The sight of a stranger in his corridor, an actual, unvetted, unannounced stranger, was such a novelty that Saitama momentarily forgot to be bored. The palace, for all its opulence, had become a predictable terrarium. The same faces, the same terrified courtesies, the same rotating menu of gourmet meals. This newcomer, "Sid Kagenou," was a crack in the pristine, monotonous glass.
Saitama looked at the offered hand, then back at the young man's impossibly smug, confident face. "Sid, huh? You a new butler? You look kinda fancy for a butler."
Sid's smile didn't falter. He simply withdrew his hand, his movement as smooth as flowing ink. "Merely a humble student of the world, passing through. I heard tales of the reclusive champion who saved us all and felt… compelled to offer my respects. And perhaps," he added, his eyes glinting, "a measure of stimulating conversation. It must be… quiet, up here."
The word "quiet" landed with the precision of a master duelist's thrust. This Sid character didn't just understand his situation; he was calling it out, subtly, mockingly.
Saitama found himself intrigued, despite his best efforts. "Okay, chess guy. Come in." He gestured into his suite. "But if you're a salesman, I'm not buying anything. Unless you're selling a new video game console. Does this world even have those?"
Sid glided into the room, his gaze sweeping over the opulent furnishings, the haphazard pile of training-dummies'-limbs in one corner, and the framed "Lifetime Platinum Noodle Stipend" on the wall, his expression one of polite, academic interest. "Video games? A fascinating concept. Tell me about them."
And so began the strangest conversation of Saitama's life. Sid, it turned out, was an excellent conversationalist. He didn't fawn. He didn't ask about the Titan or the Star-Eater. Instead, he asked about Saitama's world. About supermarkets. About cramped apartments and paying utility bills. About part-time jobs and the frustration of missing garbage day. He spoke of Saitama's former life not as a lesser existence, but as a complex, fascinating system with its own rules and struggles. For the first time, someone was interested in Saitama, not the Tempest.
Saitama, in turn, found himself… talking. Really talking, for the first time in a long time. He spoke of the simple, relatable frustrations of his old life, the joys of finding a good bargain, the sheer annoyance of fighting a monster only to realize you'd missed the last train home.
"See, that's the thing they don't get here," Saitama explained, gesturing with a half-eaten rice ball (the chefs now anticipated his need for "conversation snacks"). "Being a hero isn't about the big, flashy fights. It's about… getting home in time to watch your favorite show. It's about having enough money to pay rent. That's the real struggle."
Sid just nodded, his expression one of profound, sympathetic understanding. "Indeed," he murmured. "The tyranny of the mundane. A battle far more relentless than any cosmic entity."
It was masterful. Sid was not just feigning interest; he was building a bridge. He was connecting with the one part of Saitama that was still human, the part that was bored and lonely and missed the simple, grinding reality of his old world. He was making Saitama feel seen.
After an hour of this, after establishing this bizarre, unprecedented rapport, Sid gestured to a small table on the balcony. A chessboard, intricately carved from ivory and jet, was already set up. One of Sid's invisible agents had placed it there while Saitama was distracted by a particularly compelling anecdote about the difficulty of peeling a boiled egg.
"So," Sid said, his voice a smooth, casual invitation. "A game? To pass the time."
Saitama looked at the board. "I told you, I'm not very good."
"That is of no consequence," Sid replied, his smile returning. "It is not about winning or losing. It is about… observing the patterns. Understanding the flow of power, even on a small scale."
They sat. The game began. Sid, of course, was a master. He had studied strategy, theory, the thousand-year history of the game. He could have checkmated Saitama in four moves.
He did not.
He played a different game entirely. He made moves that were not optimal, but… interesting. He would sacrifice a powerful piece for a seemingly minor positional advantage. He would create complex, beautiful, but ultimately flawed, tactical webs. He played not to win, but to perform. To create a story on the board.
Saitama, who had no knowledge of strategy, simply moved his pieces where they looked like they should go. His approach was direct, unsubtle, and shockingly, almost accidentally, effective. He wouldn't see Sid's intricate trap, but he would, by sheer dumb luck, make a "stupid" move that completely bypassed it, accidentally unraveling the entire strategy. He would blunder his way through Sid's elegant gambits, leaving a trail of chaotic, illogical, yet strangely successful, positions in his wake.
Sid found it exhilarating. It was a perfect microcosm of his relationship with Saitama on the world stage. He, the master strategist, weaving a beautiful, intricate narrative. And Saitama, the oblivious god, just punching his way through the middle of it, accidentally knocking over all the key plot points and still somehow ending up in a winning position.
"You play a… unique game, Saitama-san," Sid commented, as Saitama took one of his knights with a pawn, a move so tactically absurd it was almost brilliant.
"I do?" Saitama said, chewing on a captured bishop. "I just thought that little horse guy was in the way of my big castle guy."
The game ended, after a long, strange, and meandering fashion, in a stalemate. A perfect, ludicrous stalemate that no grandmaster could have ever predicted. Sid had been unable to checkmate the king who refused to play by the rules. Saitama had been unable to blunder his way into a victory against a player who refused to let him lose.
Sid looked across the board at Saitama, and he knew his mission was a success. He hadn't just entertained a bored god for an afternoon. He had established a connection. He had positioned himself not as a worshipper, not as a handler, but as… a peer. An equal. The only other person in this world who seemed to understand the game, even if they played it on completely different boards.
"A fascinating match," Sid said, standing up. "I must take my leave. But I would be honored to… continue this conversation… at another time."
"Yeah, sure," Saitama said with a shrug. "This was… not as boring as I thought it would be. You're weird, chess guy. But you're an okay weird."
As Sid walked towards the door, he paused, as if a final, casual thought had just occurred to him. "It is a pity, you know," he said, not looking back. "This… peace. This quiet. The world has been saved. And now, the great struggles are over." He sighed, a perfectly executed, theatrical sound of lament. "There are no more great evils to fight. No more hidden organizations pulling the strings. No more grand, epic narratives to be a part of." He finally turned, a faint, almost melancholy, smile on his face. "A shame. For a hero for fun, a world without a real, challenging, and suitably epic villain… must be the most boring world of all."
And with that final, perfectly planted seed of an idea, he bowed and departed, leaving Saitama alone with the stalemated chessboard and a new, intriguing, and very dangerous, thought.
No more epic villains?
Saitama looked at the board. He looked at the pieces. The black and the white. The pawns and the kings. A game. It was all a game. And his game was over.
But the chess guy… Sid… he seemed to be hinting that maybe… just maybe… if the world didn't have a good villain… one might have to be… created. Just to make things interesting again.
Sid, the Eminence in Shadow, had not come to Saitama to offer a challenge. He had come to offer something far more subtle, far more insidious, and far more tempting.
He had come to offer him a job application. As the world's new, final, and most desperately needed, villain.