The retreat of the black-clad operatives left an unnerving stillness in their wake. The forest, which had briefly crackled with the tension of imminent violence, settled back into its ancient, indifferent rhythm. Birds resumed their cautious chirping. Sunlight, now stronger as the morning progressed, dappled the forest floor, painting shifting patterns of light and shadow. But for Gregor, Lyra, and Renn, the normalcy felt like a thin veneer over a pit of anxieties.
They collected the bundled boar meat, their movements stiff, almost robotic. The encounter had drained them of what little adrenaline remained after the Titan. Now, only a deep, gnawing exhaustion and a bewildered gratitude were left. Gregor kept glancing back at the spot where the operatives had vanished, half-expecting them to reappear, or for some new, even stranger threat to materialize from the trees.
Saitama, however, seemed entirely unperturbed. Having satisfied his curiosity about the exploded crossbow fragments, he was now trying to whistle a jaunty tune, though it came out mostly as a series of slightly off-key puffs of air. He seemed to have already filed the encounter under 'minor morning inconvenience, slightly delayed breakfast.'
"Okay, so," Saitama said, interrupting his own whistling. "Southeast, right? For the pancakes? Or donuts? Maybe a nice omelet?"
Gregor sighed, a sound laden with more weariness than he thought possible. "Yes, Saitama. Southeast. Though I highly doubt we'll find an omelet station anytime soon." He shouldered their meager bundle of cooked meat. It wouldn't last long, but it was something. "Let's just… try to find a road. Or a village. Anything that isn't this cursed forest."
They set off again, the events of the last twenty-four hours replaying in Gregor's mind like a fever dream: the Labyrinth, the Maw, the Guardians, the Gloom Spores, the Whisperwillow, the Shadow Stalkers, the Phantasm Weavers, the Earth Titan, and now, elite black-ops assassins. All neutralized, defeated, or utterly annihilated by the bald man currently complaining that the sunlight was making his head too warm. It was a litany of impossible survivals, each one underscoring their own fragility and Saitama's incomprehensible might.
Lyra walked beside Renn, her earlier near-catatonia replaced by a quiet, almost numb resilience. She found herself watching Saitama not with terror anymore, but with a kind of detached fascination, like a scholar observing a newly discovered, highly dangerous, and utterly baffling species. "Do you think," she murmured to Renn, "there's anything in this world that can hurt him?"
Renn, who was still trying to process the image of crossbow bolts stopping in mid-air, just shook his head mutely. The question was too big, the implications too terrifying. He just wanted to get somewhere safe, somewhere with thick walls and no monsters, and maybe sleep for a week. Or a year.
Their progress was slow. The initial adrenaline of the morning's encounters had faded, leaving behind a profound physical and mental exhaustion that even the prospect of Saitama's protection couldn't entirely alleviate. The forest, while no longer actively trying to kill them with ancient wards or immediate monstrosities, remained a challenging, indifferent wilderness. They navigated thick undergrowth, scrambled over fallen logs, and waded through shallow, muddy streams.
After another hour of hard trekking, during which Saitama mostly entertained himself by trying to see how far he could throw acorns (answer: surprisingly, alarmingly far, often accompanied by the distant sound of splintering wood or startled animal cries), Gregor finally spotted something through the trees that made his heart leap.
"A road!" he exclaimed, his voice cracking with emotion. He pushed through a final screen of foliage and there it was – not a grand highway, but a narrow, deeply rutted dirt track, clearly man-made, winding its way through the forest. It was overgrown in places, clearly not heavily used, but it was undeniably a sign of civilization, a lifeline leading out of the Deepwood's oppressive embrace.
Lyra and Renn burst through the leaves after him, their faces lighting up with incredulous relief. A road! After days of wilderness and terror, the sight of something so mundane, so ordinary, felt like a miracle. Lyra sank to her knees, touching the packed earth of the track as if it were sacred ground. Renn just stared, a wide, shaky grin spreading across his face.
Saitama ambled out of the woods, looked at the dirt track, and shrugged. "Huh. Road. Not very well paved. Lots of potholes. Still no food stands, though." He sniffed the air. "Smells like… dirt. And maybe old horse poop."
"It leads somewhere, Saitama!" Gregor said, almost giddy with relief. He looked up and down the track. "Which way, though?" One direction seemed to lead deeper into the forested hills, the other sloped gently downwards, towards what he hoped was more settled land. "Downhill. Southeast. That has to be it."
They started walking along the dirt track, their spirits lifted immeasurably. The simple act of following a defined path, of knowing they were heading towards something other than more trees and monsters, was a profound comfort. Even Saitama seemed slightly less bored, occasionally kicking at loose stones on the track or trying to identify bird calls (incorrectly, usually assigning them to species like "the angry squawky bird" or "the one that sounds like a rusty door hinge").
They walked for another hour, the forest gradually thinning, the trees becoming younger, less ancient. Patches of sunlight became more frequent, warmer. They passed a few crumbling, moss-covered stone markers that might have once indicated distances or boundaries, their inscriptions long since eroded beyond legibility.
And then, they saw it. Through a break in the trees, nestled in a shallow valley ahead, were the unmistakable signs of a small settlement. A few plumes of woodsmoke rising into the clear sky. The thatched roofs of humble cottages. The faint, distant sound of a dog barking, a cock crowing. A village.
"Civilization!" Lyra breathed, tears welling in her eyes again, this time tears of pure, unadulterated joy. She grabbed Renn's arm, pointing. "Look, Renn! We made it! We actually made it!"
Renn stared, his eyes wide, a choked sob escaping him. He nodded dumbly, unable to speak, the relief too overwhelming.
Gregor felt a wave of emotion so powerful it almost buckled his knees. They had survived. Against all odds, against horrors beyond imagining, they had walked out of the Valgothian Deepwood and the shadow of the Tenebris Labyrinth. He looked back at the dark line of ancient trees behind them, then towards the small, peaceful-looking village ahead. It felt like stepping from one world into another. He owed their lives, unquestionably, to the strange, bald man currently trying to balance a stick on his chin.
"Saitama," Gregor said, his voice thick with emotion. He turned to the hero-for-fun, who had finally given up on the stick. "We… we wouldn't have made it without you. I… we owe you everything."
Saitama blinked, looking slightly surprised by the sudden display of emotion. "Hm? Oh, no problem. Glad I could help." He looked towards the village, his expression brightening considerably. "So, that place probably has food, right? Like, actual cooked food? Not just… boar on a stick?"
"Yes, Saitama," Lyra said, laughing through her tears. "I'm sure they have food. Maybe even… pancakes."
Saitama's eyes lit up. "Pancakes! Awesome! Let's go!" He started walking towards the village at a much brisker pace, his earlier weariness seemingly forgotten at the mere mention of his preferred breakfast food.
Gregor, Lyra, and Renn followed, their steps lighter than they had been in days, a mixture of exhaustion, relief, and a dawning, fragile hope filling them. The village ahead wasn't Midgar, it wasn't true safety, but it was a start. It was a haven. It was a place where, hopefully, they could find food, shelter, and perhaps begin to process the impossible journey they had just endured.
As they approached the outskirts of the small, peaceful-looking village of Oakhaven, nestled at the very edge of the vast, dark Deepwood, none of them noticed the single, cloaked figure watching them from the deep shadows of a nearby copse of trees. The figure was still, blending perfectly with the darkness, their face entirely obscured by a hood. They observed the group, their gaze lingering on Saitama, then on the escapees, an unreadable expression hidden in the shadows. After a moment, the figure melted back into the trees as silently as they had appeared, a ghost in the morning light, leaving no trace of their passage. The ripples continued to spread.
Meanwhile, in the Royal Capital of Midgar…
The throne room was hushed, the usual sounds of courtly life absent. King Olric Midgar sat heavily on his throne, his face grim, his knuckles white where he gripped the armrests. Before him stood a pale, exhausted Sorceress Elara, who had just finished delivering her preliminary, magically shielded report after Knight-Commander Kristoph had finally deemed it safe enough for her to cast the powerful communication spell. Captain Valerius stood beside her, his expression equally grave.
The King had heard of the fall of a Titan. He had heard of an entity of "Class-Omega" power, designated "Tempest," responsible for both the Titan's destruction and the casual erasure of ancient ward-magic. He had heard of Labyrinth escapees, black-clad operatives, and unknown beasts clashing in the Deepwood. The implications were staggering, almost unbelievable.
"A Titan…" King Olric finally said, his voice a low rumble. "Destroyed. By a single individual?" He looked at Elara, searching for any hint of exaggeration, any sign of madness. He found only exhaustion and conviction.
"Yes, Your Majesty," Elara confirmed, her voice hoarse. "We witnessed it. The power was… beyond anything I have ever conceived. Not magic as we know it. Pure, overwhelming force."
"And these escapees… the ones this 'Tempest' is apparently… escorting?" the King pressed.
"Three individuals, Your Majesty," Captain Valerius interjected. "A man named Gregor, a woman, Lyra, and a younger man, Renn. Knight-Commander Kristoph's team is still tracking them, and the Tempest. They appear to be heading towards the outlying villages on the southeastern edge of the Deepwood."
The King leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. "This Tempest… his motives? His allegiances?"
Elara shook her head. "Unknown, Your Majesty. He seems… oblivious. Almost childlike in his concerns, primarily focused on… sustenance. Yet capable of casual, world-altering destruction. Knight-Commander Kristoph describes him as an 'unknowing paradox'."
King Olric stood, pacing the dais before his throne. The Deepwood, always a source of minor troubles – bandits, beasts, the occasional rumor of cult activity – had suddenly become the epicenter of events that could reshape the kingdom, perhaps the continent. A fallen Titan. Unleashed ancient powers. An entity of godlike strength wandering his lands. And now, reports from border patrols and distant watchtowers were flooding in, speaking of tremors, strange lights, and atmospheric disturbances – the echoes of Saitama's passage. Other kingdoms, other powers, would soon be taking notice, if they weren't already.
"Captain Valerius," the King commanded, his voice sharp. "Mobilize the First and Third Knightly Orders. Seal the southeastern approaches to the Deepwood. No one enters, no one leaves, without my express command. Establish a secure perimeter around the village of Oakhaven and any nearby settlements. If this Tempest and the escapees emerge there… I want them contained. Observed. But under no circumstances are they to be engaged without direct orders from me or Knight-Commander Kristoph. Is that clear?"
"Crystal clear, Your Majesty," Valerius replied, bowing deeply before hurrying off to issue the orders.
The King turned back to Elara. "Sorceress, you will join my Royal Magi. Analyze every fragment of information Kristoph sends. I want to know everything about this Tempest. His strengths, his weaknesses – if any. His patterns. His potential threat level. And I want to know what, precisely, was unleashed from that valley when its wards fell."
"Yes, Your Majesty," Elara said, bowing, relieved to have a concrete task, however daunting.
King Olric stood alone for a moment, looking out of the high throne room window towards the distant, dark line of the Valgothian Deepwood. The fate of his kingdom, it seemed, now rested on understanding an oblivious bald man who just wanted pancakes, and on containing the fallout from his breakfast-driven journey. The weight of unknowing pressed down on him, heavy and cold as a crown.