The Grand Championship Banquet did not so much end as it… dissipated. After Saitama's rather unique boon request, a strange, almost dreamlike quality settled over the proceedings. Nobles mumbled polite excuses and made hasty retreats, their minds still reeling from the sheer, unadulterated weirdness of it all. Military commanders stared blankly into their wine goblets, presumably contemplating the utter inadequacy of all known military strategy against an opponent whose primary concern was lint removal. The Magi huddled in corners, whispering frantic, contradictory theories about "laundry-based kinetic manifestations" and "the socio-economic implications of trans-dimensional detergent preferences."
King Olric, after a long, silent communion with his (very strong) wine, had simply nodded numbly at Saitama's request. "A… laundry line," he had repeated, his voice hollow. "And… clothespins. Heavy-duty. It shall be… arranged. Immediately." He then signaled for the Royal Chamberlain, a man whose unflappable composure was legendary (and currently being tested to its absolute limits), to "see to the Champion's… domestic requirements."
Saitama, beaming, had declared this "awesome" and then, after a final, valiant attempt to scale the remaining foothills of the Pancake Mountain (he made a respectable dent), announced he was "stuffed" and "ready for a good nap." He was escorted back to his suite by a revived (but still visibly shaken) Sir Kaelan, leaving behind a banquet hall filled with bewildered dignitaries, half-eaten platters of exotic food, and the lingering, sweet scent of syrup and existential confusion.
The days that followed were, by Midgar's new and increasingly bizarre standards, relatively quiet. The "Tempest" mostly kept to his suite, napping, consuming truly prodigious quantities of Lightning Broth noodles (the Royal Treasury had secured a near-monopoly on the kingdom's supply), and patiently awaiting the installation of his custom-built, palace-grade laundry line on his balcony. He occasionally "helped" the palace staff, usually by accidentally punching new, perfectly symmetrical ventilation holes in walls or "testing" the structural integrity of ancient tapestries by using them as makeshift hammocks. Each incident sent fresh waves of panic through the palace administration, but Saitama himself remained blissfully unaware of the chaos he caused, his intentions always, bafflingly, good.
Gregor, Lyra, and Renn, after providing their final, exhaustive statements to Royal Intelligence, were quietly informed that they were "free to remain as guests of the Crown for as long as they required" (a polite way of saying "we're still not entirely sure what to do with you, and you know too much, so please don't wander off and start talking to the wrong people"). Gregor, pragmatic as ever, used the opportunity to rest, recover, and subtly inquire about potential employment within the palace guard – figuring that proximity to Saitama, however stressful, was still safer than the alternatives. Lyra and Renn, slowly healing from their trauma, found a quiet solace in the palace gardens, their conversations often revolving around the sheer impossibility of their savior and the even greater impossibility of ever truly understanding him.
The Royal Council, however, knew that this quiet was merely the eye of the storm. The echoes of the Titan's fall and the Tournament of Champions were still reverberating throughout the continent and beyond. Diplomatic envoys from neighboring kingdoms – Oriana, Jotunheim, and even more distant, shadowy powers – were arriving in Midgar, their official purpose to "offer congratulations" or "discuss matters of mutual interest," their true intent clearly to glean information about the "Tempest" and assess Midgar's new, terrifying, and utterly unpredictable position on the geopolitical stage.
Archmagus Theron and his Magi worked tirelessly, analyzing the data from the tournament, cross-referencing it with Elmsworth's increasingly bizarre notes on Saitama's daily habits. They built elaborate theoretical models, consulted ancient, forbidden texts, and even attempted (from a very safe distance, using heavily shielded scrying orbs) to observe Saitama while he slept, hoping to detect some fluctuation in his "dormant" energy signature. (They mostly just observed him snoring loudly and occasionally mumbling about sales at a place called "Donki"). Their conclusion remained frustratingly consistent: Saitama was an anomaly, a singularity, a being whose power operated on principles that were simply not of their world.
King Olric found himself presiding over a kingdom that was simultaneously terrified, fascinated, and deeply confused. He spent his days in endless diplomatic meetings, trying to project an aura of strength and control while subtly deflecting pointed questions about the "source" of Midgar's newfound "deterrent." He spent his nights staring at the ceiling, wondering if he had made the right decision, wondering if he had invited a savior or a cataclysm into his home. His only solace was the fact that, so far, Saitama seemed mostly harmless, as long as he was well-fed and his laundry needs were promptly attended to.
The custom-built laundry line was a masterpiece of royal engineering. Forged from gleaming, rust-proof (and hopefully, punch-proof) alloy, strung between two specially reinforced marble pillars on Saitama's balcony, it was indeed sturdy. The clothespins, each one hand-carved from rare ironwood and triple-spring-loaded, were things of beauty. Saitama was delighted.
"Hey, this is great!" he declared, examining the new installation with genuine enthusiasm. "Super strong! Now I can finally wash my hero suit properly! It was starting to get a bit… fragrant." He beamed at Sir Kaelan, who had overseen the installation with the grim determination of a man defusing an unexploded Titan. "You're a good butler-slash-parole-officer-slash-laundry-consultant, Kaelan!"
Kaelan just managed a weak, tired smile. "Happy to be of service, Mister Saitama." He then made a mental note to ensure the Royal Laundry was supplied with industrial quantities of the strongest, yet gentlest, detergent the kingdom could produce. The fate of Midgar might just depend on preventing a chafing incident.
It was during one of Saitama's meticulous laundry sessions – he was surprisingly thorough, carefully hand-washing his yellow jumpsuit in his marble bathtub (which he'd filled with an alarming amount of soap suds) – that Princess Alexia paid him an unannounced visit. She found him on his balcony, happily hanging his dripping hero suit on the new line, humming a cheerful, off-key tune.
"Enjoying the domestic life, Champion?" Alexia asked, leaning against the balcony railing, a smirk playing on her lips. She found the sight of the Titan-Slayer meticulously arranging his socks to dry utterly, delightfully, absurd.
Saitama looked up, surprised. "Oh, hi, Princess Grumpy-Face's Sister!" (He still hadn't quite mastered royal titles). "Yeah, this laundry line is awesome! Way better than trying to dry stuff on the back of a chair. It always falls off." He proudly displayed a perfectly hung pair of red hero boots. "See? No drips!"
Alexia chuckled. "Indeed. A triumph of engineering." She then adopted a slightly more serious tone, though the mischievous glint in her eyes remained. "So, Saitama. Now that the tournament is over, the Pancake Mountain conquered, the laundry line secured… what next? Are you planning on… staying in Midgar? Or will you be off to seek new adventures, new sales, new… laundry challenges?"
Saitama paused in his sock-hanging, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Huh. Good question. Hadn't really thought about it." He looked out over the sprawling city of Midgar. "This place is… okay, I guess. Food's pretty good, when they get the pancake recipe right. And Kaelan brings me noodles. But…" He sighed. "It's still kinda boring. No good monsters to fight. And everyone here is so… jumpy. Like I'm gonna accidentally break something just by breathing too hard." (Which, to be fair, was a legitimate concern for many).
"The world is a big place, Saitama," Alexia said softly, her gaze distant. "Full of… interesting things. Strong opponents. Hidden powers. Ancient secrets." She looked at him, her crimson eyes sharp, analytical. "A man of your… unique talents… surely you're not content to just… hang laundry for the rest of your days?"
Saitama considered this. Was he content? Not really. He was never truly content unless he was facing a challenge that could actually challenge him. Or if there was a really good sale on king crab legs. Midgar, for all its fancy palaces and polite panic, offered neither.
"Yeah, you're right," he finally said. "It's kinda… meh. Maybe I should go find that space pirate guy who blew up my apartment. He owes me rent. And probably a new TV." He looked at his nearly dry jumpsuit. "But first, I gotta finish my laundry. And maybe see if Kaelan can find me some of that detergent that smells like 'Mountain Rainstorm.' That stuff is the best."
Alexia smiled, a genuine, almost predatory smile this time. The Tempest was restless. Good. A restless Tempest was an interesting Tempest. And an interesting Tempest often led to… interesting events. She wondered what kind of chaos he might unleash if he actually decided to go looking for trouble, instead of just waiting for it to stumble over him. The thought was… exhilarating.
The quiet after the storm in Midgar was deceptive. It was the stillness of a coiled spring, the charged silence before a much larger, more complex series of events began to unfold. Saitama had his laundry line, his noodles, his temporary peace. But the ripples of his presence were still spreading, drawing eyes, stirring ambitions, and awakening forces that had long slept. The quest for the perfect detergent was just a momentary pause. The true adventure, the real collision of worlds and powers, was still to come. And the universe, it seemed, had a very strange way of ensuring its most powerful, most oblivious hero never stayed bored for too long.