Saitama's return to the Royal Capital was, for the first time, met with a genuine, thunderous, city-wide celebration. The news of the "Miracle at Veridia" had spread like a holy fire, carried by enchanted dispatches, swift-flying messengers, and the sheer, overwhelming power of popular rumor. The story had already taken on mythical proportions: the Tempest, they whispered, had not just dispersed a cure; he had wept a single golden tear that had cleansed the land, he had breathed a pure wind that had driven out the plague, he had fought a hundred-foot-tall demon of pestilence and punched it back to the abyss. The truth, as is often the case, was far more mundane and far more unbelievable.
As the Royal escort (which had met a very confused Saitama on the road, wondering why everyone was suddenly so cheerful) approached the gates of Midgar, they were met not by suspicious guards, but by a massive, cheering crowd. People threw flowers, waved makeshift banners (many of which featured crudely drawn, but enthusiastic, portraits of a bald man), and chanted his name. "SAI-TA-MA! SAI-TA-MA!"
Saitama, riding his long-suffering warhorse, just looked bewildered. "Why is everyone so loud?" he asked Kristoph, who rode beside him, his expression a mixture of relief and deep professional unease. "Is there a parade? Did I miss something?"
"This… is the parade, Mister Saitama," Kristoph replied, his voice strained over the roar of the crowd. "It is… for you. They are celebrating you. For saving Veridia."
"Oh," Saitama said, looking at the thousands of adoring faces. He saw hope, gratitude, awe. They were looking at him as if he were the answer to all their prayers. He didn't feel like an answer. He just felt like a guy who had wanted to get back to his noodle supply. The disconnect between their perception and his reality was a vast, uncomfortable chasm. He gave a small, awkward wave, which was met with a fresh, deafening wave of cheers.
The procession to the palace was slow, a triumphant crawl through a sea of adulation. The King and the Royal Family greeted him on the steps of the palace, not with the tense formality of previous encounters, but with genuine, if still slightly terrified, gratitude.
"Saitama," King Olric said, his voice filled with a sincerity that was unmistakable, "you have done this kingdom a service beyond measure. You have saved thousands of lives. You have restored hope to a city on the brink of collapse. You have, in every sense of the word, been a true hero."
Saitama just scratched the back of his head. "Uh, thanks. It was no big deal, really. The poison guy was kind of a wimp." He then looked past the King, towards the palace entrance. "So… is lunch ready? All this cheering is making me hungry."
The King actually laughed, a short, sharp, bark of a laugh that was filled more with relief than humor. The Tempest was unchanged. The crisis had not broken him, nor had the adulation inflated him. He was still, blessedly, terrifyingly, just Saitama. "Yes, Saitama," the King said. "Lunch is ready. The finest the kingdom has to offer. For its greatest champion."
The atmosphere in the Royal Palace had shifted dramatically. Fear had not vanished, but it was now tempered with a new, powerful emotion: hope. Saitama was no longer just a dangerous anomaly to be managed; he was a symbol. He was their "Unknowing Shield," the ultimate deterrent against the darkness Lyraelle had warned them of. The Royal Council, which had once debated how to contain him, now debated how to best… utilize his heroic reputation. They began to craft a new public narrative, one of the benevolent, if eccentric, champion who had chosen Midgar as his home.
Saitama, for his part, found his life both easier and more annoying. On the one hand, his fame meant that his requests for obscure snack foods were now treated with the urgency of national security threats. On the other hand, he was constantly being followed by fawning nobles, aspiring heroes wanting to be his "disciple" (an offer he always flatly refused, stating that "Genos is more than enough trouble"), and minstrels who would compose epic ballads about his trip to the latrine. He found himself retreating more and more to the quiet solitude of his suite, his only real companions being his noodles, his laundry, and the occasional, surprisingly insightful, conversations with Lyraelle or Alexia.
Lyraelle watched his newfound fame with a quiet, ancient sadness. "They are building a pedestal for you, Saitama," she told him one day as they watched a parade of children in the street below, many of them wearing little yellow capes. "But pedestals are lonely places. And they are very easy for the world to knock over."
Saitama just shrugged. "As long as the pedestal has a comfy chair and a good view of the TV, I don't really care."
Alexia, however, saw the situation with her usual, sharp-eyed pragmatism. "Fame is a weapon, Saitama," she advised him, while they "inspected" a new batch of imported Oriana chili-oil. "And it is a shield. As long as the people love you, my father and his council cannot treat you as a mere tool. Your popularity gives you a power that even your fists cannot." She paused, a cunning glint in her eye. "Use it. At the very least, use it to demand better quality desserts."
But while Midgar celebrated its new hero, a different kind of construction was taking place in the shadows.
In a hidden sanctum…
The cowled leader of the Cult of Diablos reviewed the reports from Veridia with a cold, satisfied detachment. Their agents had retreated before Saitama's arrival, their mission a complete success.
"The 'Hero of Veridia'," the porcelain-skinned Finger sneered, her voice like cracking ice. "They sing his praises. They have made him a symbol of hope. The King's gambit to win the people's hearts has succeeded."
"Precisely," the leader replied, their voice a low, pleased hum. "Let them build their symbol. Let them invest all their hope, all their faith, in this single, powerful individual."
The leader gestured, and a new image appeared in a scrying mirror. It was not of Saitama, but of a young woman with violet hair, her face a picture of serene, noble determination. She was practicing her swordplay in a quiet, moonlit courtyard, her movements fluid, graceful, yet lacking a certain spark. It was Rose Oriana, the princess of the neighboring kingdom, a skilled fencer, and, unbeknownst to most, a recent, unwilling subject of the Cult's experiments.
"The King believes he is playing chess," the leader whispered, their unseen smile widening. "He has his King," they gestured vaguely towards an imagined Midgar, "his powerful, unpredictable Queen… but he has forgotten about the other pieces on the board."
"The Oriana project is proceeding, my Lord," the porcelain-skinned Finger reported. "The subject's conditioning is almost complete. She believes she is fighting against us, but her actions, her very will, are being subtly guided by the artifact we implanted."
"Excellent," the leader said. "The stage must be set perfectly. The hero has been established. The people's love for him has been cemented. Now… we must give them a reason to hate him. We must give them a tragedy so profound, so personal, that they will turn on their savior in an instant."
The new plan was insidious, elegant, and cruel. It was not about creating a monster for Saitama to punch. It was about creating a victim. A beloved, noble, innocent victim. Someone whose suffering could be laid directly, and very publicly, at the feet of Midgar's new champion.
"The upcoming 'Goodwill Festival' between Midgar and Oriana," the leader murmured, "a celebration of our newfound 'peace and stability'… it will be the perfect stage." They looked at the image of the determined, unwitting princess. "She will be the catalyst. And he… the Tempest… will be the villain of the story."
They would not attack Saitama. They would frame him. They would orchestrate a disaster, a public tragedy, and ensure that all evidence, all whispers, all fear, pointed directly at the bald man in the yellow suit. They would use his own overwhelming power, his mysterious nature, his status as an outsider, against him. They would turn the adoring cheers of the crowd into a baying mob, screaming for his blood.
"A hero is defined by the people's belief," the leader whispered, a chilling finality in their tone. "We will not destroy his body. We will destroy the very idea of him. And in the darkness that follows the fall of their greatest light… our true work will finally be complete."
The hero's welcome was a trap. The adulation of the crowd was a gilded cage, its bars slowly closing. And the shadow, the true, patient, calculating shadow, was preparing to set the stage for its greatest, most tragic, performance yet. The real battle for Midgar was about to begin, and it would be a battle for the one thing Saitama had never truly had to fight for: his own reputation.