The Grand Triumphal Parade through the streets of Midgar was the largest, most lavish celebration in the kingdom's history. The streets were carpeted with flowers. Wine flowed freely from public fountains. The roar of the grateful crowd was a constant, deafening wave of sound. Banners depicting the royal crest, the Oriana sunburst, and, most prominently, a stylized, muscular, bald head, hung from every window.
At the head of the parade, in a grand, open-topped golden chariot drawn by six immaculate white stallions, sat the heroes of the hour. Princess Iris, looking every bit the valiant warrior-princess, accepted the adulation with a regal, if slightly weary, grace. Lyraelle, a serene, otherworldly presence, seemed to float above the chaotic celebration, her silver eyes holding a distant, contemplative light.
And beside them, sitting awkwardly on a plush velvet cushion, was Saitama. He wore a hastily commissioned "ceremonial" version of his hero suit, which was mostly just his normal suit but with a few extra, uncomfortable gold tassels sewn onto the cape. He had been given a laurel wreath of victory, which he had tried to eat before Sir Kaelan, in a panic, had explained that it was for wearing, not for snacking. It now sat slightly askew on his bald head, making him look less like a triumphant champion and more like a bewildered participant in a very strange toga party.
He waved awkwardly to the cheering crowds, a forced smile on his face. They chanted his name, threw flowers at him, held up signs that read "SAITAMA SAVES!" and "WE LOVE YOU, BALD CAPE!" They saw him as a god, a savior, the ultimate hero. He just felt… tired. And the laurel wreath was itchy.
The victory, and the subsequent fame, had become a prison far more effective than any gilded cage. He was no longer just a guest; he was a national treasure. A symbol. He couldn't wander the city for snacks without being mobbed. He couldn't even do his laundry in peace, as palace servants now insisted on treating his hero suit with a reverence usually reserved for holy relics. He was drowning in gratitude, suffocating in adoration. And he was bored. So, so bored.
The parade culminated in a grand ceremony in the Royal Plaza, where King Olric, in a voice filled with genuine, heartfelt emotion, officially bestowed upon Saitama the kingdom's highest honor: the title of "Royal Protector," complete with a fiefdom (which Saitama had no idea what to do with), a generous stipend (which he would probably just spend on noodles), and a solid gold, jewel-encrusted medal (which he immediately tried to bite to see if it was real chocolate).
Saitama accepted the honors with a series of mumbled "uh, thanks" and "is it lunch time yet?", his profound lack of enthusiasm a stark, baffling contrast to the historic significance of the occasion. The people cheered anyway. Their hero was humble! He was not swayed by the trappings of power! He was perfect.
But as the ceremony concluded, as Saitama stood blinking in the shower of celebratory confetti, he felt an overwhelming, crushing sense of… finality. He had done it. He had beaten the ultimate bad guy (or at least, the ultimate swirly purple thing). He had saved the world. He was the strongest. And now… this was it. This was the reward. An endless parade. An uncomfortable title. And a lifetime of being stared at by adoring strangers. The game was over. He had won. And it felt like a life sentence.
Far away, in the silent, hidden heart of his new, perfectly spherical underground base, Shadow was feeling a similar, if more complex, sense of existential ennui.
His victory had been perfect. He had defeated the Cult's true leadership, absorbed a significant portion of the Abyssal Core's power (which he was still learning to control), and saved the capital, all without anyone even knowing he was there. He had achieved the ultimate "Eminence in Shadow" moment. He had won his game.
And now… he was bored.
He sat on a simple, throne-like chair carved from obsidian, observing his loyal Shadows as they managed their rapidly expanding organization. Alpha oversaw their intelligence network, which was now spreading across the continent. Gamma managed their finances, her business acumen turning Shadow Garden into a formidable economic power. Delta led their elite combat units, eagerly awaiting a new enemy to "shred." They were a perfect, efficient, world-altering machine. His machine. And it was all running… a little too smoothly.
The thrill of the fight, the intellectual stimulation of the chase, the chuunibyou joy of the dramatic reveal – it was all… gone. Replaced by… administration. He was no longer a mysterious warrior fighting in the shadows; he was the CEO of a highly successful clandestine corporation. It was, he had to admit, a bit of a let-down.
He had saved the world. He had achieved his dream. And it was… kind of boring.
He would occasionally slip out in his "Sid" persona, to wander the streets of Midgar, to listen to the ridiculous, overblown tales of Saitama's heroism. He found a strange, almost bitter, amusement in it. The world was celebrating a hero who was just as bored with his victory as he was. They were two gods of their respective domains – light and shadow, overt and covert – sitting on their lonely thrones, wondering what to do next.
It was during one of these aimless wanderings that Sid found himself in a quiet, overlooked corner of the Royal Library. He was browsing a section on "Anomalous Historical Events," looking for inspiration, for a hint of some new, forgotten evil he could dramatically reveal and fight, when he heard a familiar voice.
"It just… doesn't make any sense."
He peeked around a towering bookshelf. It was Princess Alexia, her brow furrowed in concentration, speaking to a weary-looking Lyraelle.
"Saitama's power," Alexia continued, her voice a low, frustrated murmur. "It has no origin. No history. He just… is. But your story, Lyraelle… the story of Aethel, of the True Enemy, of the Great Betrayal… that has a history. It has rules. It has a beginning." She looked at the Celestial Echo, her crimson eyes sharp. "And it doesn't have an end. You said the True Enemy, the one who orchestrated it all, the true master of the Cult… is still out there."
Lyraelle nodded, her silver eyes filled with a deep, ancient sorrow. "He is. His victory was incomplete. He failed to acquire Aethel's final legacy, the one power he truly feared. And so he retreated, to wait, to gather his strength, to weave new webs in the darkness, waiting for the world to forget. But he is not gone. He is merely… patient."
"So," Alexia mused, a dangerous, calculating light entering her gaze, "while the kingdom celebrates the end of one war, the real war has never actually ended. It's just been… on a very long intermission." She looked at a star chart on the table, the same one revealed by Anathema. "And this 'legacy'… the key to truly defeating him… it's still out there. In the final sacred site. The one we never reached."
Sid, hidden in the shadows of the bookshelf, felt a jolt. A thrill. The kind he hadn't felt since before his 'I AM ATOMIC' moment.
A new plot. A new enemy. A final, hidden sacred site. The game wasn't over. He had just defeated the final boss of the first act. But there was… a sequel. A "New Game Plus."
Alexia and Lyraelle's conversation continued, their voices low whispers of a dawning, new quest. They spoke of convincing the King, of the dangers, of how to even begin searching for a place that had been lost to myth for millennia.
But Sid had heard enough. He had the kernel of a new narrative. A grand, epic, world-spanning quest for a lost legacy, against an ancient, impossibly powerful "True Enemy." It was perfect. It was dramatic. It was everything his bored, chuunibyou soul craved.
But there was one, very large, very bald, complication. Saitama. How did he fit into this new story? The kingdom would undoubtedly want to bring their pet apocalypse along on this new quest. And Saitama's presence had a tendency to… simplify narratives. To punch plot twists in the face. To resolve complex, multi-chapter story arcs with a single, anticlimactic panel.
No, Sid thought, a slow, cunning smile spreading across his face. This quest… this story… it had to be his. He had to be the hero, the one to uncover the secrets, to face the ancient evil, to save the world in a suitably dramatic and shadowy fashion.
Saitama couldn't be a part of it. He was too… efficient. Too much of a plot-destroyer.
He needed to be removed from the board. Not killed – an idea Sid now recognized as hilariously impossible. But… distracted. Occupied. Sent on a different, even grander, even more pointless, quest of his own.
A new, brilliant, and utterly audacious plan began to form in his mind. A plan that would not only give him the grand, dramatic stage he craved, but would also solve the problem of Saitama in the most elegant, most ironic way possible. He would give the hero for fun the one thing he had always wanted: a real, challenging, seemingly endless fight. A fight so big, so all-consuming, that he wouldn't have time to get bored and accidentally stumble into the real plot.
Sid melted away from the library, his mind buzzing with newfound purpose. He had a new performance to script. A new stage to set. He would let the princesses and their ancient advisor begin their noble quest. He would let them think they were the protagonists.
But he, the Eminence in Shadow, would be the one pulling all the strings, manipulating not just the heroes and the villains, but the very fabric of the story itself. The uncomfortable crown of victory was about to be replaced by the thrilling, unseen stage of a brand new, even more epic, game. And this time, he would make sure the finale was all his.