Valhalla Arena. Center Ring.
Fear has a smell. It reeks of ozone, cold sweat, and the sudden biological imperative to flee. For millions of years, this scent has belonged exclusively to mortals. It is the incense burned at the altar of the divine.
But today, the wind changes direction.
Zeus, the King of Gods, steps backward. His heel grinds into the pulverized chalk of the arena floor. His right arm hangs limp, the wrist swelling rapidly—a purple bruise blossoming on indestructible flesh.
The audience does not breathe. On the human side, eyes are wide, processing the impossible image: The Father of the Cosmos retreating. On the god side, denial spreads like a virus. They blink. They rub their eyes. This is a trick. A jest. Zeus plays with his food.
It has to be a joke. If it isn't, the floor they stand on has no foundation.
"Hey," Saitama says. He points a gloved finger at the exit tunnel behind Zeus. "You're still in the way."
Zeus's Adamas form ripples. The muscles compress and writhe, looking less like anatomy and more like sacks of serpents fighting for space. His jaw works. Words fail him. Rage, pure and molten, floods the space where his confidence used to be.
"In the way?" Zeus whispers. The whisper causes the arena walls to crack. "I am... the way."
Steam erupts from Zeus's pores. The sound is like a boiler exploding. The air pressure in the arena drops instantly as the God of Gods sucks in a breath that could drain a small atmosphere.
"Do not..." Zeus crouches. The ground beneath him liquefies, turning into magma from the sheer friction of his tensed muscles. "...LOOK DOWN ON ME!"
True God's Right.
It isn't a technique. It is a tantrum thrown with the mass of a galaxy.
Zeus launches himself. The sound barrier doesn't just break; it disintegrates. He creates a tunnel of vacuum as he moves, aiming his good fist—his left—straight for Saitama's bald head.
"Master!" Genos raises his incinerator cannon. Target acquisition is impossible. The god is moving too fast for optical sensors.
Saitama doesn't blink. He doesn't brace his legs. He doesn't shift his center of gravity.
He lifts his left hand. Open palm. Lazy. Like he's swatting a fly buzzing near his ear.
SMACK.
The sound is anticlimactic. It's the sound of meat hitting meat. A wet slap.
The result is anything but anticlimactic.
Zeus's fist—traveling with enough kinetic energy to split a continent—hits Saitama's open palm.
The force has to go somewhere. Since Saitama refuses to move, the energy reverses. It ripples back down Zeus's arm. The divine ulna and radius shatter. The humerus snaps. The shoulder socket explodes in a mist of golden blood.
The shockwave hits the audience a second later. The protective barrier around the spectator stands shimmers, cracks, and then shatters like cheap glass. Lower-tier gods in the front row are blown out of their seats.
Zeus hangs there, suspended in the air, his fist caught in Saitama's grip. The King's eyes are white with shock. The pain hasn't registered yet. Only the physics.
"Stop that," Saitama says. "It's noisy."
He flicks his wrist. A casual toss. A discarding motion.
Zeus becomes a projectile.
The King of Gods flies backward. He passes the speed of sound instantly. He hits the arena wall—a structure reinforced with enchantments from the dawn of creation. He goes through it.
He goes through the corridor behind it.
He goes through the retaining wall of Valhalla itself.
He punches a hole through three decorative mountain peaks in the distance.
A mushroom cloud rises on the horizon, miles away.
"Finally." Saitama dusts his hands off. "Now, about that grocery store."
Humanity's Side.
Göll, the youngest Valkyrie, clutches the railing until her fingers bleed. Her jaw is unhinged. She looks at the distant plume of smoke, then at the bald man in the yellow suit.
"Sister...?" Her voice is a squeak. "Did... did he just throw Zeus? Like a piece of trash?"
Brunhilde, the eldest Valkyrie and architect of Ragnarok, does not answer. She cannot. Her strategic mind, which has planned this rebellion for centuries, is spinning wheels on ice. She computed the odds for Lu Bu. For Adam. For Sasaki. She had plans within plans.
There was no plan for this.
Her eyes lock onto the bald man. She sees no aura. No divine volund. No connection to the Valkyries. Just a man. A dangerously plain man.
"Who..." Brunhilde licks dry lips. "Who are you?"
Next to them, the Swordsman Sasaki Kojiro opens his eyes. He had been visualizing the fight, playing out thousands of scenarios in his mind to predict the bald man's moves.
He stops. He shudders. He sheathes his mental sword.
"He has no stance," Sasaki murmurs, looking older than his years. "No center. No technique. I tried to simulate fighting him in my mind."
"And?" Göll asks, hopeful. "Did you win?"
Sasaki laughs, a terrified, jagged sound. "I died. instantly. In every version. Before I even drew my blade. It's not a fight. It's a natural disaster wearing clothes."
The VIP Balcony.
Odin's grip on his throne turns the celestial gold armrests into powder. His single eye burns with blue fire. Huginn and Muninn, the ravens on his shoulders, screech in cacophonous panic.
Anomaly. Error. Logic Break.
Hermes stands by the railing, staring at the crater where Zeus stood. The Messenger of the Gods is rarely surprised. He prides himself on knowing the song of the universe. But the music has stopped. The notes are scrambling.
"Oh my," Hermes whispers. A bead of sweat traces the line of his jaw. "That was unexpected. Father didn't just lose the exchange. He was... evicted."
"SILENCE!"
Ares slams his fists onto the stone railing. The God of War is weeping. Tears stream down his muscular face, mixing with snot. "Father! FATHER! He cheated! That mortal cheated! He used magic! He used poison! No human hits harder than Zeus!"
Ares points a trembling finger at the arena. "KILL HIM! KILL THE BALD ONE! TEAR HIM APART!"
Shiva, the Destroyer, leans forward on his cushions. Two of his four arms are crossed; the other two are tapping a frantic rhythm on his knees. The carefree smile is gone.
"Hey now," Shiva says, voice tight. "Ares, sit down. Look at him."
"Look at what? The cheating insect?"
"Look at his face," Shiva points. "He just bitch-slapped the strongest god in the pantheon through a mountain range. And look at his face."
They look.
Saitama is picking something out of his teeth. He turns to the cyborg.
"Genos, do you think they accept card? I didn't bring cash. Usually, these dimensional portal things don't have ATM fees, right?"
"I cannot confirm banking protocols in Valhalla, Master," Genos replies, voice echoing slightly in the stunned silence. "However, I have successfully intimidated several lesser deities into providing directions. The 'Ambrosia Market' is three sectors East."
"Ambrosia? Is that like kale? I hate kale."
Shiva exhales slowly. "He's not gloating. He's not celebrating. He doesn't even care." The Destroyer's purple skin pales slightly. "That's the scariest part. To him, Zeus wasn't a boss fight. He was a door that wouldn't open."
A terrifying aura erupts from the central throne.
Odin stands.
The sky above the arena turns black. Clouds swirl, forming a vortex of necrotic energy. Life withers. The flowers decorating the VIP box die instantly. Gravity increases, pressing down on every soul in the stadium.
"Enough," Odin speaks. The voice is not sound; it is pressure on the mind. "This farce ends. The hierarchy is absolute. If one mortal defies the order..."
Odin raises his spear, Gungnir. The weapon that never misses. The sheer magical density of the spear makes the air around it scream.
"...then we erase the anomaly."
The Arena Floor.
"Master." Genos swivels. His core glows a dangerous orange-red. Heat radiates from his body, turning the sand to glass around his boots. "High-energy signature detected. Direction: Up. It exceeds Zeus's previous output. It appears to be..." Genos pauses, processing the data. "...decay magic. Highly concentrated."
Saitama looks up. He sees the old man with the eyepatch floating down from the balcony. He sees the spear glowing with ominous purple light. He sees the darkness swallowing the sky.
"Great," Saitama says. "Another old guy with a stick. Is this a retirement home or an arena?"
"I will handle this, Master."
Genos steps forward. Metal plates shift on his arms. Cannons lock into position. He has watched his master handle the "King." He must prove his own growth. He must show that the disciple is worthy of the teacher.
"Incineration Mode: Maximum Output."
"Wait, Genos," Saitama starts, raising a hand. "You don't have to—"
Genos ignores him. The cyborg is loyal, but he is also fervent. He looks up at Odin, at the gods sneering from the balconies.
"Listen well!" Genos's electronic voice is amplified, booming across the silence. "You call yourselves gods? I calculate your probability of victory against Saitama-sensei to be zero point zero zero percent! Your 'divinity' is merely high-density biological output. It is quantifiable. It is beatable."
Genos aims both palms at the hovering All-Father.
"Surrender and provide the location of the meat sale, or I will incinerate this entire coordinate!"
A collective gasp sweeps the crowd.
It is one thing to defend yourself. It is another to threaten the extinction of the gods.
Odin's single eye narrows. The air around him grows heavier. The intent to kill solidifies into physical spears of shadow.
"A machine," Odin says, cold disdain dripping from every syllable. "A toy made of scrap metal dares to bark?"
Odin points a finger.
Rune Magic: Disintegration.
A beam of pure darkness shoots from Odin's fingertip. It doesn't travel through space; it erases space. It is quiet, efficient, and instant. It hits Genos.
Or it should have.
A white blur intercepts the beam.
Sizzle.
The darkness hits the yellow glove. It hisses like water on a hot pan. Then it fizzles out, leaving a faint wisp of smoke rising from the red rubber.
Saitama stands in front of Genos. He looks at his glove. There's a tiny black smudge on the palm. He tries to rub it off with his thumb. It doesn't come off.
Saitama stops moving.
He slowly lowers his hand. The boredom on his face flickers. Just for a microsecond. It is replaced by mild irritation. The kind you feel when someone spills coffee on your new shirt.
"Hey," Saitama calls up to Odin. "I just washed these gloves. The blood stains are really hard to get out."
Odin freezes. His magic—magic that unnaps reality—was stopped by... rubber?
"You..." Odin grips Gungnir. "You resist the All-Father's decree?"
"You guys keep breaking things," Saitama says. "First the floor. Then the wall. Now my glove. And you keep ignoring me when I ask for directions."
Saitama crouches slightly.
"It's rude."
He jumps.
It isn't a technique. He just pushes off the ground.
The shockwave vaporizes the remaining half of the arena floor. The impact throws Genos backward into the stands.
Saitama ascends. He arrives face-to-face with Odin in the air.
Odin is a war god. He has reflexes honed over eons. He thrusts Gungnir. The spear is destined to hit. That is its curse. It cannot miss.
Saitama catches the spearhead between his index finger and thumb.
"Gah?!" Odin chokes. The sudden stop wrenches his ancient shoulder.
"Nice stick," Saitama says. "Is it pointy?"
SNAP.
Saitama twists his fingers.
Gungnir—the legendary spear made from the world-tree Yggdrasil, forged by dwarves, blessed by destiny—snaps in half.
Odin stares at the broken shaft in his hand. The conceptual weight of the moment crushes his mind. The prophecy... broken? By fingers?
"Now," Saitama says, floating at the apex of his jump, face plain as a boiled egg. "Point me to the store, or I break the other half."
Gravity reclaims Saitama. He falls back to the earth, landing on his feet with a soft thud.
Odin hangs in the air, trembling. Not from fear—but from the total collapse of his understanding of the universe.
The stadium is absolutely silent. Even Ares has stopped screaming. They stare at the broken pieces of the legendary spear lying on the ground next to the bald man's red boots.
Saitama tosses the metal shard away.
"Man," he sighs. "Nobody here is helpful."
Gate of the Arena. Shadows.
In the darkened tunnel leading to the arena floor, heavy footsteps echo.
Clank. Clank. Clank.
A figure emerges. He is massive, draped in white cloth, carrying a hammer that pulses with the heartbeat of a sleeping star. His red hair flows like spilled blood. Electrical discharge arcs around his torso.
Thor. The strongest Norse God.
He stops at the edge of the shattered arena. He looks at the hole in the mountain where Zeus vanished. He looks at his father, floating impotently with a broken spear.
Then he looks at the bald man in yellow.
Thor's lips—usually set in a grim line of eternal boredom—begin to curve.
His heart, a drum that has beaten a slow rhythm of disappointment for five thousand years, skips a beat. Then another. Then it begins to hammer against his ribs like a war drum.
Strong.
Finally.
Thor lifts Mjolnir. The hammer awakens. The "leather" restraints on the handle scream as the metal expands. Flesh-eating acid begins to ooze from the god's gloves—the only things protecting Mjolnir from him.
Thor takes a deep breath. It smells of ozone and possibility.
"You," Thor speaks. His voice is deep, calm, and heavy with anticipation.
Saitama turns, hearing the electricity. He sees the giant man. He sees the giant hammer.
"Oh no," Saitama groans. He slumps visibly. "Another one? Look, buddy, if you want to dance, can we make it quick? My coupon expires in eight minutes."
Thor smiles. A true, terrifying smile.
Lightning strikes the arena, not from the sky, but from Thor's body. The air ionizes instantly.
"Coupon?" Thor steps forward. "If you defeat me, you may have anything within the nine realms."
He swings the hammer onto his shoulder. The weight of it cracks the very bedrock of Valhalla.
"I am Thor," the Thunder God declares. "Prepare yourself."
Saitama scratches his head. He looks at Genos, who is pulling himself out of a pile of rubble.
"Genos," Saitama says. "What's nine realms? Is that a chain store?"
Genos scans Thor. "Warning, Master. Energy readings from this subject are exponentially higher than previous subjects. He is... happy."
"Happy?" Saitama looks back at Thor's wild grin.
"Great," Saitama mutters. "He's a weirdo. Just my luck."
Thor launches.
The thunder rolls.
And for the first time in history, the Record of Ragnarok isn't about gods fighting humans.
It's about gods trying to survive a bald guy who wants beef on sale.