even if they don't understand its source."
Saitama glanced at her. "They're just excited about new strong heroes."
"They're excited about strong heroes associated with you," Shiki corrected gently. "Your worth is reflected in what you attract to your side."
Before Saitama could formulate a response to this unexpectedly insightful observation, a familiar figure pushed through the crowd toward them—Fubuki, leader of the Blizzard Group and self-appointed recruiter, her expression a complex mixture of calculation and genuine surprise.
"Caped Baldy," she addressed him with her usual directness, "you've been hiding resources. These new heroes—they're all connected to you somehow?"
"They're staying at my apartment," Saitama replied with characteristic bluntness.
Fubuki's eyes widened slightly. "All of them? In your tiny apartment?"
"It's crowded," he acknowledged with a shrug.
Fubuki's gaze moved from Saitama to the gathered Servants, reassessing with visible calculation. "The Blizzard Group would welcome such talented individuals. We could provide proper accommodations, resource support, networking opportunities—"
"They're not joining your group," Saitama interrupted firmly.
"THE PHARAOH SERVES ONLY HER CHOSEN MASTER!" Nitocris declared, somehow appearing beside them at precisely the right moment to interject her opinion.
"Our contractual obligations are exclusive," Altera added, materializing with tactical precision on Saitama's other side.
Nightingale joined them, her clinical gaze assessing Fubuki with professional detachment. "Our current arrangement optimizes operational parameters despite spatial limitations."
"While we appreciate the generous offer," Okita continued, appearing with military promptness, "our loyalties are already appropriately directed."
"Though the thought of more spacious accommodations is tempting," Shuten Douji added with silky amusement, completing the circle around Saitama.
Fubuki looked from one Servant to another, then back to Saitama, genuine bewilderment replacing her usual composed calculation. "Who are you, really?" she asked him directly. "No B-Class hero assembles a team of S-Class talents who show this level of... devotion."
Saitama's expression remained neutral. "I'm just a hero for fun."
"You're a singularity," Shiki corrected quietly. "A point where impossibility becomes possible. That's why we were drawn to you."
This cryptic statement seemed to unsettle Fubuki more than any display of power could have. She retreated a step, reassessing Saitama with new eyes.
"The Blizzard Group will be watching your career with interest," she finally stated, attempting to reclaim her usual composure before departing with as much dignity as possible.
As the exhibition gradually wound down, with Association officials processing paperwork and heroes dispersing with new gossip about the remarkable newcomers, Saitama and his Servants were finally cleared to leave. They exited through a side entrance to avoid the media representatives still lingering near the main doors.
"Well, that was something," Saitama observed as they walked. "Everyone did good. No major property damage."
"THE PHARAOH RESTRAINED HER DIVINE MIGHT WITH ADMIRABLE CONTROL!" Nitocris declared, clearly pleased with her own performance.
"Tactical objectives achieved with optimal efficiency," Altera assessed with quiet satisfaction. "Operational parameters established without revealing strategic capabilities."
"The medical applications of my abilities generated 37% more positive response than the combat demonstrations," Nightingale noted clinically. "A useful data point for future public interactions."
"The modern swordsmen possess solid foundations but lack certain classical refinements," Okita observed thoughtfully. "Perhaps an exchange of techniques could prove mutually beneficial."
"So many interesting new playmates," Shuten Douji mused with calculated mischief. "This world has entertaining possibilities."
Only Shiki remained silent, walking slightly apart from the others, her expression contemplative.
As they made their way back toward Saitama's apartment, the afternoon sun casting long shadows ahead of them, something had subtly shifted in their collective dynamic. The Servants moved with greater confidence, their positioning around Saitama no longer merely protective but somehow proud—as if their association with him had been validated rather than merely formalized.
And Saitama himself walked with marginally straighter posture, his usual slouch less pronounced. The change was subtle, perhaps noticeable only to those who knew him well, but it was there: a small acknowledgment that perhaps having legendary beings bound to his side wasn't entirely a burden.
Genos, walking slightly behind the group, observed these changes with his usual analytical precision. "Sensei," he began tentatively, "the Association officials mentioned housing allowances for S-Class heroes. With six new S-Class designations linked to you, there might be resources for larger accommodations."
"A residence with improved tactical defensibility would be advantageous," Altera noted immediately.
"Expanded living space would reduce transmission vectors for communicable pathogens," Nightingale added with clinical approval.
"THE PHARAOH WOULD WELCOME A DWELLING MORE BEFITTING HER DIVINE STATUS!" Nitocris declared enthusiastically.
"Proper facilities for sword maintenance would be beneficial," Okita observed practically.
"More room for... entertainment possibilities," Shuten Douji suggested with characteristic suggestiveness.
Saitama considered this for a long moment as they walked. His tiny apartment had been his home for years—modest but sufficient for his simple needs. Yet in less than two weeks, it had transformed from a place of solitary routine to a crowded nexus of extraordinary beings and complex interactions.
"I'll think about it," he finally said, neither accepting nor rejecting the suggestion outright.
As they rounded the corner to his street, however, all thoughts of future living arrangements vanished. A crowd had gathered near his apartment building, and emergency vehicles lined the block. Smoke rose from the upper floors—precisely where Saitama's unit was located.
"Fire," Genos observed unnecessarily, his sensors already analyzing the situation. "Origin appears to be two floors above your apartment, Sensei, but the damage has spread to adjacent units."
"My manga collection," Saitama murmured, his usual impassivity cracking slightly at this potential personal loss.
Without discussion or command, the Servants moved with coordinated purpose. Nightingale and Altera approached emergency responders, gathering tactical information with professional efficiency. Okita's speed allowed her to circle the building, assessing damage and access points in seconds. Nitocris had already summoned her spectral Medjed, sending them through walls to search for trapped civilians or salvageable items.
Shuten Douji moved closer to Saitama, her usual playfulness replaced by genuine concern. "What matters most to you in there, Master? What would you have us save if we can?"
"The limited edition hero encyclopedia on the top shelf," he replied without hesitation. "And the photo album under the futon."
Shiki said nothing, but her eyes shifted color subtly as she studied the burning building. With quiet purpose, she drew her knife and moved toward the structure.
"Wait," Saitama called after her. "It's not worth risking yourself for stuff."
Shiki glanced back, a rare small smile touching her lips. "I don't risk myself for objects, Master. But I can cut the concept of burning from specific areas. It's a simple application."
With that cryptic statement, she continued forward, her knife tracing patterns in the air that made no sense to conventional physics but somehow caused sections of fire to simply cease, as if the very idea of combustion had been severed from reality in those spaces.
What followed was perhaps the most coordinated effort the Servants had yet displayed. Nightingale's combat abilities transitioned seamlessly to rescue operations, her strength allowing her to clear debris and extract trapped residents with surgical precision. Altera's tactical mind directed emergency responders to structural weaknesses and optimal intervention points. Nitocris's spectral entities located survivors and personal treasures with equal dedication.
Okita moved through the building with supernatural speed, retrieving precious items and delivering them to safety before returning for more. Shuten Douji used her mist with surprising gentleness, neutralizing toxic smoke and creating breathable pathways through the worst-affected areas. And Shiki continued her conceptual surgery, cutting away fire and collapse with quiet efficiency.
By the time conventional firefighters had contained the main blaze, the Servants had rescued every resident, salvaged irreplaceable personal items, and stabilized the structure sufficient to prevent total collapse.
They regrouped where Saitama and Genos waited, Okita carefully presenting a box containing the hero encyclopedia and photo album, both remarkably unharmed.
"Your home is currently uninhabitable, Master," Nightingale reported with clinical precision. "Structural integrity is compromised, though your personal effects remain largely salvageable."
"THE PHARAOH REGRETS TO INFORM