The departure of the enigmatic "Shadow" left the Small Council Chamber thick with a silence far heavier than any before. His words, stark and chilling, echoed in the minds of King Olric, Archmagus Theron, Lord Valerius, and Knight-Commander Kristoph. "Eyes are turning towards Midgar… Older eyes. Hungrier eyes… The predators are beginning to gather." It was a prophecy of doom delivered with the casual confidence of a seasoned observer, and it had stripped away any lingering illusions of control or normalcy that the "successful" conclusion of the tournament might have offered.
King Olric sat motionless for a long time, his gaze fixed on the empty space where Shadow had stood. The weight of his crown, of his kingdom, felt crushing. The Tempest, Saitama, was not a shield, Shadow had said, but an earthquake revealing fault lines. And now, the things that lurked within those fault lines were stirring.
"Archmagus," the King finally said, his voice hoarse, "this 'Cult of Diablos'… Shadow implied our knowledge of them is incomplete. What do your sources say? What is their true ambition, if not merely the resurrection of a long-dead demon?"
Archmagus Theron looked grave. "Your Majesty, our understanding has always been fragmented, based on captured acolytes, recovered texts… they seek to overturn the current age, to restore a mythical 'Age of Shadows' where their 'goddess,' Diablos, reigned supreme. The resurrection is but a means to that end. But Shadow's words… they suggest a scale, a depth to their machinations, and perhaps to the entity they serve, that we have not fathomed." He paused. "And the 'Shattered Veil,' the 'Herald' Saitama unmade… these are names unknown to our lore. They imply threats from beyond our world, beyond our dimension. If true…" He didn't need to finish the sentence. The implications were terrifying.
Lord Valerius slammed a gauntleted fist onto the polished table, making the crystal goblets rattle. "Then we prepare for war! We reinforce our borders! We call up the levies! We forge alliances! Midgar will not fall cowering before shadows and whispers!"
"And what of Saitama?" Knight-Commander Kristoph interjected, his voice calm but firm, cutting through Valerius's bluster. "Shadow called him a 'catalyst,' a 'powerful piece on the board.' If these… older, hungrier eyes… are turning towards Midgar, are they drawn by the kingdom itself, or by the unprecedented concentration of power now residing within it – namely, him?"
The question hung heavy in the air. Was Saitama the target? Or was Midgar simply the unfortunate stage upon which a cosmic drama was about to unfold, with Saitama as its unwitting lead actor?
King Olric looked at his most trusted advisors. Fear was a useless indulgence. Action was required. But what action, against threats so vast, so ill-defined? Shadow's words, though ominous, had also hinted at a "game," at "pieces on a board." If this was a game, then Midgar, however outmatched, had to play.
"Shadow spoke of Saitama as a 'delightful, if somewhat blunt, instrument of chaos'," the King mused, a new, calculating light dawning in his weary eyes. "He said attempting to control him was futile. But perhaps… perhaps he can be… directed. Not aimed like a weapon, as Shadow rightly pointed out, but… nudged. Towards threats that endanger his peace, his access to… noodles and laundry lines."
Archmagus Theron raised an eyebrow. "You propose… weaponizing his boredom, Your Majesty?"
"In a manner of speaking, Archmagus," the King replied, a grim smile touching his lips. "If these 'predators' are gathering, if they threaten Midgar, they will inevitably disrupt the… comfortable routine… our Tempest has established. They will make noise. They will break things. They will, in all likelihood, attempt to attack him, or those he has, however inadvertently, taken under his 'protection'." He thought of Gregor, Lyra, and Renn. He thought of the Royal Kitchens. He thought of the Pancake Mountain. "And Saitama, as we have seen, reacts… decisively… to annoyances."
Lord Valerius looked skeptical. "But his reactions are unpredictable, Your Majesty! Uncontrolled! He could level half the kingdom trying to swat a fly, if that fly sufficiently irritated him!"
"Which is why," the King continued, his gaze sharpening, "we must be subtle. We cannot order him. We cannot overtly manipulate him. But we can… present him with situations. We can ensure that the threats Shadow spoke of become… his problems. Problems that require… 'cleaning up'." He paused. "And we must learn to anticipate, and mitigate, the collateral damage."
It was a desperate gambit, a strategy born of profound necessity and a chilling understanding of their own limitations. They could not fight these cosmic horrors themselves. But perhaps, just perhaps, they could guide the ultimate, oblivious weapon in their general direction.
"The Cult of Diablos," King Olric stated, his voice now firm, decisive. "They are the most immediate, tangible threat we understand, however imperfectly. They operate within our borders, in the shadows. Find them, Archmagus. Find their strongholds, their leaders, their plans. Knight-Commander Kristoph, your unique experience in the Deepwood, your insights into… unusual phenomena… will be invaluable. Coordinate with the Archmagus. Gather intelligence. Identify targets."
"And then, Your Majesty?" Kristoph asked.
"And then," the King said, his eyes glinting with a dangerous light, "we ensure that the Cult of Diablos becomes… a significant inconvenience… to Saitama's pursuit of a quiet life and a well-stocked pantry." He looked at his advisors. "We cannot control the storm. But perhaps… we can subtly influence the direction of the lightning."
The council members exchanged uneasy glances. It was a perilous path, fraught with unimaginable risks. But it was also, perhaps, their only path. The King's gambit was set.
Meanwhile, in his suite, Saitama was facing a crisis of his own. He had run out of Lightning Broth noodles.
Sir Kaelan had just delivered the devastating news. "I regret to inform you, Mister Saitama," Kaelan had said, his voice filled with the weary resignation of a man constantly delivering bad news to a demigod, "that due to… unforeseen logistical complications… and a sudden, kingdom-wide surge in demand… the royal stockpile of Oriana Lightning Broth noodles has been… depleted."
Saitama stared at him, a half-eaten apple falling from his slack fingers. "Depleted? You mean… no more noodles? But… but I was just getting to the good part of my noodle-replica of the palace! The tiny little flags on the turrets were next!"
"My sincerest apologies, sir," Kaelan continued, bracing himself. "The Royal Purveyors are scouring the continent for additional supplies, but it may take… some time. Weeks. Possibly months."
Saitama sank onto his fluffy cloud-bed, a look of profound, almost existential despair on his face. Weeks? Months? Without Lightning Broth? This was a catastrophe of unparalleled proportions. The fall of the Titan was a minor inconvenience compared to this.
"This is bad, Kaelan," Saitama said, his voice hollow. "This is really, really bad. What am I supposed to eat now? Just… regular food? Like… vegetables? And… and non-instant things?" The horror in his voice was palpable.
"The Royal Chefs can prepare anything you desire, Mister Saitama!" Kaelan assured him hastily, visions of a noodle-deprived Tempest "cleaning up" the palace kitchens dancing in his head. "Roast pheasant! Glazed ham! Even… more pancakes!"
Saitama sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of a thousand empty noodle bowls. "It's not the same, Kaelan. It's just not the same." He looked out the window at the city of Midgar, a new, restless boredom settling over him. The laundry was done. The Pancake Mountain was a fond memory. And now, the noodles were gone. What was a hero for fun to do?
He stood up, a sudden, new determination in his eyes. "Kaelan," he announced. "We need to go shopping."
Kaelan blinked. "Shopping, sir? For… for what, precisely?" He had a sinking feeling he already knew the answer.
"Noodles, Kaelan!" Saitama declared, grabbing his (now impeccably clean) hero cape. "Oriana Lightning Broth noodles! If the palace can't get them, then I'll just have to go find them myself! There's gotta be a shop somewhere in this city that sells them! Or maybe," his eyes lit up with a new, even more alarming idea, "we can go to Oriana! It's a kingdom, right? They probably have, like, entire mountains of Lightning Broth noodles! A noodle pilgrimage!"
Sir Kaelan felt his carefully constructed composure begin to crumble. A noodle pilgrimage? To a rival kingdom? With the Tempest? The diplomatic implications alone were enough to give him a seizure. "Mister Saitama, I… I really don't think—"
"Come on, Kaelan!" Saitama said, already heading for the door, his boredom momentarily forgotten, replaced by the righteous fury of a thwarted noodle connoisseur. "It'll be an adventure! A quest! For the ultimate instant ramen! It'll be fun!"
Kaelan just stared after him, a silent scream trapped in his throat. The King's gambit to subtly direct Saitama towards kingdom-threatening evils was about to be spectacularly derailed by a far more immediate, far more pressing crisis: a critical shortage of artificially flavored soup base. The fate of Midgar, it seemed, was no longer just about grand strategy and cosmic threats; it was now inextricably linked to the international supply chain of dehydrated noodles. And Saitama, driven by a hero's boredom and a connoisseur's craving, was about to embark on a new, entirely unsolicited, and undoubtedly chaotic quest.