The forced pace was grueling. The Royal Knights, driven by Commander Alaric's newfound urgency, pushed their mounts hard, the rhythmic thunder of hooves a constant drumbeat accompanying the jingle of armor and the creak of leather. Dust churned from the King's Road, coating them in a fine, gritty layer. The landscape blurred past – rolling fields, scattered copses of trees, distant farmsteads whose inhabitants watched the speeding column with wide, fearful eyes.
For Gregor, Lyra, and Renn, the ride was an ordeal. Their exhaustion, briefly held at bay by food and the illusion of safety, returned with a vengeance, amplified by the jarring motion of the cantering horses. They clung on grimly, their bodies aching, their minds numb. The brief hope they had felt upon reaching Oakhaven was now overshadowed by a growing dread. 'Escalated'? 'Other parties taking an interest'? It sounded like they were riding from one fire into another, larger one.
Saitama, however, after the initial shock of the increased speed, seemed to have found a strange, precarious equilibrium on his warhorse. He still looked deeply uncomfortable, his posture all wrong, gripping the reins with white-knuckled intensity, but he had stopped yelping and was now mostly focused on not falling off. His internal monologue had likely shifted from pancakes to the structural integrity of saddles and the aerodynamic properties of capes at speed.
"This is… bumpy," he managed to call out to Gregor, who was riding beside him, looking distinctly green. "And my butt hurts. Do horses come with, like, optional padded seats? Or maybe a built-in massage function?"
Gregor just groaned in response, too miserable to reply.
As the sun began its descent, painting the western sky in hues of fiery orange and deep violet, they crested a long rise. And there, spread out before them in the vast basin below, lay the Royal Capital of Midgar.
It was an awe-inspiring sight, even for the weary escapees. A sprawling city of white stone and red-tiled roofs, encircled by formidable curtain walls punctuated by numerous watchtowers, their banners snapping in the evening breeze. At its heart, rising majestically above the surrounding structures, stood the Royal Palace, its spires and turrets gleaming like polished bone in the dying light. Smoke from countless hearths created a hazy veil over the city, and even from this distance, they could hear the faint, ambient hum of a large, bustling metropolis – a sound they hadn't heard in what felt like a lifetime.
"Midgar…" Lyra breathed, her eyes wide with a mixture of awe and trepidation. It was the heart of the kingdom, the seat of power, a place of legends and, for them, unknown judgment.
Renn stared, speechless. He had only ever heard stories of the capital. Seeing it now, so vast and imposing, was overwhelming.
Gregor felt a knot tighten in his stomach. Midgar represented authority, order, but also a complex web of politics and power plays he wanted no part of. And they were being brought here as… what? Detainees? Witnesses? Bargaining chips? With Saitama as the explosive wildcard.
Commander Alaric reined in his horse slightly, allowing the column to slow as they began the descent towards the city. His gaze was fixed on the capital, his expression unreadable behind his visor. He knew that their arrival would not go unnoticed. The news of the Titan's fall, amplified by Elara's Crimson Shield dispatch, would have already thrown the Royal Court into turmoil. Factions would be forming, agendas being pushed. The "Tempest" was no longer a distant rumor from the Deepwood; he was about to become a very real, very present, and very problematic reality for the powers that be.
As they drew closer, they could see the main gates of the city, the 'King's Gate,' looming large, flanked by massive stone towers. The traffic on the road increased – merchant wagons laden with goods, farmers returning from the fields, travelers hurrying to reach the city before nightfall. All pulled aside hastily, their occupants staring with a mixture of fear and deference at the approaching column of Royal Knights.
The guards at the King's Gate, easily identifiable by their polished armor and stern demeanor, snapped to attention as Commander Alaric approached. The massive portcullis, already being lowered for the night, was halted, then slowly raised again upon recognizing the Commander's insignia.
"Commander Alaric!" the Gate Captain called out, his voice sharp with surprise. "Your arrival was… anticipated, but not so soon. The Royal Council is in emergency session. The King awaits your report." His gaze flicked uneasily towards Saitama, who was now trying to wave at a pigeon perched on the gatehouse roof.
"We have made haste, Captain," Alaric replied curtly. "Secure the gate behind us. No unauthorized entry or exit. The city is on heightened alert."
"Understood, Commander," the Gate Captain affirmed, his eyes lingering on Saitama with a mixture of apprehension and morbid curiosity. Clearly, whispers of the "Tempest" had already permeated the city guard.
The column passed through the King's Gate and into the bustling outer districts of Midgar. The change from the relative quiet of the King's Road was jarring. The air filled with the sounds of city life – the shouts of vendors, the clang of smithies, the rumble of cartwheels on cobblestone streets, the chatter of a thousand voices. The streets were narrow, winding, lined with tall, timber-framed buildings crammed close together. People stopped in their tracks, staring openly at the procession, their conversations dying down as the heavily armed knights and their unusual charges passed. Fear, curiosity, and a buzz of excited speculation followed them like a wave.
"Who are they?"
"Royal Knights… a full company!"
"Look at their clothes… prisoners?"
"And that bald man… in yellow! Is that… him? The one they're talking about?"
"The 'Deepwood Demon'?"
"No, the 'Titan-Slayer'!"
"I heard he breathes fire!"
"I heard he can fly!"
Saitama, oblivious to the whispers and the stares, was looking around with wide-eyed interest, mostly at the food stalls. "Whoa! Roasted meat on a stick! And… are those… pastries? Awesome! Hey, can we stop for a snack?"
Commander Alaric ignored him, his focus on navigating the crowded streets towards the inner city and the Royal Palace. The escort tightened around Saitama and the escapees, a clear message to the populace to keep their distance.
Gregor, Lyra, and Renn felt the weight of a thousand eyes upon them. They hunched lower in their saddles, wishing they could disappear. Being paraded through the capital like notorious criminals, or bizarre curiosities, was a fresh humiliation on top of their already immense suffering. Lyra pulled her tattered cloak tighter, trying to hide her face. Renn kept his gaze fixed on his horse's mane. Gregor just stared straight ahead, his expression grim, enduring it.
As they moved deeper into the city, the architecture became grander, the streets wider, cleaner. They passed imposing guildhalls, opulent merchant houses, and eventually, the massive, fortified walls of the Royal Precinct. The atmosphere here was different – less chaotic, more controlled, filled with the hushed importance of power.
Finally, they reached the main gates of the Royal Palace itself, a truly awe-inspiring edifice of white marble and soaring spires, banners bearing the royal crest fluttering from every turret. Elite Royal Guards, their armor even more ornate, their demeanor even more severe, stood sentinel.
The palace gates swung open slowly, ponderously, revealing a vast, torchlit courtyard. Commander Alaric led the column inside, the sound of their horses' hooves echoing off the high stone walls. As the gates closed behind them with a resounding boom, sealing them within the heart of Midgar's power, Gregor felt a profound sense of finality. There was no turning back now. Their fate, and Saitama's, was now in the hands of the King.
Several figures were waiting in the courtyard, illuminated by the flickering torchlight. Kristoph, Zenon, and Elara stood to one side, looking weary but alert, having clearly arrived earlier and delivered their full report. Beside them stood Captain Valerius, his expression unreadable. And at the center, flanked by stern-faced Royal Advisors and high-ranking Magi, was a figure whose regal bearing and aura of command were unmistakable, even at a distance.
King Olric Midgar himself.
He stood tall, his silver-streaked hair glinting in the torchlight, his eyes, sharp and intelligent, fixed intently on the dismounting newcomers, particularly on the bald man in the tattered yellow suit who was currently trying to figure out how to get off his warhorse without falling.
Saitama, after a rather undignified struggle, finally managed to slide off the horse, landing with a slight stumble. He dusted himself off, looked around at the imposing courtyard, the stern faces, the King himself, and then his eyes lit up.
"Hey!" he exclaimed, pointing towards a nearby table laden with what looked like refreshments for the waiting dignitaries – pitchers of wine, platters of fruit, and, most importantly, a large silver tray piled high with small, frosted cakes. "Are those… snacks?!"
He started to walk towards the cake table, completely oblivious to the King, the Royal Council, the palpable tension, and the fact that he was about to become the most scrutinized, debated, and potentially feared individual in the entire Kingdom of Midgar.
The storm had well and truly arrived at the palace gates. And it was asking for dessert.