The days leading up to the Grand Championship Final of the Midgar Tournament of Champions were a strange, surreal period for the Royal Capital. The city buzzed with a nervous, almost manic energy. The initial shock of Saitama's "victories" had given way to a kind of fatalistic anticipation. People weren't just wondering if the Tempest would win the final; they were wondering how he would win, and what bizarre, reality-bending, collateral-damage-inducing method he would employ this time. Betting pools now focused less on the outcome and more on specifics: "Will he use one punch, one pat, or one stern look?" "Will his opponent spontaneously combust, turn into a pile of laundry, or simply run away screaming?" "Will the arena survive?"
Saitama, meanwhile, was enjoying his "rest and contemplation" period immensely. For him, it translated to "more time for snacks and naps." His opulent suite in the Royal Palace became a fortress of comfortable boredom. Sir Kaelan, his perpetually stressed liaison, had largely given up on enforcing royal etiquette and now focused primarily on damage control and catering to Saitama's increasingly specific (and often bizarre) culinary requests.
The "Pancake Mountain of Destiny" was still under negotiation (the Royal Engineers were reportedly having trouble with the syrup viscosity at altitude), but Saitama had discovered a new obsession: instant noodles. A nervous palace chef, trying to find something simple and quick to appease the Tempest's constant hunger pangs, had unearthed a forgotten crate of Oriana Kingdom "Lightning Broth" instant noodles, a surprisingly popular import among the lower-ranking palace guards for their intense (and some said, mildly hallucinogenic) spice levels.
Saitama had tried one bowl out of curiosity. His eyes had widened. Not in pain from the spice – he barely seemed to register it – but in pure, unadulterated delight at the sheer, MSG-laden, artificially flavored convenience of it all.
"Hey! This stuff is amazing!" he'd declared, slurping down the noodles with gusto. "It's like… a whole meal! In three minutes! And it's… tingly! Like a thousand tiny flavor explosions in my mouth! Do you have more of these? Like, a lot more?"
And so began the Great Noodle Crisis of Midgar. Sir Kaelan found himself dispatching frantic requests to every merchant and importer in the city, trying to corner the market on Oriana Lightning Broth noodles. The price of instant noodles skyrocketed. Palace intrigue now involved whispered rumors about which noble faction controlled the largest stockpile of dehydrated ramen. Saitama, blissfully unaware of the economic and political turmoil his new favorite food was causing, happily consumed bowl after bowl, occasionally experimenting by adding things like leftover roasted pheasant, candied griffin gizzards (Alexia's influence), or even, in one particularly memorable instance, a handful of sugar cubes, declaring the results "interestingly crunchy."
His "cooperation" with the Magi had also taken on a new dimension. Elmsworth and his team, having abandoned all attempts at direct physical or magical testing, now mostly just observed Saitama in his "natural habitat" (i.e., his suite, surrounded by empty noodle bowls and discarded pajama sets). They took meticulous notes on his noodle consumption patterns, his napping schedule, and his attempts to teach Sir Kaelan how to play "Go Fish" with a deck of tarot cards he'd found ("This 'Hanged Man' card is kinda creepy. Is he, like, really bad at climbing trees?"). Their reports to Archmagus Theron were filled with phrases like "subject displays remarkable contentment when supplied with adequate sodium and carbohydrate intake," "cognitive engagement appears inversely proportional to proximity to flavored soup base," and "further research into the metaphysical implications of instant noodle preference is urgently required."
Princesses Iris and Alexia continued their visits, though their focus had shifted. Iris, still grappling with the moral and existential implications of Saitama's power, found herself increasingly drawn into surprisingly mundane conversations with him about the best way to cook an egg or the injustice of limited-time-only fast-food promotions. She was beginning to see, beneath the reality-breaking power, a strangely simple, almost childlike, individual. It didn't make him less terrifying, but it made him… more human. In a very weird way.
Alexia, on the other hand, was having the time of her life. She saw Saitama as a glorious agent of chaos, a living embodiment of everything that was wrong (and therefore, wonderfully entertaining) with the stuffy, predictable world of royalty and power. She'd bring him increasingly outrageous "delicacies" (pickled bog slugs, sun-dried desert scorpion, fermented thunder-lizard eggs), not just to see his reaction, but because his utter lack of pretense, his willingness to try anything (once), was a refreshing antidote to the sycophantic courtiers she usually endured.
"So, Saitama," she asked one afternoon, watching him attempt to rehydrate a particularly unappetizing-looking sun-dried scorpion in a bowl of Lightning Broth, "this Grand Final. Any particular strategy? Or are you just going to… you know… pat them?"
Saitama poked the scorpion with a chopstick. It wasn't rehydrating very well. "Strategy? Nah. Too much thinking. Mostly I just see what happens. If they're strong, maybe I'll get a good fight. If not…" He shrugged. "Then it's over quick. More time for noodles." He finally managed to spear the scorpion. "This looks like it's gonna be really crunchy. Hope it doesn't break my teeth." (It didn't. He declared it "surprisingly zesty" but "a bit too leggy.")
While Saitama enjoyed his noodle-fueled interlude, the rest of the Tournament of Champions proceeded with a grim, almost desperate, intensity. With the "Tempest" seeded directly into the final, the remaining qualifying rounds became a brutal, no-holds-barred crucible. Every knight, every mage, every exotic warrior knew that this was their only chance to reach the pinnacle, to earn the dubious honor of facing the inexplicable. The battles were fierce, often bloody. Reputations were made and shattered. Ancient techniques were unleashed, powerful artifacts deployed. The crowd, initially stunned by Saitama's anticlimactic victories, now roared with renewed fervor, hungry for displays of genuine skill and power, perhaps as a way to reaffirm their own understanding of how the world was supposed to work.
Champions rose and fell. A renowned swordmaster from a distant eastern land, whose blade was said to be able to cut through shadows, was defeated by a cunning illusionist who turned his own skill against him. A powerful elemental mage, capable of summoning storms, was bested by a stoic warrior monk whose inner peace allowed him to walk through lightning unscathed. The Jotunheim chieftain, Hrolf the Iron-Beard, carved a path of brutal destruction through his opponents, his twin axes leaving a trail of broken shields and shattered hopes, his roars echoing the frozen fury of his homeland. He was clearly determined to reach the final, to test himself against the "Bald God."
Through it all, the shadow of Saitama loomed. Every victor, even in their moment of triumph, knew what awaited them. They would look towards the Royal Box, towards the empty space often occupied by the yellow-clad enigma, and a flicker of unease, of dread, would cross their faces. They were fighting not just for glory, but for the chance to be the next footnote in an increasingly bizarre legend.
King Olric watched these battles with a heavy heart. He saw the valor of his knights, the skill of his mages, the fierce determination of champions from across the lands. And he knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the core, that none of it would matter against Saitama. His "diagnostic" was yielding only one consistent result: absolute, overwhelming, almost accidental, superiority.
Archmagus Theron, however, found himself increasingly fascinated. He wasn't just observing the tournament; he was observing the reactions to Saitama. The fear, the disbelief, the desperate attempts to rationalize or strategize against a force that defied all known principles. He saw patterns emerging, not in Saitama's power, but in the way the world was trying, and failing, to cope with it. He began to formulate new theories, not about magic or physics, but about… belief. About the fragility of established realities when confronted with the truly inexplicable. The stolen spoon, he now suspected, was not an act of kleptomania, but perhaps a subconscious test, a way for Saitama to gauge the reactions of this new world, to see if anyone would call him out on something so… normal. (No one had, directly, which was perhaps another data point in itself.)
As the final qualifying rounds concluded, and the last two contenders for the Grand Championship (besides Saitama) were determined, a new, even more intense wave of anticipation swept through Midgar. The stage was almost set. The combatants were known. All that remained was for the main event to begin.
Sir Kaelan, on the eve of the Grand Final, found Saitama in his suite, surrounded by an truly impressive mountain of empty Lightning Broth noodle containers, meticulously attempting to build a replica of the Royal Palace out of them. It was surprisingly accurate, if a bit wobbly.
"Mister Saitama," Kaelan said, his voice hoarse from weeks of existential stress and noodle-procurement logistics, "tomorrow. The Grand Final. Are you… prepared?"
Saitama placed another empty noodle container carefully on his replica tower. "Prepared? Yeah, I guess. Got a good night's sleep planned. And I had, like, twelve bowls of noodles for dinner. So, lots of energy." He looked at Kaelan. "Hey, do you think if I win, they'll give me the Pancake Mountain and a lifetime supply of these Lightning Broth noodles? Because that would be awesome."
Kaelan just sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weary resignation of the entire kingdom. The interlude of infinite noodles was drawing to a close. The final confrontation was at hand. And Midgar braced itself, wondering if its foundations, its champions, and its collective sanity, would survive the experience. The only certainty was that it would be… memorable. And probably involve a request for more condiments.