The Royal Delegation to the Oriana Kingdom was assembled with a speed that spoke volumes of King Olric's desperation. It was a bizarre, almost comically ill-suited group for a mission of delicate international diplomacy.
At its head was Princess Iris, her face a mask of grim determination and barely concealed anxiety. She had spent the last two days in frantic study, poring over texts on Oriana history, courtly etiquette, and diplomatic protocol. She was the official leader, the voice of Midgar, tasked with navigating a political minefield while simultaneously managing an unpredictable, apocalypse-level asset.
Beside her was Lyraelle, a silent, graceful presence. Her role was that of an "impartial advisor," a being of ancient wisdom whose very existence was meant to lend weight and gravitas to their mission. She mostly just observed, her silver eyes holding a profound, almost weary, understanding of the follies of mortals.
And then there was Saitama. The "Hammer of Truth." He had been outfitted with a new, slightly more formal, hero suit – the Royal Tailors had added some subtle gold trim to the cuffs and collar, which Saitama declared "kinda fancy, but a bit itchy." He was also carrying a large, royally-stamped satchel, which did not contain diplomatic papers, but rather an emergency supply of Lightning Broth noodles, a dozen different kinds of jam, and the stolen dessert spoon from the first banquet (which he insisted was a "good luck charm"). He had been given a single, simple directive from the King: "Try not to punch any royalty. Unless they really deserve it. And please, for the love of all the gods, let Iris do the talking."
The journey to Oriana was tense. They traveled by royal carriage, a grand, if slightly bumpy, affair, escorted by a small, elite contingent of Royal Knights who all looked like they were on a suicide mission. Saitama spent most of the journey complaining about the lack of legroom and trying to teach Lyraelle how to play rock-paper-scissors. (She was a surprisingly quick learner, though she kept referring to it as "the tri-fold gambit of stone, scroll, and shear.")
Iris, meanwhile, attempted to brief Saitama on the political situation. "Saitama, you must understand," she said, her voice tight with stress, "the Oriana court is a place of great subtlety. They speak in layers of meaning. A compliment can be a threat. A gift can be a test. You must be wary of their words."
Saitama, who was trying to see if he could balance a jam jar on his head, looked at her. "So… they're all liars?"
"Not… not liars, precisely," Iris stammered. "They are… indirect."
"Sounds like lying, but with more steps," Saitama concluded. "Seems like a waste of time. Why not just say what you mean?" He shrugged. "If they start being all… 'indirect'… can I just ask them to stop? It sounds confusing."
Iris put her head in her hands. This was going to be a disaster.
Their arrival in the Oriana Kingdom's capital, a city of soaring silver spires and intricate clockwork mechanisms, was a stark contrast to their reception in Midgar. There were no cheering crowds. No thrown flowers. Just… silence. The streets were lined with impassive, disciplined Royal Guards in gleaming silver armor, their faces hidden behind hawk-like visors. The citizens watched from windows and balconies, their expressions cold, appraising, suspicious. The air was thick with a palpable, unspoken hostility.
They were escorted to the Royal Palace, a breathtaking structure of silver and glass that seemed to hum with contained power, and were led not to a grand throne room, but to a small, starkly elegant antechamber. There, they were told to wait.
Hours passed. Servants brought them chilled water and small, flavorless biscuits, their movements silent, their faces blank. It was a deliberate, calculated insult. A power play. They were being made to wait, to feel insignificant.
Iris fumed, her hand clenching on the hilt of Anathema. Lyraelle remained serene, her eyes closed in meditation. Saitama, however, had solved the problem of boredom. He had discovered that the polished marble floor of the antechamber was perfect for sliding around in his socks. He was currently trying to see if he could slide from one end of the room to the other and stop perfectly with his nose touching the wall.
"Almost!" he muttered, after a particularly long slide that ended with him gently bumping his head. "Just gotta adjust my… launch trajectory."
It was into this scene of tense diplomatic waiting and sock-based physics experiments that the door finally opened. A man entered, not the King, but a figure Iris recognized with a jolt: the Spymaster of Oriana, a man known only as "The Weaver," the shadowy figure in midnight blue who had observed the Midgar tournament.
"Princess Iris. Lady Lyraelle," The Weaver said, his voice a smooth, silken purr, his twilight-colored eyes glinting with amusement. He inclined his head in a gesture that was almost, but not quite, a bow. His gaze then fell upon Saitama, who was preparing for another slide. "And… the Hammer of Truth. An… unsubtle title for an unsubtle being. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, officially."
"Hi," Saitama said, pausing mid-slide-preparation. "Are you the King? Or just the guy who tells us we have to wait longer?"
The Weaver chuckled. "I am merely a humble servant of the King. He is… indisposed at the moment. He has sent me to receive your… grievances." He smiled, a thin, knowing expression. "Though I must confess, the charge that our kingdom orchestrated the attack on our own princess, using a monster we apparently supplied, in a plot so convoluted it would make a court jester weep… it is, you must admit, a rather… creative piece of fiction."
"It is the truth that we have come to uncover," Iris stated, her voice cold.
"Ah, the 'truth'," The Weaver mused. "Such a wonderfully malleable concept." His eyes flickered towards Saitama again. "Tell me, Champion. What is your truth in this matter?"
Saitama shrugged. "My truth is that this waiting is really boring. And your biscuits are kinda bland. 1 out of 5 stars. Would not recommend."
The Weaver's smile widened. "A connoisseur, I see." He then turned his full attention to Saitama, his amusement replaced by a sharp, probing intensity. "They say you possess a power that defies comprehension. That you shattered a Titan. That you broke the Matriarch's will with a punch. Tell me, what does a being of such power truly want?"
It was the same question everyone asked. But coming from The Weaver, it felt different. More dangerous. A surgeon's probe, seeking a weakness to exploit.
Saitama looked him straight in the eye, his usual bored expression unwavering. "What I want?" he said simply. "Right now? I want to know where the good noodle shops are in this city. I heard the ones here are the original, authentic Lightning Broth. Is that true?"
The Weaver stared at him. For a single, fleeting moment, his perfect, sophisticated composure faltered. He had expected a demand for power, for wealth, for glory. He had prepared a dozen intricate psychological traps and verbal gambits. He had not prepared for… this. An honest, direct, and utterly mundane question about soup.
He was so momentarily thrown off balance that he answered honestly. "The… the original Lightning Broth House is in the Clockwork District. On Azure Street. It is… quite popular."
"Awesome!" Saitama beamed. "Thanks, creepy coat guy!" He then turned to Iris and Lyraelle. "Okay, mission accomplished! We found the noodle shop! Can we go now?"
Iris just stared at him, her diplomatic mission having just been spectacularly hijacked by a culinary side-quest.
The Weaver, recovering his composure with breathtaking speed, let out a soft, genuine laugh. "You are… precisely as the reports described. And yet, so much more." He shook his head. "Very well, Champion. You shall have your noodles. But first, the King has agreed to a… demonstration. A gesture of goodwill. He wishes to see this… 'truth'… you represent, in action."
"A demonstration?" Iris asked, suspicious.
"A simple one," The Weaver assured them. "Our kingdom has a… pest problem. In the old Undercity, beneath the palace, there is a nest of creatures. 'Grave Walkers.' A particularly resilient form of undead. Our Royal Exorcists have been unable to cleanse the infestation." He smiled his thin, dangerous smile. "The King proposes a simple wager. If your 'Hammer of Truth' can succeed where our finest have failed, if he can cleanse the Undercity nest… then the King will grant you a full, formal audience and will listen to your 'truth' with an open mind. And," he added, his eyes glinting, "I will personally guarantee you a lifetime supply of Lightning Broth noodles. Any flavor you desire."
Saitama's eyes went wide. A lifetime supply. The ultimate prize. And all he had to do was punch some zombies?
"It's a trap," Lyraelle whispered to Iris, her voice a low warning. "This is a test. They seek to measure him, to gauge his power in a controlled environment of their own choosing."
Iris knew she was right. But she also looked at Saitama, who was now practically vibrating with excitement, his gaze fixed on The Weaver with an intensity he usually reserved for a really good sale flyer.
"Deal!" Saitama shouted, before Iris could even begin to protest. "You've got yourself a deal, creepy coat guy! Let's go punch some zombies! Then, noodles!"
The Weaver just smiled. "Excellent. The Undercity awaits." He turned and glided out of the room, leaving behind a horrified princess, a resigned celestial being, and a very, very motivated hero.
Diplomacy for dummies and demigods had taken an unexpected turn. Phase one: stall the diplomats. Phase two: offer the demigod a bribe he couldn't possibly refuse. Phase three: lead him into a trap in the dark, monster-infested depths beneath their own city. The Oriana Kingdom's game was proving to be every bit as subtle, and as dangerous, as Iris had feared. And Saitama had just gleefully agreed to play.