The sight of Master Eliphas Thorne, the Ethereal Enchanter, a figure of near-mythical arcane power, simply turning his back and walking away from a tournament bout – defeated not by superior magic or cunning strategy, but by what appeared to be sheer, soul-crushing existential bewilderment – left the Grand Arena in a state of stunned, almost reverent, silence. Even the most boisterous spectators, the most cynical gamblers, the most jaded nobles, were momentarily rendered speechless. Krog's defeat had been shocking, brutal, and strangely comical. Thorne's silent retreat was… profoundly unsettling. It hinted at a level of power in Saitama that didn't just break bodies; it broke minds, it shattered paradigms.
The Master of Ceremonies, who had been hiding behind his pillar, peeked out cautiously. He saw Saitama standing alone in the center of the arena, looking mildly confused. He saw the empty space where Master Thorne had been. He looked towards the Royal Box, his expression one of utter, pleading desperation. What was he supposed to say? "The opponent has forfeited due to an acute onset of philosophical despair?"
In the Royal Box, King Olric had his face buried in his hands. He wasn't even trying to maintain his regal composure anymore. This "diagnostic" was rapidly becoming a public demonstration of his kingdom's utter inability to comprehend, let alone manage, the entity it had unwittingly invited into its heart. Queen Isolde was fanning herself rapidly, though whether from the heat or the shock was unclear. Princess Iris looked pale and deeply thoughtful. Princess Alexia, however, was trying very hard to suppress a fit of giggles, finding the entire situation exquisitely, absurdly entertaining. She was already mentally composing a ballad about the "Sorcerer Who Saw Too Much (and Really Wanted to Leave)."
Archmagus Theron was no longer making notes. He was simply staring at the arena floor, his ancient brow furrowed in the deepest concentration he had displayed in centuries. The data was… overwhelming. Saitama hadn't just negated Thorne's spells; he seemed to have negated Thorne's will to employ them. The implications for the very nature of magic, of intent, of reality itself, were staggering. This wasn't just about power levels anymore; this was about fundamental cosmic truths being casually overturned by a man who was probably still wondering about pancakes.
"Well," Saitama finally said, his voice echoing in the vast, silent space, "that was weird. He just… left. Did I say something wrong? Was it the cabbage comment? I thought it was pretty funny." He looked around, genuinely perplexed. "So, uh… does this mean I win by default? Because if so, pancake mountain, here I come!"
His voice, so jarringly mundane against the backdrop of shattered arcane paradigms, seemed to break the spell. A low murmur rippled through the crowd, a collective exhalation of disbelief. A few nervous laughs could be heard. Some people started to clap, hesitantly at first, then with more conviction, not in celebration of a victory, but more in sheer, bewildered acknowledgment of having witnessed… something.
The Master of Ceremonies, spurred by a frantic, unseen gesture from a Royal Aide, stumbled forward. "Uh… yes! Indeed! Due to… uh… the unexpected… philosophical withdrawal… of Master Eliphas Thorne… the victor… once again… is… SAITAMA THE TEMPEST!" His voice lacked all its earlier bravado; it was now tinged with a permanent note of existential weariness.
Saitama pumped his fist once, a small, almost perfunctory gesture. "Alright! Two for two! I'm on a roll! This tournament thing is pretty easy so far. Still kinda hoping for a tougher fight, though. Someone who doesn't just… give up and walk away. That's no fun."
He then looked expectantly towards the Royal Box. "Okay, so, two wins. Does that get me, like, a medium-sized pancake hill? Or maybe just a voucher for a free stack at the Royal Cafeteria?"
King Olric slowly lifted his head from his hands. He looked at Saitama. He looked at his council. He looked at the stunned faces of his kingdom's elite. He felt a profound, almost cosmic weariness settle over him. This tournament, designed to assess and perhaps subtly control the Tempest, was instead systematically dismantling every pillar of power and understanding his kingdom possessed. Brute force failed. Arcane mastery failed. What was left?
He made a silent, almost imperceptible gesture to Lord Valerius. Valerius nodded grimly and dispatched a runner. The King knew he couldn't let this continue. Not like this. Every "victory" for Saitama was a deeper cut into the psyche of Midgar, a louder proclamation of their own inadequacy in the face of this… phenomenon.
"Mighty Saitama!" the Master of Ceremonies announced, his voice suddenly regaining a fraction of its former confidence, clearly having received new instructions. "Your… unparalleled prowess… is truly a sight to behold! So much so, in fact, that the Tournament Committee, in consultation with His Royal Majesty, has decided… to grant you a… a special advancement!"
Saitama blinked. "Special advancement? What's that? Do I get to skip the boring parts and go straight to the pancake buffet?"
"Ah… not quite, Great One!" the Master of Ceremonies chuckled nervously. "But, in recognition of your… overwhelming superiority… in these initial qualifying rounds… you will be… seeded directly into the Grand Championship Final!"
A wave of astonished murmurs swept through the arena. Seeded directly into the final? After only two… "bouts"? It was unprecedented! It was outrageous! It was… actually, probably the only sane thing to do, some people began to whisper.
"The Grand Championship Final?" Saitama repeated, tilting his head. "So, that's like, the last fight? The one for the big prize? The Pancake Mountain of Destiny?"
"Indeed, O Tempest!" the Master of Ceremonies declared, warming to his new script. "You will face the ultimate victor of all other qualifying rounds! A true battle of champions! A clash for the ages! The pinnacle of martial and magical might!" (He silently prayed that whoever survived the other rounds would have the good sense to just forfeit immediately, or perhaps fake a sudden, debilitating illness.)
Saitama considered this. Skip all the in-between fights? Go straight to the main event? Less waiting? More time for potential naps and snack hunting? And a direct path to the alleged Pancake Mountain?
"Huh," he said. "Okay. Sounds good to me. Less boring. So, when's the final? And can I get some lunch while I wait? Because all this winning is making me hungry again."
The announcement of Saitama's direct seeding into the final sent a new series of shockwaves through the various factions observing the tournament.
In the Oriana Kingdom's delegation, the slender figure in midnight blue allowed a true, delighted laugh to escape their lips. "Direct to the final? How… pragmatic of Midgar. And how utterly terrifying for whichever poor sod actually wins the right to face him. This… this is becoming more entertaining than a royal scandal."
The Jotunheim warrior chieftain slammed his drinking horn down. "The final! He faces the best Midgar can muster! Good! Let us see if their 'champion' can even make this Bald God break a sweat! Or perhaps… perhaps one of our own will reach the final and claim the glory of testing him!" His warriors roared their approval, their bloodlust stirred.
In his tailor shop, Sid paused, a needle hovering over a piece of dark fabric. Direct to the final? It seemed the powers that be in Midgar were beginning to understand, however slowly, the sheer futility of conventional opposition. This "Saitama" was a force that didn't play by the established rules. He was the new rules. This development… it opened up new avenues for observation, new potential for… disruption. He smiled faintly. The stage was being set for a truly memorable performance. Perhaps he should ensure he had a good view of the final. One never knew what interesting… data… might be gleaned.
Back in the arena, as Saitama was being "escorted" (under heavy, though now mostly reverent, guard) back to the palace for his promised lunch and a period of "rest and contemplation" before the Grand Final (which was now being hastily rescheduled and re-strategized), the remaining tournament participants felt a strange mixture of emotions.
For some, it was profound relief. They no longer had to face the prospect of being casually, accidentally, and utterly humiliated by the Tempest in a qualifying round. Their honor, their careers, their limbs, were safe. For now.
For others, the most ambitious, the most powerful, it was a challenge. An insult, even. To be deemed so far beneath this newcomer that he was simply… elevated above them? They would fight harder, fiercer, more determined than ever to reach that final, to be the one to finally test the true limits of Saitama the Tempest, to prove that Midgar, that their world, still had champions capable of standing against the inexplicable.
The silence of shattered paradigms lingered in the Grand Arena. The tournament would continue, but its heart had been ripped out and replaced by a single, bald, pancake-loving question mark. The remaining bouts would be fought not just for victory, but for the dubious honor of being the next sacrifice on the altar of Saitama's casual omnipotence.
King Olric watched Saitama depart, then turned to his council. "Well, gentlemen, sorcerers," he said, his voice heavy with a weariness that seemed to age him by years. "We have bought ourselves… time. Time to prepare. Time to strategize. Time to pray." He looked towards Archmagus Theron. "Find me a champion, Archmagus. Find me someone, anyone, who can last more than five seconds against him without causing a continental catastrophe. The fate of this kingdom, and perhaps our collective sanity, may depend on it."
The Tournament of Champions had taken a very sharp, very strange, and very, very Saitama-esque turn. The final was set. The world held its breath. And somewhere in the Royal Kitchens, a frantic debate was underway about the precise structural engineering required for a "Pancake Mountain of Destiny."