The Midgar-Oriana Goodwill Festival was intended to be the crowning achievement of King Olric's new, fragile era of peace. It was a grand, week-long celebration of culture, trade, and diplomacy, designed to showcase Midgar's resilience after the "beast attacks" (the official, heavily redacted story of the Titan and the tournament) and to strengthen ties with its most powerful, and often most cunning, rival. The streets of the capital were adorned with the twin banners of the two kingdoms – Midgar's golden lion and Oriana's silver hawk. Pavilions were erected, stages built for performers, and the air buzzed with a festive, optimistic energy.
At the heart of the celebration was the official visit of Princess Rose Oriana. Young, beautiful, and renowned for her skill with a rapier and her passionate advocacy for the arts, she was the beloved icon of her kingdom. Her arrival in Midgar was met with cheers, her presence a symbol of a bright, cooperative future.
Saitama, of course, was mostly interested in the festival for one reason: the food stalls. The streets were lined with vendors selling an incredible array of delicacies from both kingdoms. He had been "graciously invited" by the King to attend the festivities, a polite command which he accepted with glee, seeing it as a golden opportunity to conduct a thorough and systematic "taste test" of every fried, skewered, and sugar-dusted item the festival had to offer.
He wandered through the crowded streets in his 'Mysterious Cloak Guy' disguise (a compromise with a frantic Sir Kaelan, who argued that having the "Hero of Veridia" seen trying to win a stuffed animal at a ring-toss game might undermine the kingdom's newfound gravitas). He was a silent, anonymous figure in a sea of celebration, happily munching on a candied apple, completely oblivious to the intricate web of deception being woven around him.
The Cult's plan was already in motion, a masterpiece of subtle, insidious manipulation. Their agents, disguised as Oriana diplomats, Midgar merchants, and even festival performers, moved through the crowds, planting the seeds of the next great lie. They didn't spread fear; they spread admiration, but a tainted, conditional admiration.
"Have you seen the Princess Rose?" one agent, disguised as a cheerful baker, would say to a group of housewives. "So graceful, so pure! A true light. Not like that… Tempest… the King keeps. So much raw, uncontrolled power. It's… unsettling, isn't it?"
"The Oriana delegation's magic is so refined, so elegant," another agent, posing as a scholar, would comment to a group of academy students. "True artistry. Unlike the Midgar 'champion,' who just… breaks things. Brute force is the tool of a monster, not a hero."
They were creating a narrative, a stark contrast between the "perfect, pure" Princess Rose and the "brutish, terrifying" Saitama. They weren't accusing him of anything, not yet. They were just… shaping perceptions, creating a foundation of doubt and unease that could be easily ignited into full-blown hatred when the time was right.
The centerpiece of the festival was a grand exhibition match in the Royal Arena, a "demonstration of friendly rivalry" between the two kingdoms' finest sword-wielders. Midgar was to be represented by Princess Iris. Oriana, by Princess Rose. It was a highly anticipated event, a duel between two of the most skilled and beloved young nobles on the continent.
Saitama, having been given a front-row seat in a discreet, private box (mostly to keep him from wandering onto the arena floor and asking for a turn), watched with mild interest, a large bag of what looked like fried dough balls in his lap. "Ooh, a sword fight," he commented to Lyraelle, who had been assigned to "accompany" him (i.e., keep him from getting bored and punching the arena). "Grumpy Princess versus… the other one. Who do you think will win?"
Lyraelle watched the two princesses enter the arena, her silver eyes filled with a faint, troubled light. "Both are skilled," she said softly. "But there is… a discordance. A shadow I cannot quite place."
The duel began. It was a breathtaking display of swordsmanship. Iris was a storm of power and precision, her blade, Anathema, glowing with a faint golden light, her attacks fierce and direct. Rose was a dance of elegance and speed, her rapier a silver flicker, her movements fluid, parrying and riposting with an almost preternatural grace. The crowd roared with every clash of steel, captivated by the spectacle.
But as the duel progressed, something felt… wrong. Rose's movements, while graceful, were becoming more aggressive, more desperate. A strange, almost manic light entered her eyes. A faint, almost invisible wisp of purple-black smoke seemed to cling to the blade of her rapier, a detail so subtle only those with the most acute senses, like Lyraelle or the hidden observers from Shadow Garden, could perceive it.
In a hidden control room, the cowled leader of the Cult watched a scrying mirror, a cold smile on their face. "The artifact is activating," they whispered. "The emotional stress of the duel is triggering it. Perfect."
The "artifact" was a tiny, almost undetectable sliver of a cursed crystal, implanted in the hilt of Rose's own rapier during a "ceremonial cleaning" by a Cult agent in Oriana weeks ago. It was keyed to her life force, designed to slowly, subtly, corrupt her will, amplifying her negative emotions – her ambition, her fear, her frustration – and slowly twisting them into a dark, uncontrollable rage.
On the arena floor, Iris felt the shift. Rose's elegant parries were becoming brutal, jarring blocks. Her precise lunges were turning into wild, furious stabs. "Rose!" Iris cried out, parrying a particularly vicious blow that sent a shock up her arm. "What's wrong? Your form is… breaking!"
Rose didn't seem to hear her. Her eyes were glazed over, a faint purple hue swirling within them. "I must win…" she muttered, her voice a strained, unnatural hiss. "I must prove… I am stronger…" The Cult's whispers, fed to her in her dreams for weeks, were now taking root, amplified by the artifact.
The duel devolved from a display of skill into a desperate, brutal brawl. Rose, her skill now augmented by a strange, dark, unnatural strength, began to force Iris back. Her rapier, wreathed in that faint dark smoke, left sizzling, corrosive gouges in the arena sand.
The King and the Oriana delegation leaped to their feet, their faces masks of confusion and horror. What was happening to their princess?
It was then that the trap was sprung.
Rose, in a final, desperate lunge, overextended. Iris, seeing an opening, disarmed her with a practiced flick of her wrist. Rose's rapier went flying through the air… and landed directly, with impossible, perfect precision, at Saitama's feet in his private box.
Simultaneously, Rose collapsed to the ground, not unconscious, but writhing, a scream of pure agony tearing from her throat as the dark energy from the now-overloaded artifact surged through her body. Horrific, black markings, like creeping thorns, began to spread across her skin from her sword hand.
The entire arena stared in stunned silence. The beloved princess of Oriana, struck down by a mysterious, dark affliction. Her sword, the apparent source of the corruption, now lying at the feet of… the Tempest.
Before anyone could even process this, the Cult's agents in the crowd went to work.
"It was him!" one shouted, pointing a trembling finger at Saitama. "The Tempest! He cursed her! I saw him cast a spell!"
"He's a demon!" another screamed. "He was jealous of her skill, her purity! He struck her down with his dark power!"
The whispers, the seeds of doubt they had so carefully planted, now exploded into a roaring fire of accusation and fear. The crowd, already primed to see Saitama as a brutish, terrifying monster, now had a victim. A perfect, beautiful, innocent victim.
Saitama, who had just been about to take a bite of a dough ball, looked down at the smoking rapier at his feet, then at the screaming princess on the arena floor, then at the thousands of accusatory fingers now pointing at him. "Huh?" he said, his mouth still half-open. "I… I didn't do anything! I was just sitting here! Enjoying my snacks!"
But no one was listening. The Oriana delegation was shouting in outrage. The Royal Guards were in chaos. King Olric was white with shock. The narrative had been seized, twisted in an instant.
From the shadows of the arena, the Cult's true strike force emerged. Not just a few agitators, but a score of their elite Reapers, led by a hulking figure in fused bone-and-metal armor – another of the Fingers of Diablos.
"The Demon of Midgar has revealed his true colors!" the Finger roared, his voice magically amplified. "He has attacked the innocent Princess of Oriana! We, who have long fought the darkness in secret, will now stand in the light! We will strike down this monster and save this city from his evil!"
It was a brilliant, masterful stroke of reverse psychology. They weren't the villains. Saitama was the villain. And they were the heroes, stepping in to save the day.
The Reapers charged, not at Saitama, but at the Royal Guards, creating a scene of chaos and confusion. The crowd panicked, screaming, trampling each other in a desperate attempt to flee. The Goodwill Festival had become a bloodbath.
Saitama stood in his box, the smoking rapier at his feet, the accusations of an entire city raining down on him, the chaos of a battle he hadn't started erupting around him, and a half-eaten bag of fried dough balls in his hand.
He looked at the suffering princess. He looked at the panicking crowd. He looked at the "heroes" in dark robes, who were now "valiantly" fighting the King's men.
His simple, black-and-white world of good guys and bad guys had just been turned inside out. He had been framed, perfectly, expertly. He was the monster. He was the villain. And he had absolutely no idea how to punch his way out of this one.
The alchemist's gambit had failed to break him. The matron's will had failed to contain him. But this… this festival of lies… it had finally, truly, trapped him.