The journey southeast resumed under a sky now clear and bright, the earlier mist completely burned away. The devastation caused by the Titan's fall was localized, and within an hour of walking, the forest began to resemble its former self – ancient, dense, and indifferent. But the air itself felt different, thrumming with a subtle, almost imperceptible tension, as if the entire Deepwood was holding its breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Or perhaps, for more shoes, given recent events.
Gregor, Lyra, and Renn walked with a renewed, albeit fragile, sense of purpose. The roasted boar meat, though eaten hours ago, still provided a core of warmth and strength. The sun, a rare sight in the Deepwood's heart, lifted their spirits. But overriding all of this was the lingering shock of the Titan. It had settled deep within them, a fundamental recalibration of their understanding of what was possible. They walked with Saitama, but they also walked in his shadow – a shadow not of darkness, but of sheer, unquantifiable power that made their own existence feel precarious and insignificant.
Gregor found himself constantly glancing at Saitama, studying him, trying to find some clue, some hint of the godlike power that lay beneath the man's bafflingly mundane exterior. Was it a carefully constructed facade? Was he truly unaware of the scale of his own abilities? Or was his perception of reality so alien that destroying a mythological Titan registered as a minor inconvenience, like swatting a bug? Every theory felt inadequate, insane. He tried to engage Saitama in conversation, hoping to glean some insight.
"Saitama," Gregor began, choosing his words carefully, "that… creature… the rock one. Have you encountered many things like that before?"
Saitama, who was currently trying to see if he could balance a small pebble on his nose, paused, the pebble falling off. "Hm? Oh, the big rocky fella? Nah, not really. Most monsters are smaller. Squishier. Or sometimes explodey. He was just… big. And made of rocks. Not very original, if you ask me. Needs a better gimmick."
"A gimmick?" Gregor echoed, bewildered.
"Yeah. Like, laser eyes, or fire breath, or maybe he could turn into a giant, angry toaster? That'd be kinda cool. Rocks are just… rocks." Saitama shrugged. "Boring."
Lyra, walking beside Gregor, shook her head slowly, a faint, disbelieving smile on her lips. "He thinks a Titan needs a gimmick."
Renn, however, seemed to find a strange comfort in Saitama's utter lack of comprehension. If Saitama wasn't scared, wasn't impressed, maybe things weren't as apocalyptic as they felt. "Maybe… maybe he's right," Renn ventured quietly. "Maybe it was just a big pile of boring rocks… to him."
This perspective, while utterly insane by any normal standard, offered a bizarre kind of solace. If Saitama perceived mythological, world-shaping entities as 'boring rocks,' then perhaps their own fears and anxieties were, in a way, overblown – at least while he was around. It was a coping mechanism born of sheer, overwhelming cognitive dissonance.
Their path continued to lead them gradually downhill, the trees, while still large, showing subtle changes. The bark was less gnarled, the moss less ancient and pervasive. Faint, almost overgrown game trails became more frequent. They were, slowly but surely, leaving the deepest, most primordial sections of the Valgothian Deepwood behind.
Saitama, after failing to balance the pebble, had moved on to trying to skip flat stones across puddles they encountered, often with enough force to send the stones skipping into the stratosphere or embedding themselves deep within distant tree trunks with a loud thwack. Each casual display of impossible physics sent fresh waves of anxiety and awe through his companions.
"You know," Lyra commented dryly to Gregor, after Saitama nearly decapitated a small sapling a hundred yards away with an errant skipping stone, "for someone so powerful, his aim with recreational projectiles is… surprisingly terrible."
Gregor just grunted, not daring to comment on the hero-for-fun's hobbies. He was more concerned with a growing sense of unease that had nothing to do with Saitama's rock-skipping. The forest felt… too quiet again. Not the unnatural silence of the ward-valley, but a different kind of stillness. The normal sounds of birds and small animals had faded once more. The air was still, heavy.
"Hold up," Gregor said suddenly, stopping. He sniffed the air, his eyes scanning the dense undergrowth. "Something's not right."
Saitama, about to launch another stone, paused. "What's up? Smell more monsters? Or maybe a bakery? I could really go for a donut."
"Neither," Gregor said grimly. "It's… too quiet. And that scent…" He caught it again, faint but unmistakable – the metallic tang of drawn steel, the subtle scent of oiled leather, and something else… a faint, almost imperceptible human musk. Not the desperate, fear-laced scent of captives, but the scent of trained, disciplined individuals. "We're being watched. Close."
Lyra and Renn tensed, their brief respite shattered. They clustered behind Gregor, their eyes darting nervously into the shadows.
Saitama looked around, blinking. "Watched? By who? More rock guys? Or maybe ninjas? Ninjas are cool. Always wanted to fight some proper ninjas. Lots of flipping."
From the dense foliage surrounding them, figures began to emerge. Silently. Not with the flowing menace of shadow creatures or the lumbering approach of beasts. These were human. Or at least, humanoid. Clad in dark, practical armor that blended seamlessly with the forest shadows, their faces obscured by visored helms or concealing cowls. They moved with a predatory grace, fanning out, surrounding the small group in a matter of seconds, their movements coordinated, professional. Each one carried weapons – keen-edged swords, heavy crossbows already aimed, slender throwing knives glinting in their hands. There were at least a dozen of them, possibly more hidden deeper in the trees.
Their armor bore no insignia Gregor recognized. It was functional, well-maintained, but devoid of heraldry. Their posture, their silence, their focused intent – it screamed 'elite operatives.'
One figure, slightly taller than the others, stepped forward. This one wore a full-face helmet that distorted their voice when they spoke, making it sound flat, metallic, and devoid of inflection. "Halt. Identify yourselves. You are trespassing on restricted territory."
Gregor's hand tightened on his sword. "Restricted territory? This is the Valgothian Deepwood, part of the Kingdom of Midgar. Who are you to claim it?"
The metallic voice ignored his question. "The individuals with you – the man, the woman. They are Labyrinth escapees, are they not? Fugitives from the Order." It wasn't a question; it was a statement. Their gaze, unseen behind the helmet, seemed to fix on Lyra and Renn, who shrank back.
"They are under my protection," Gregor stated, trying to project a confidence he didn't feel. His heart hammered. These weren't mindless monsters. These were trained killers.
"And you?" the metallic voice pressed, turning its attention to Gregor. "A deserter? A sympathizer?"
Saitama, who had been watching this exchange with mild interest, finally spoke up. "Hey, uh, Mr. Roboto. Are you guys running a toll booth here? Because we're kinda broke. But maybe we could trade some… uh… slightly used boar meat for passage?" He gestured vaguely with a greasy hand.
The visored helmet swiveled slowly towards Saitama. The dozen operatives tensed, their weapons shifting almost imperceptibly, their focus sharpening on the brightly dressed bald man. They had clearly been briefed, or had observed enough, to recognize him as an anomaly.
"The anomaly," the metallic voice stated, a new note of something – caution? Interest? – entering its flat tone. "Code-named 'Tempest' by some. 'Bald Cape' by others. You are the source of the recent… disturbances."
"Disturbances?" Saitama scratched his head. "Oh, you mean the rock guy? Yeah, he was making a racket. And the shadow things were kinda annoying. Just cleaning up a bit, you know?"
A ripple of something – disbelief? Dark amusement? – seemed to pass through the encircling operatives. One of them, armed with a heavy crossbow, let out a sound that might have been a stifled chuckle, quickly suppressed.
"Your 'cleaning up' has caused significant geopolitical and arcane repercussions," the metallic voice stated. "The fall of a Titan is not a minor incident. The erasure of the Valley Wards… even less so." Their knowledge was disturbingly current.
"Repercussions, huh?" Saitama considered this. "Does that mean I get a prize? Or maybe a discount coupon?"
The leader ignored him, focusing back on Gregor. "The escapees will be taken into custody. For their own safety, and for… debriefing. You will not interfere." The implication was clear: interfere, and die.
Gregor looked at Lyra and Renn, their faces pale with terror. He looked at the circle of deadly operatives. He looked at Saitama, who was now examining a ladybug that had landed on his glove. His protection felt suddenly, overwhelmingly inadequate against this new, organized, human threat. These weren't monsters Saitama could trip or swat. These were thinking, adapting enemies.
"I won't let you take them," Gregor said, his voice low, determined, though he knew it was likely a suicidal stance.
The metallic-voiced leader tilted its head slightly. "A futile gesture. But admirable, in its own way." He raised a hand, a silent signal. The crossbows aimed more directly. Swords were drawn with a soft shing of steel. The tension became a palpable weight.
Saitama finally looked up from the ladybug, which flew away. He saw the drawn weapons, the focused intent. He sighed. "Oh, come on. More fighting? Can't we just talk this out? Maybe over some donuts? My treat. If I had money. Which I don't."
The leader seemed to consider this for a moment. "Negative. Negotiations are not on the agenda. Surrender the escapees, and you may be allowed to leave unharmed. Though your own status is… under review."
Saitama frowned. "Leave unharmed? But I haven't done anything wrong. Except maybe skip breakfast. Which is a crime against my stomach, but probably not illegal here." He took a step forward, placing himself between the operatives and Gregor's group. "Look, these guys have been through a lot. Labyrinths, monsters, bad singing… they just want to go home. So, how about you guys just… let us pass? Pretty please?"
The operatives didn't budge. The metallic-voiced leader simply lowered his raised hand. It was a clear, final signal. Attack.
The two crossbowmen nearest Saitama fired simultaneously, their heavy bolts whistling through the air, aimed center mass, designed to punch through armor and drop a target instantly. Swordsmen on either flank began to advance, their movements swift, coordinated, aiming to flank and overwhelm.
This was it. The moment Kristoph and his team had dreaded. Saitama versus trained, lethal, human opponents. How would he react? Would his casual, overwhelming power differentiate between monster and man?
The crossbow bolts, traveling at incredible speed, were just inches from Saitama's chest when he finally moved.
He didn't dodge. He didn't block. He just… sighed again, a sound of profound exasperation.
And the bolts stopped. Mid-air. Frozen. Inches from his yellow jumpsuit. As if they had slammed into an invisible, infinitely resilient wall. They just hung there, quivering slightly from their arrested momentum.
The advancing swordsmen paused, their professional composure momentarily shattered by the sheer impossibility of what they were witnessing. The metallic-voiced leader froze, his hand half-raised.
Saitama looked at the floating bolts. "See? This is what I mean. Always with the violence. Can't anyone just be nice?"
He reached out, plucked one of the bolts from the air with two fingers as if it were a bothersome insect, examined it briefly, then flicked it.
The bolt didn't just fly; it screamed back the way it came, a silver blur moving at speeds that defied physics, trailing superheated air. It didn't aim for the crossbowman. It aimed for the crossbow itself.
CRACK-THWACK-BOOM!
The heavy steel crossbow exploded into a thousand fragments, the force of the bolt's impact atomizing wood and metal, sending shrapnel flying. The crossbowman cried out, stumbling back, clutching his now empty, splintered hands, his helmet visor cracked.
Saitama plucked the second bolt from the air and repeated the process, flicking it back towards the other crossbow. Another identical explosion, another disarmed, shocked operative.
All of this happened in the space of about two seconds.
Silence. A stunned, ringing silence, broken only by the groans of the disarmed crossbowmen and the distant chirping of oblivious birds.
The remaining operatives, hardened killers all, stared at Saitama, then at their disarmed comrades, then back at Saitama, their professional training warring with primal disbelief. This wasn't in any manual.
Saitama looked at the encircling swordsmen. "Okay, guys. Your turn. You wanna put the pointy things away? Or do we have to do this the hard way too? Because frankly, I'm getting tired. And still no breakfast." His voice was calm, almost bored, but there was an underlying note now, a faint tremor of annoyance, that hadn't been there before. The kind of annoyance that usually preceded geological restructuring or atmospheric ejections.
The weight of his unknowing, the sheer, casual, almost accidental demonstration of impossible power, hung heavy in the sun-dappled forest air.