The Valhalla Arena. Atmosphere: Ionized.
The air tastes of copper. Static charge lifts the hair on the arms of every spectator. In the VIP box, the wine in Dionysus's goblet boils.
Thor stands at the center of the devastation. His smile is terrifying—not the arrogant smirk of Zeus, but the jagged, starving grin of a predator that has finally found prey that might bite back.
He drops his stance. The massive hammer, Mjolnir, rests on his shoulder. It shouldn't be possible to hold. The weapon weighs as much as a dying planet. Yet he hefts it like a twig.
"You blocked Zeus," Thor says. His voice rumbles like distant thunder, vibrating in the chests of the humans hiding behind rubble. "You broke father's spear. You are bored."
Thor steps forward. The ground arcs with blue electricity.
"I have been bored since the birth of time," the Thunder God confesses. "Every giant. Every beast. Every champion. Glass." He grips the handle. "Shattering at the slightest touch."
Saitama checks his watch again. The second hand ticks.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
"Six minutes," Saitama mutters. "If we sprint, Genos, we might catch the cashier before she locks the register."
"Master," Genos warns, sensors screaming. "I detect an unprecedented energy buildup. This entity is converting bio-electricity into kinetic force. He intends to annihilate this grid coordinate."
Thor doesn't wait for permission.
He leans back. The laws of physics scream for mercy. He throws.
MJOLNIR.
The hammer leaves his hand.
It does not spin. It tears.
It creates a vacuum tunnel of absolute destruction. The heat of its passage turns the air into plasma. It rotates with enough force to generate its own gravitational field. It is not aimed at Saitama. It is aimed at the existence of Saitama.
Saitama looks up from his watch.
"Huh?"
The black slab of iron occupies his entire vision.
IMPACT.
A flash blinds the multiverse.
Heimdall flies backward, his sunglasses melting to his face.
The shockwave hits the audience stands, ripping the stone seats from their foundations.
When the light fades, the arena is gone. Just a crater remains. A bowl of glass and smoke.
And in the center?
Saitama stands.
He has one hand up. He is holding Mjolnir.
Not catching it by the handle.
He has his flat palm pressed against the flat face of the hammer. The weapon is still spinning, grinding against his yellow glove, screeching like a dying banshee. Sparks shower the crater like fireworks.
"Heavy," Saitama says.
The friction is immense. Smoke pours from his glove. But his arm? Rigid. Unmoving. The immovable object has met the irresistible force, and the immovable object looks annoyed.
Thor's eyes go wide. His pupils dilate.
He caught it.
He caught it.
HE CAUGHT IT.
Joy—pure, euphoric, orgasmic joy—floods the Thunder God's veins.
"YES!" Thor roars. "YES!"
He raises his hands.
CRACK.
The legendary gloves, Járngreipr—the divine shielding required to wield Mjolnir safely—shatter. They crumble into dust. Thor's bare hands are exposed. Veins bulge on his arms, glowing with untamed lightning.
And then, Mjolnir responds.
In Saitama's hand, the metal block shudders.
Veins—organic, pulsating veins—erupt on the surface of the hammer. The metal softens. It begins to beat.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
The hammer is alive. It awakens in response to a worthy enemy. The heat intensifies, melting the rock beneath Saitama's feet.
Saitama looks at the hammer.
He sees the veins.
He feels the throbbing.
"Ew," Saitama says.
He drops the hammer immediately.
It lands with a heavy thud that shakes the crater.
Saitama wipes his glove on his suit. "It's slimy. Why is your tool slimy? You need to clean your equipment, buddy. That's unhygienic."
Thor doesn't hear the insult. He only sees the challenge.
Mjolnir returns to his hand. The hammer is screaming now, hot and alive, eager to feed. Thor grips it with bare skin. The flesh of the god burns, but he laughs.
"Good," Thor whispers. "Very good."
He bends his knees. The stance is lower. Deeper. He begins to spin.
Geirröd.
It is Thor's ultimate technique. Centrifugal force combined with the thunder of the cosmos. He spins once. Tornadoes form.
He spins twice. The protective dome of Valhalla cracks.
He spins thrice.
"Genos," Saitama calls out, backing away slightly. "Is he doing a dance move? It's really windy."
"Negative, Master! It is an attack vector utilizing angular momentum to maximize impact force! Defensive countermeasures recommended!"
"No time," Saitama says. "Five minutes left."
Thor releases the swing.
He hurls Mjolnir. But this time, he hurls himself with it. A human-bullet of electricity and iron. The attack creates a beam of light that pierces the clouds.
"THOR'S HAMMER!"
The shout alone carries enough power to stop hearts.
The attack descends. It is beautiful. It is the perfect marriage of strength and violence. It is the peak of Norse divinity.
Saitama sighs.
He doesn't plant his feet. He doesn't take a stance.
He just pivots his hips slightly. Like a golfer adjusting his swing.
"Normal Chop."
Saitama brings his right hand down. Hand open. Fingers flat. A swift, rigid motion aimed at the head of the incoming hammer.
CRUNCH.
Flesh meets divine metal.
The shockwave is vertical.
The force of Saitama's chop hits Mjolnir's upward momentum.
The physics engine of the universe crashes.
Mjolnir doesn't break. It surrenders.
The living metal shrieks as it is spiked downward. Thor, attached to the hammer, is dragged along with the momentum.
They hit the ground.
The earth doesn't just crack—it atomizes. A fissure opens up, splitting the arena, splitting the foundation, splitting the very island of Valhalla in two.
Water from the ocean beneath rushes into the gap.
Thor lies at the bottom of the ravine. Mjolnir lies beside him. The living veins on the hammer are sluggish, retracted, hiding in fear.
Thor stares up at the sky. His chest heaves. His arms are broken. His ribs are powder. But the smile remains.
"Ah..." Thor whispers. Blood bubbles from his lips. "So this... is defeat."
Saitama stands on the edge of the newly formed cliff. He peers down.
"You done?" he asks.
Thor tries to lift a hand. He cannot.
"What... was that technique?" Thor rasps. "The name..."
Saitama scratches his cheek. "Uh. Just a chop? My karate isn't very good. I read about it in a manga once."
Thor closes his eyes. A chuckle—weak, but genuine—escapes him.
A manga. A mortal book.
The mightiest weapon in heaven, defeated by a technique copied from a comic book.
"I see..." Thor whispers. "Magnificent."
He loses consciousness. The smile stays plastered on his face.
The Viewing Stands. North Side.
Silence. Absolute, terrified silence.
Loki hangs upside down from the railing, his face pale green. The Trickster God has no jokes.
"Did he..." Loki swallows dryly. "Did he just chop the Thunder God like a piece of firewood?"
Beside him, Odin has stopped crushing the armrests of his throne. He has gone rigid. The raven Muninn has fainted.
The logic is inescapable.
Zeus. Thrown away.
Odin's Spear. Snapped.
Thor. Crushed.
This isn't a rebellion. This isn't a war.
It is an extermination.
In the Humanity section, Lü Bu, the Flying General, stares at the ravine. His body trembles. Not with fear. With despair.
"I sought the strongest under the heavens," Lü Bu whispers. "I thought it was Thor."
He looks at the bald man in the yellow suit, who is currently shaking dust off his cape.
"I was looking at the wrong heavens."
Saitama's Perspective.
Saitama ignores the crater. He ignores the ocean water rushing in. He ignores the millions of eyes staring at him with a mix of worship and horror.
He looks at his wrist.
12:49 PM.
His face falls.
The stoic mask cracks.
His eyes bulge. His mouth opens in a scream of pure, unfiltered anguish.
"NOOOOOOOOOOO!"
The scream is louder than the thunder. It shakes the stadium more than Mjolnir did.
Gods flinch. Humans cover their ears. What is coming? they think. What ultimate technique is he unleashing?
Saitama falls to his knees. He pounds the ground with his fists.
"The coupon!" Saitama wails. "The Wagyu beef! Eighty percent off! It's gone! It's all gone!"
He grabs his head in his hands.
"We missed it, Genos! We missed the window! Now it's full price! Who pays full price for short ribs in this economy?!"
Genos drags himself out of the rubble. His left arm is missing. His eye is cracked. Sparks shower from his chest.
He hobbles to his master's side.
"Master..." Genos says, voice glitching. "I... I have failed you. My thrusters... insufficient. I accept full responsibility. I will self-destruct as penance."
"Don't blow yourself up!" Saitama snaps, standing up abruptly. "That just costs more money to fix! Do you have any idea how much your parts cost? The doctor is going to kill me!"
Saitama turns to the gods.
He points a shaking finger at the VIP balcony. At the terrified deities.
"This is your fault!"
The accusation hits them like a physical blow.
Shiva flinches. Aphrodite stops breathing.
"If you guys hadn't kept interrupting with your hammers and your spears and your... your long speeches about destiny!" Saitama yells. "I would be eating high-quality meat right now! Instead, I have to buy the frozen stuff!"
He glares.
It is the glare of a man who lives paycheck to paycheck. It is the glare of a man who takes flyers very seriously. To the gods, however, it looks like the glare of a demon contemplating which universe to devour next.
"We're leaving," Saitama announces. "I need to find a sale on cabbage to make up the difference."
He grabs Genos by the back of his shirt. He drags the cyborg like a piece of luggage.
Saitama walks toward the large exit gate—the Gate of Gods—that stands untouched at the north end.
Two guards—giants standing forty feet tall, clad in armor of adamant—block the path. They hold massive halberds. They are the Elite Guard of Valhalla.
They see the bald man coming.
They see the ravine behind him.
They see the body of Thor.
The guards look at each other.
Without a word, they drop their halberds.
They run. They don't just step aside; they sprint away, crying.
Saitama kicks the gate open.
Creak... BAM.
He steps out into the divine corridor.
"Genos, calculate the exchange rate for gold here. Maybe we can pawn some of the debris."
"Affirmative, Master. Scanning for pawn shops."
Their voices fade down the hall.
Back in the arena, the silence stretches.
Minutes pass.
Finally, Hermes clears his throat.
"So," the Messenger God says, adjusting his tie. "Do we... continue the tournament?"
Göll, peering over the edge of the balcony on the human side, watches the empty corridor.
"Sister..." she whispers to Brunhilde. "Are we saved?"
Brunhilde is trembling. She is smiling, but her eyes are frantic. She takes a drag of a pipe she wasn't smoking a moment ago.
"Saved?" Brunhilde laughs maniacally. "You fool. That wasn't a savior."
She points at the destroyed arena.
"That was a glitch in the matrix. And I think he just broke the game."
Deep Space. Beyond the Realm of Valhalla.
A ripple spreads through the cosmos.
Stars dim. Nebulas shift.
On a throne floating in the void of nothingness, something stirs. Something ancient.
An eye opens. It is the color of chaos.
Anomaly detected.
Designation: Saitama.
Threat Level: Narrative Erasure.
A voice, consisting of many voices overlapping, speaks into the void.
"The balance is upset. The hierarchy is dissolved. The script is burning."
A hand—huge, shifting, terrifying—reaches out and picks up a quill made of starlight. It writes on the fabric of reality.
Back in the hallway, Saitama sneezes.
"Getting chilly," he mutters. "Did someone leave a window open?"