The "Grand Championship Banquet" that followed the tournament was, if possible, even more surreal than the tournament itself. It was held in the largest, most opulent hall of the Royal Palace, a cavernous space adorned with priceless tapestries depicting heroic (and notably, monster-filled) scenes from Midgar's history, glittering crystal chandeliers that seemed to float like captured stars, and long tables groaning under the weight of a truly staggering amount of food. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meats, exotic spices, fine wines, and, overwhelmingly, the warm, sweet aroma of pancakes.
For at the head of the hall, on a specially constructed, heavily reinforced dais, sat Saitama, the newly crowned (though uncrowned, as no actual crown seemed to fit his bald head or his general demeanor) Grand Champion. And before him, an edible monument to his victory and the kingdom's desperation, was the "Golden Pancake Mountain of Eternal Syrup."
It was a triumph of culinary engineering and panicked royal decree. A stack of fluffy, golden-brown pancakes easily six feet tall and nearly as wide at its base, glistening under a veritable waterfall of rich, amber syrup that cascaded down its sides into a surrounding moat of melted butter. Tiny royal flags, bearing the Midgar crest, had been optimistically planted at various intervals on its slopes. It was absurd. It was magnificent. It was, for Saitama, the most beautiful sight he had seen since the last 70% off sale at the Z-City Municipal Grocers.
His eyes, usually so placid, so indifferent, now shone with a genuine, almost reverent, awe. "Whoa," he breathed, his voice filled with a rare and profound respect. "It's… it's real. The Pancake Mountain. It's… beautiful." He reached out a tentative finger and poked one of the lower pancakes. It was warm. It was fluffy. He licked the syrup from his finger. "And the syrup is good too! Not too… mapley!"
The assembled nobility, military commanders, Magi, and foreign dignitaries watched this scene with a mixture of stunned silence, nervous apprehension, and a dawning sense of 'well, what else did we expect?' King Olric sat at the main table, a goblet of very strong wine clutched in his hand, his expression one of weary resignation. Queen Isolde maintained a facade of regal amusement, though her eyes occasionally flickered towards the Pancake Mountain with a look that suggested she was mentally calculating the caloric intake and the potential for a kingdom-wide butter shortage. Princess Iris looked faintly ill. Princess Alexia was trying, with limited success, to hide her delighted giggles behind her wine goblet.
Sir Kaelan, who had been tasked with overseeing Saitama's… "culinary experience"… stood beside the Pancake Mountain with a comically oversized silver serving spatula and a look of profound, existential despair. His primary directive was to ensure Saitama did not attempt to eat the entire mountain in one sitting and accidentally trigger a sugar-induced rampage or, worse, a continent-wide syrup tsunami.
The feast officially began with a series of stilted, overly formal speeches praising the valor of the tournament participants (most of whom were either still recovering from their encounters with Saitama or had discreetly fled the capital), the wisdom of the King (who looked like he desperately needed a long nap in a soundproof room), and the… "unique contributions"… of the Grand Champion (who was currently trying to figure out the optimal angle of attack for a six-foot stack of pancakes).
When it was finally deemed "appropriate" for Saitama to begin his assault on the Pancake Mountain, a hush fell over the hall. All eyes were on him. He picked up the comically oversized spatula Sir Kaelan nervously offered him, weighed it in his hand, then discarded it.
"Nah," Saitama declared. "Too small. And kinda… flimsy." He then simply reached out with his bare hands, tore off a section of pancakes roughly the size of a small boulder, dipped it liberally into the moat of melted butter, and took a massive bite.
His eyes closed in blissful contentment. "Mmmfff," he mumbled around a mouthful of syrupy, buttery goodness. "Perfeffion."
And so began the Great Pancake Devouring. Saitama ate with a focused, almost meditative intensity, dismantling the Pancake Mountain with surprising speed and efficiency. He didn't shovel it in like a barbarian; there was a strange, almost artistic precision to his consumption, a clear understanding of structural integrity and optimal syrup distribution. Chunks of pancake vanished into his mouth, followed by contented sighs and occasional, thoughtful pronouncements like, "Needs more whipped cream," or "Could use some chocolate chips, but still pretty good."
The assembled dignitaries watched, mesmerized, horrified, and strangely… hungry. The sheer, unadulterated joy with which Saitama consumed his prize was almost infectious. A few nobles found themselves eyeing their own comparatively modest dessert portions with a newfound dissatisfaction.
Gregor, Lyra, and Renn, seated at a less prominent but still well-laden table, watched Saitama with a mixture of relief and bafflement. "Well," Gregor commented, shaking his head as Saitama somehow managed to balance a teetering stack of five pancakes on his fork before consuming it in one go, "at least he's happy. And as long as he's happy, maybe the rest of us stay in one piece."
Lyra nodded. "It's… strangely reassuring. Knowing that the fate of the world might hinge on something as simple as a well-made pancake."
Renn, who had developed a newfound appreciation for palace catering, was just glad there was enough food to go around, even with Saitama present.
The conversation around the hall, when it finally resumed, was dominated by one topic: Saitama. What did his victory mean? What were his true powers? Could he be controlled? Could he be reasoned with? Was he a divine blessing, a demonic curse, or just a really, really hungry guy with a bizarre hobby?
Archmagus Theron, observing Saitama's methodical demolition of the Pancake Mountain, found himself formulating new theories. "Note the efficiency of consumption," he murmured to a nearby Magus, who was frantically taking notes. "The lack of wasted motion. The precise application of… appetite. It mirrors his combat style. Minimal effort, maximum result. Is there a unifying principle at play? A cosmic law of… overwhelming simplicity?"
Princess Alexia, meanwhile, was subtly instigating bets among the younger, more adventurous nobles: "Ten gold pieces says he finishes the entire mountain before the King finishes his next goblet of wine." "Twenty says he asks for a second, larger mountain." "Fifty says he tries to use the melted butter moat as a slip-n-slide." Her laughter was a bright, dangerous counterpoint to the nervous tension in the hall.
As the Pancake Mountain dwindled (at an alarming, but not entirely unexpected, rate), King Olric knew he had to address the… Tempest… directly. The feast was not just a celebration; it was a crucial opportunity to try and establish some form of… understanding, some baseline for future interactions. He cleared his throat, a sound that, surprisingly, cut through Saitama's contented munching.
"Saitama," the King began, his voice carefully neutral, "Grand Champion. Your… victory… was… decisive." (Understatement of the millennium, he thought.) "The kingdom, indeed the world, has witnessed your unparalleled strength."
Saitama paused, a half-eaten pancake dripping syrup down his chin. "Huh? Oh, thanks, King guy." He wiped his chin with the back of his hand. "These pancakes are really good. You guys should enter them in a contest. They'd totally win."
"Indeed," the King continued, ignoring the culinary critique. "And as Grand Champion, tradition dictates that you are offered… a boon. A request within the power of the Crown to grant. Within reason, of course." He stressed the last part, silently praying Saitama wouldn't ask for the moon, or a lifetime supply of dragon eggs, or perhaps the legal right to punch annoying bureaucrats.
Saitama's eyes lit up. A boon? A request? He looked at the rapidly shrinking Pancake Mountain. He looked around the opulent hall. He looked at the nervous faces of the assembled nobility. He tapped his chin thoughtfully. What did a hero for fun, who had just consumed roughly his own body weight in pancakes, truly desire?
"A boon, huh?" Saitama mused. "Well… these pancakes are awesome. And the noodles were pretty good too. And my new cape is nice and not-itchy." He paused, a genuinely thoughtful expression on his face. "You know what I could really use?"
The entire hall held its breath. What would it be? Untold riches? A noble title? Command of an army? The hand of a princess? (Several princesses in attendance suddenly looked very nervous, or very intrigued, depending on their disposition.)
Saitama finally declared, "A good, sturdy laundry line. And some heavy-duty clothespins. Because my hero suit gets really dirty after all that… you know… heroing. And air-drying is way better for the fabric than those hot magic-dryer things you guys have. They make everything shrink."
Silence.
A profound, echoing, soul-shattering silence, broken only by the distant, almost hysterical giggle of Princess Alexia, who quickly disguised it as a cough.
A laundry line. And clothespins. This was the boon requested by the being who had shattered Titans, erased magic, and held the fate of kingdoms in his syrup-stained hands.
King Olric just stared. He opened his mouth. He closed it again. No words came. He felt something in his brain… snap. Just a little.
Archmagus Theron's quill, which had been poised to record Saitama's profound, reality-altering request, clattered from his nerveless fingers onto his ancient parchment.
Sir Kaelan, standing near the remnants of the Pancake Mountain, made a small, choking sound and discreetly fainted into the arms of two quick-thinking Royal Guards, who then looked at each other in bewildered panic, wondering if they should faint too.
The banquet of bafflement had reached its glorious, anticlimactic peak. The champion had spoken. He wanted to do his laundry. Properly. The weight of expectation, the fear, the awe, the complex geopolitical ramifications – all of it, for a moment, was eclipsed by the sheer, unadulterated, cosmic absurdity of a hero's domestic needs. The kingdom of Midgar, it seemed, was not just dealing with a Tempest; it was dealing with a Tempest who had very strong opinions about fabric care.