The Valgothian Deepwood unfolded around them like a forgotten tapestry, woven with threads of ancient shadow, vibrant mosses, and the oppressive weight of secrets. Towering trees, whose names were lost to time, formed a near-impenetrable canopy far above, filtering the grey daylight into a perpetual, submarine gloom. The air remained thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, but the sharp tang of pine was becoming more dominant as they pushed southeast, away from the immediate influence of the Labyrinth's opening.
Saitama forged ahead, his bright yellow suit an almost offensively cheerful beacon against the muted greens and browns of the ancient forest. He moved with a steady, ground-eating pace, occasionally batting away low-hanging branches or peering intently at oddly shaped fungi, presumably assessing their snack potential before sighing and moving on. His earlier complaints about hunger had subsided into a kind of stoic, rumbling discontent, punctuated by occasional, deeply unhelpful observations.
"You know," he commented, pointing towards a particularly gnarled tree whose bark resembled a screaming face, "if that tree charged rent, it could probably make a killing. Great location, lots of character. Bit drafty, maybe."
Gregor, walking a few paces behind, just grunted. He was trying to conserve his energy, constantly scanning their surroundings for threats, his salvaged sword held loosely but ready. The initial euphoria of escape had worn off, replaced by the grim reality of their situation: lost in a deadly forest, low on supplies (they had none), with only an incomprehensible powerhouse and the tattered clothes on their backs between them and whatever horrors lurked nearby.
Lyra and Renn walked close together between Gregor and Saitama, exchanging hushed words.
"He just… poked them," Renn whispered, still struggling to process the Cave Crawler incident. "Giant armored death centipedes, and he just poked them."
"And the ceiling," Lyra added, her voice hushed with awe. "He held up tons of rock like it was nothing. Pushed it back up." She glanced nervously at Saitama's back. The yellow suit seemed less ridiculous now, more like the baffling plumage of some terrifying, unknown species. "What is he, Renn?"
Renn shook his head, glancing around nervously. "I don't know. A god? A demon in disguise? Maybe he's just… mad? But madness doesn't stop ceilings from falling."
"He seems harmless enough," Lyra mused, "as long as you aren't a monster trying to eat him. Or a rock trying to fall on him." She shivered. "But the way he talks… it's like he doesn't understand danger. Or maybe danger just doesn't understand him."
Gregor overheard snippets of their conversation. He shared their bewilderment but lacked the luxury of dwelling on it. Survival demanded vigilance. "Keep quiet, you two," he warned softly. "And keep your eyes open. This forest… it's old. And hungry. Saitama might be…" he struggled for the right word, "…resilient. We are not."
As if summoned by his words, the forest ahead changed subtly. The air grew still, the faint breeze dying away. A strange, almost sweet scent, cloying and unnatural, began to drift through the trees, replacing the clean smell of pine. The gloom deepened, taking on a faint, purplish tinge.
"Hold," Gregor ordered, raising a hand. He sniffed the air, his eyes narrowing. "Something's wrong. That smell…"
Ahead of them, perhaps fifty yards away, the forest floor was carpeted in a thick layer of vibrant, almost fluorescent purple fungus. It pulsed faintly with an internal light, similar to the crystals in the Maw's Labyrinth but organic, somehow more insidious. And rising from this fungal carpet were shimmering clouds of fine, iridescent spores, drifting lazily in the still air, catching the dim light like motes of dangerous dust. The air here hummed with a low, almost inaudible thrumming energy.
"Gloom Spores," Lyra breathed, her face paling dramatically. She grabbed Renn's arm, pulling him back. "Don't breathe it in! It's paralyzing! One whiff and you're frozen, helpless… then the fungus… it feeds." She pointed towards a dark shape half-submerged within the pulsating purple carpet – the skeletal remains of a large deer, its bones picked clean, covered in creeping fungal tendrils.
Gregor swore under his breath, quickly pulling the collar of his tunic up over his nose and mouth, though he knew it offered little real protection. "Seven hells! We have to go around! Way around! Don't get close!"
The spore field stretched wide, covering the forest floor for at least a hundred yards ahead and extending deep into the trees on either side. Finding a path around it would mean a significant detour, potentially adding hours to their journey through unknown, dangerous territory.
But Saitama hadn't stopped. He was still walking forward, seemingly oblivious, right towards the edge of the shimmering, deadly spore cloud.
"Saitama! Stop!" Gregor yelled, his voice muffled by his tunic. "It's poison! It'll paralyze you!"
Saitama paused at the very edge of the purple fungal carpet, looking down at it, then at the shimmering spore cloud ahead. He sniffed the air. "Huh. Smells kinda like… grape soda? But old. Like grape soda that's been left open for a week." He looked back at the terrified trio. "Poison, you said? Like, 'don't eat it' poison, or 'don't breathe it' poison?"
"Both!" Lyra cried, waving frantically for him to come back. "Don't go in there!"
Saitama looked back at the spore cloud. It drifted thickly, obscuring the path ahead. Going around looked like a hassle. He hated hassles. Especially detours when he was hungry.
"Eh, looks fine," he declared.
And he walked straight into the spore cloud.
Gregor, Lyra, and Renn watched in horror, expecting him to seize up, to gasp, to collapse helplessly into the hungry fungus. Gregor instinctively took a step forward, as if to pull him back, before remembering the sheer futility of trying to physically stop Saitama from doing anything.
Saitama strolled through the dense, shimmering cloud of deadly neurotoxins as if walking through morning mist. The iridescent spores swirled around him, coating his yellow jumpsuit and bald head in a fine, sparkling dust. He didn't cough. He didn't slow down. He didn't show any reaction whatsoever, beyond mildly batting at a particularly thick swirl of spores near his face as if it were an annoying gnat.
He emerged on the far side of the hundred-yard spore field, dusting a faint purple sheen off his shoulder. He turned back, looking at the others still huddled fearfully at the edge.
"See?" he called out, his voice perfectly clear, unaffected. "Totally fine. Kinda tickles your nose a bit, though. Anyway, hurry up! Still gotta find that town!"
The three escapees stared, speechless. The Gloom Spores were infamous. Tales were told of entire patrols of seasoned adventurers being wiped out, found days later as fungus-covered statues. Yet Saitama had walked through a dense cloud of them like it was… nothing. Like he was immune. Or perhaps, like the concept of poison simply didn't apply to him.
"He… he just…" Renn stammered, unable to complete the sentence.
"Walked through it," Gregor finished, lowering his tunic, his face a mask of stunned disbelief. He looked at the deadly spore field, then back at Saitama impatiently waiting on the other side. "He's not human. He can't be."
Lyra nodded slowly, a strange calmness settling over her amidst the shock. If Saitama could do that, maybe… just maybe… they actually stood a chance. "Maybe," she whispered, "he's our miracle."
"Miracle or not," Gregor sighed, shaking his head as if to clear it, "we still can't walk through that. We have to find a way around." He scanned the edges of the spore field, looking for the safest route. It would cost them time, precious time, but they had no other choice. Unless Saitama decided to, say, punch the air hard enough to blow the entire spore cloud away – a possibility Gregor was suddenly, frighteningly, unwilling to dismiss entirely.
Miles behind them, moving with the silent efficiency of ghosts, Kristoph's team picked their way through the dense undergrowth, following the surprisingly obvious trail left by Saitama and his companions.
"He makes no effort at stealth, Commander," Zenon observed quietly, pointing to a series of snapped branches and clear boot prints in a patch of soft mud. "It's as if the concept of being tracked is beneath his notice. Or perhaps, irrelevant to him."
"Given what we've witnessed, 'irrelevant' seems more likely," Kristoph muttered. His mind kept replaying the image of Saitama casually bridging the chasm. What kind of being possessed such power, yet seemed utterly lacking in guile or even basic situational awareness?
Elara paused, her hand hovering over a cluster of ferns near the trail. "Commander, the ambient magic here feels… agitated. Disturbed. And there's a faint residue… consistent with the feral entity from the battle site."
Kristoph tensed. "How close?"
"The trail is cold, perhaps half a day old," Elara clarified. "But it seems the beast passed through this area, heading roughly parallel to the Tempest's path for a time, before diverging northwest again." She shivered slightly. "Its presence leaves a stain on the air. Pure, predatory hunger."
So, the beast that killed the Knights was nearby, or had been recently. And the unknown third party was likely shadowing it. The forest felt increasingly crowded, filled with unseen threats moving on intersecting paths.
They continued forward, Zenon's eyes constantly scanning, Elara monitoring the subtle energy flows, Kristoph processing the fragments of information, trying to build a coherent picture from impossible pieces.
They soon reached the edge of the Gloom Spore field. The pulsating purple fungus and shimmering clouds immediately put all three knights on high alert.
"Gloom Spores!" Zenon hissed, instantly identifying the threat. "Potent neurotoxin. Paralysis on contact or inhalation. Fatal." He scanned the perimeter. "Field is extensive. We'll need to detour significantly."
Elara raised her staff, creating a subtle barrier of shimmering air around them, warding off the nearest drifting spores. "The fungal network… it emits a low-level psionic field as well. Induces lethargy, confusion… makes victims less likely to resist before the paralysis takes hold." She frowned. "Nasty piece of natural defense. Or perhaps, unnatural. It feels… tainted, like much in this forest."
Kristoph looked at the deadly field, then at the tracks. Saitama's boot prints led directly to the edge of the spore cloud. And then, unbelievably, they continued through it. Clear, evenly spaced prints, marching straight across the hundred-yard expanse of lethal fungus and paralyzing spores, emerging undisturbed on the other side. There was no sign of struggle, no deviation, no indication of any effect whatsoever. The tracks of the three escapees, however, clearly showed them skirting the edge, beginning a wide detour to the north.
"He walked through it," Zenon stated flatly, his usual stoicism strained by sheer disbelief. He knelt, examining the prints leading into the cloud. "No hesitation. No change in stride."
Elara slowly lowered her staff, her eyes wide as she scanned the spore field where Saitama had passed. "There is… no reaction. No residual panic in the psionic field. No lingering bio-signatures of distress or paralysis. The spores… they coated him. I can sense the faint residue on his trail where he emerged. But they had no effect. It's as if… as if his biology simply doesn't recognize the toxin. Or negates it instantly. No magic involved. Just… immunity."
Kristoph stared at the path Saitama had taken, a path that should have meant certain death, traversed with the same nonchalance as a walk in a park. Immunity? Negation? Or was his body simply so overwhelmingly durable, so fundamentally other, that terrestrial poisons were like water off a duck's back?
"Every encounter," Kristoph murmured, more to himself than the others, "every piece of evidence, paints a picture of power that operates outside known laws. Physical force beyond measure. Resilience bordering on absolute invulnerability. Yet, coupled with a mind that seems… utterly oblivious to the implications." He shook his head. "He is not a warrior. He is not a mage. He is… a natural disaster in human form, wandering aimlessly, guided only by base needs."
"A disaster that currently seems benign," Elara offered cautiously. "He aided the escapees. He hasn't displayed overt malice."
"Benign only through indifference, perhaps," Kristoph countered. "What happens when something genuinely annoys him? Or obstructs his path to… lunch?" The thought was deeply unsettling.
"Commander," Zenon interrupted, pointing towards the northwest edge of the spore field. "Tracks. The third party. They skirted the field as well, paralleling the escapees' detour for a time, before continuing northwest, deeper into the woods. Still maintaining distance, still shadowing the beast's trail."
Kristoph nodded. At least they were behaving rationally. "We continue our detour. Follow the escapees' path around the spores. We need to close the distance to the Tempest."
They began the arduous detour, moving carefully along the edge of the deadly purple haze, the image of Saitama strolling casually through it burned into their minds. The Unknowing Tempest was proving to be less a storm and more a walking vacuum in the laws of physics, and they were still no closer to understanding the why or the how of it. All they knew was that they had to keep following.