Corridor of Eternal Sustenance. Valhalla East Wing.
Sparks shower the pristine hallway. The smell of burning ozone mixes with the aroma of divine peaches.
Genos sits against a golden pillar, chest cavity open. Cables writhe like metallic intestines, seeking connection. He holds the salvaged pauldron of a fallen Asgardian guard—a piece of metal forged in the heart of a dying neutron star.
"Analysis," Genos says, voice calm despite his exposed core. "This alloy possesses semi-conductive properties that violate thermodynamics. It generates energy from ambient belief. fascinating."
He jams the gold plate into his shoulder socket.
CRUNCH. HISS. WHIRR.
His internal reactor spikes. Blue lightning turns green. The Asgardian metal liquifies, merging with his cyborg chassis, flowing over his damaged synthetic muscle like living mercury.
"Output increased by 300%," Genos notes, eyes flashing emerald. "Master will be pleased. I am becoming more efficient at managing potential grocery transport loads."
The Great Dining Hall.
Ten meters away, Saitama pushes open double doors large enough to fit a dinosaur.
The room is magnificent. Floating tables. Waterfalls of wine. Platters of glowing fruits and meats that shimmer with starlight.
Saitama walks up to a buffet table that stretches for a mile.
He picks up a glowing blue apple. He bites it.
Crunch.
He chews. He swallows.
He looks disappointed.
"It tastes like air," Saitama complains to the empty room. "Why does 'god food' always taste like light and promises? I want flavor. I want grease. Where is the MSG?"
He drops the divine fruit. It dissolves into glitter before hitting the floor.
"You grab the wrong stuff, Baldy."
Saitama turns.
Floating two feet above the ground, reclining on invisible cushions, is a man in a tank top. He has rabbit-teeth bucklers on his robe, purple glasses, and earlobes that hang to his shoulders. He is munching on a bag of something that looks suspiciously like mortal potato chips.
Buddha. The Enlightened One.
Saitama stares at the bag.
"Are those... sour cream and onion?"
Buddha pops a chip. "Family size. Want some?"
Saitama walks over. The casual atmosphere returns. For a moment, this isn't the realm of gods or the epicenter of the apocalypse. It's just two guys hanging out.
Saitama reaches into the bag. He takes a handful. He eats.
His eyes light up.
"Salty," Saitama says. "Finally."
"I smuggled them in," Buddha says, grinning. "Valhalla catering is trash. Too much ambrosia, not enough salt."
He looks Saitama up and down. The divine eyes—which can see the future, the past, and the soul—scan the hero.
Buddha stops chewing.
Usually, when he looks at a soul, he sees a flame. Or a storm. Or a vast ocean.
When he looks at Saitama, he sees... a drawing. A scribbled stick figure pushing against the borders of a complex oil painting.
It makes no sense. And therefore, it is the most interesting thing in the universe.
"So," Buddha says, leaning back. "You punched Zeus. broke Odin. Scared Poseidon."
"They started it," Saitama mumbles, licking crumbs from his glove. "I'm just trying to leave."
"You reached it, didn't you?" Buddha asks quietly.
"Reached what? The exit?"
" Enlightenment. The end of the path. You want nothing. You fear nothing. You suffer, but you don't cling."
Saitama scratches his head. "I just want my hair back. And maybe a raise. Being a hero doesn't pay well."
Buddha laughs. A loud, bell-like sound. "Desire for the mundane while holding the power of the absolute. That's a new path. I like you, Balday."
He holds out the bag. "Take it. I got more stashed in my locker."
Saitama takes the bag of chips like it's the Holy Grail. "Thanks, ear-guy. You're cool."
BOOM.
The far wall explodes.
Masonry flies. Dust billows. A purple aura, hot enough to melt stone, floods the dining hall. The music changes—from gentle harp plinking to a frantic, heavy bass rhythm that thumps in the marrow of the bone.
From the smoke, a silhouette emerges. Four arms. Purple skin. Dancing.
Shiva. The Destroyer.
He doesn't walk; he grooves. Every step creates a crater. He is grinning, sweat flying from his brow.
"FOUND YOU!" Shiva yells.
Saitama sighs. He clutches the chip bag protectively. "Can we not? I'm eating."
Shiva spins, landing in a perfect pose on a floating table. "Zeus is sulking! Thor is sleeping! But me? I'm vibrating, man! I felt it! The shockwaves! The breaking of physics!"
Shiva's four eyes lock onto Saitama.
"You're the dance partner I've been waiting for since the Big Bang!"
Shiva leaps.
He lands right in front of Saitama. The impact knocks the wind out of the room.
But more importantly...
The impact knocks the bag of chips out of Saitama's hand.
Time slows down.
Saitama watches the bag flip.
He watches the silver foil glisten.
He watches the chips—perfect, golden, salty disks of happiness—spill out.
They hit the floor.
Crunch. Crumble.
Soaked in spilled wine. Ruined.
Saitama stares at the mess.
The silence is thick. Thicker than the atmosphere of Jupiter.
"Oops," Shiva laughs, hopping on one foot, arms swaying in a rhythm of destruction. "My bad. But don't worry about snacks. Worry about survival!"
Genos sprints into the room, arm repaired and glowing green. "Master! Threat Level Dragon-Plus identified! It is Shiva, peak deity of the Hindu Pantheon. His dance rhythm increases his heat output exponentially!"
Saitama doesn't hear Genos.
He looks at the soggy chips.
He looks at Shiva's grinning face.
A vein pops on Saitama's forehead. It throbs.
"You..." Saitama whispers.
"Come on!" Shiva creates fire in all four hands. "Show me the power that broke the Greeks! Let's dance until the universe burns down!"
Saitama looks up. The boredom is gone. Replaced by the pettiness of a man who just lost his only comfort food in a hostile dimension.
"You owe me," Saitama says, voice flat, "three hundred yen."
Shiva blinks. "Money? What is money to a destroyer?"
He spins.
Hidden Treasure of Svarga: Tandava Karma.
Shiva ignites. Literally. His body turns into a furnace. He isn't burning; he is burning. The universe's combustion engine embodied in four limbs.
He attacks.
A flurry of punches and kicks, chaotic, unpredictable, perfectly on beat with the destruction of reality.
Bam-bam-bam-bam!
Saitama dodges.
Side-step. Duck. Weave.
He moves through the firestorm of limbs. He isn't dancing. He's walking aggressively.
Shiva lands a hit on Saitama's shoulder.
Sizzle.
The suit burns slightly. Saitama doesn't budge.
"Good! HOT!" Shiva screams, laughing maniacally. "Feel the beat! Feel the heat!"
He kicks Saitama in the head with the force of a supernova.
Saitama's head snaps to the side.
Shiva lands, panting, grinning. "How was that? That kick rearranged the cosmos!"
Saitama slowly turns his head back. There is a smudge of soot on his nose.
"Are you done skipping?"
Shiva's smile falters. Just a fraction.
"Normal Move," Saitama announces. "Serious Sidestep."
Saitama hops.
Left. Right.
Repeated rapidly.
He creates afterimages. Ten. A hundred. A thousand bald men in yellow suits filling the dining hall. It isn't magic. It isn't a clone technique. It is pure speed causing light to lag behind his physical position.
Shiva looks around, dizzy. "What? Which one? The rhythm... I can't find the rhythm!"
"Over here," a voice says from behind him.
"No, here," from above.
"Down here," from below.
"AARRGH!" Shiva spins, firing flames in every direction. "STOP MOCKING ME!"
He unleashes his ultimate. The final dance step. The move that ends epochs.
Devaloka.
A downward heel kick meant to shatter the core of the planet.
Saitama stands directly under it.
He looks at the foot coming down.
He remembers the chips. The soggy, wasted sour cream and onion chips.
"Table Flip."
Saitama bends his knees. He digs his gloved fingers into the floor of the Dining Hall.
And he pulls.
He doesn't flip a table.
He flips the Dining Hall.
Literally.
He rips the entire structural foundation of the East Wing of Valhalla—a slab of bedrock the size of a city block—out of the dimension.
Up becomes Down.
The floor rises to meet Shiva's kick with the momentum of a planet swing.
CRACK.
Shiva kicks the floor. The floor kicks back harder.
The slab slams into the Destroyer God, sandwiches him against the ceiling (which is now the floor), and continues moving upward, bursting through the roof of Valhalla and soaring into the stratosphere.
Saitama stands on a piece of remaining rebar, watching the massive chunk of architecture vanish into the clouds with a screaming purple god plastered to it.
Dust settles.
Buddha floats nearby. He hasn't spilled a single crumb. He is chewing slowly.
"Wow," Buddha says, muffled by potatoes. "That was petty."
Saitama brushes dust off his hands. "He wasted food. In my house, that's a crime."
Genos retracts his scanners. "Master, structural damage to Valhalla is now at 38%. The local deities seem... agitated."
Indeed. Through the hole in the roof, alarms are blaring. Horns sound. The collective noise of a pantheon realizing their home is being disassembled brick by brick.
Saitama turns to Buddha.
"Hey, Ear-Guy."
"Yeah?"
"You said you had more chips in your locker. Lead the way."
Buddha smirks. He floats toward a side door.
"Follow me. But watch out. My locker is near the Greek sector. And I think..." Buddha points to a dark, menacing aura rising from the south. "...Beelzebub just woke up."
Saitama follows.
"I don't care who wakes up," he says, eyes focused on the promise of snacks. "As long as they don't step on my lunch."
The Arena VIP Box. Five Minutes Later.
Hermes stands alone. Zeus is in the infirmary. Poseidon is catatonic in a puddle. Shiva has been launched into orbit. Thor is broken.
A screen flickers on.
It is a transmission from the deepest pit of Helheim.
A figure wrapped in bandages, radiating hatred, speaks.
"Hermes," Adamas (restored) growls. "We are activating the sequence. The Primordials are stirring. If the bald man won't die... we will feed him to the void."
Hermes adjusts his monocle. He looks at the destruction.
"I advise against it," Hermes whispers to the screen.
"Why?"
"Because," Hermes says, closing his notebook. "I fear the void will give him indigestion. And he is very grumpy when he is hungry."