The Undercity of Oriana was a chilling testament to the kingdom's layered, often ruthless, history. It was the buried corpse of the old capital, a sprawling, labyrinthine network of forgotten streets, crumbling plazas, and sealed crypts, all lying in perpetual darkness beneath the gleaming, clockwork precision of the modern city. The air was stale, thick with the dust of centuries and the cold, damp smell of stone and decay. It was a place of ghosts, of forgotten secrets, and, as The Weaver had so casually mentioned, of pests.
The "Grave Walkers" were not ordinary zombies. They were a unique, horrifying creation of Oriana's less scrupulous alchemical past. They were corpses reanimated not by simple necromancy, but by a parasitic, crystalline fungus. The fungus would infest a host, preserving the body in a state of undeath, puppetting its limbs, and, most terrifyingly, encasing its flesh in a semi-translucent, diamond-hard crystalline shell that was highly resistant to physical damage and completely immune to conventional magic. Worse, the fungus was a hive mind; every Walker was a node in a single, malevolent consciousness, allowing them to coordinate their attacks with a chilling, silent efficiency. They were, as The Weaver had described, a particularly resilient infestation.
Saitama, however, was not concerned with the finer points of their arcane biology. He was just excited to finally be doing something other than waiting or talking. He practically bounced on the balls of his feet as he, Iris, and Lyraelle were led by The Weaver and a contingent of silent, silver-armored Oriana Knights to a massive, sealed iron gate in the deepest sub-basement of the Royal Palace.
"This is the primary entrance to the Undercity," The Weaver explained, his voice a smooth purr that did not seem to belong in the dusty, torchlit gloom. "The nest is concentrated in what was once the Old Cathedral Plaza, a few hundred yards from this point. The objective is simple, Champion: cleanse the plaza. Eradicate the core nest. Succeed, and the King's audience, and your noodles, are yours." He gestured, and two knights began to turn a massive iron winch, the great gate groaning open.
A wave of cold, stagnant air, smelling of ancient death and damp stone, washed over them.
"Cool," Saitama said, peering into the inky blackness. "Smells kinda musty. Like my old closet." He then looked at Iris and Lyraelle. "You guys wanna come? Or just wait here? It's probably gonna be pretty dusty. And maybe a little slimy."
"We will accompany you," Iris stated, her hand on Anathema, her expression a mixture of determination and apprehension. "This is our diplomatic mission as well."
"And where the catalyst goes," Lyraelle added softly, her silver eyes scanning the darkness, "the consequences tend to follow. It is… prudent to observe."
The Weaver just smiled, a thin, amused expression. "Excellent. The more witnesses to your… 'truth,' the better." He and his knights remained by the gate, making no move to enter. "We shall await your triumphant return. Do try not to be… eaten."
With a final, confident nod, Saitama strode into the darkness, Iris and Lyraelle following closely behind him. The great iron gate groaned shut behind them, the sound echoing in the oppressive silence, leaving them alone in the dead heart of the old city.
The only light came from a faint, silvery glow that Lyraelle emanated, and the quiet, almost shy, golden hum of Anathema on Iris's back. They moved through the silent, buried streets, their footsteps echoing off the crumbling facades of ancient buildings. Carved gargoyles, their faces worn smooth by time, stared down at them with empty eyes.
"So," Saitama whispered, his voice loud in the stillness, "where are all the zombies? I was promised zombies."
As if on cue, they began to emerge. From dark alleyways, from shattered doorways, from the very cracks in the cobblestones, they pulled themselves up. Dozens of them. They were humanoid in shape, their bodies encased in the shimmering, diamond-hard crystalline fungus, their movements jerky, unnatural. They had no eyes, their faces just smooth, crystalline planes, but they all turned in unison, sensing the warmth, the life, the intrusion. The hive mind had taken notice.
"Stay back," Iris commanded, drawing Anathema. The blade's holy light flared, casting the approaching horde in a stark, golden glow. "Their shells are incredibly durable!"
The Grave Walkers began to advance, a slow, inexorable, silent tide of crystal and bone.
Saitama just looked at them. "Huh. They're all sparkly. Kinda like those wolves back on the mountain." He watched as Iris engaged the first Walker, her blade striking its crystalline shell with a loud CLANG. The shell held, barely scratched, though the holy energy of the sword seemed to cause the creature to recoil slightly.
"See? Tough," Saitama commented. "This is gonna be fun!"
He moved forward, wading into the horde. A Grave Walker swung a crystal-encased arm at him, a blow that could shatter stone. Saitama didn't even bother to block. He just… punched it. A single, "Normal Punch," aimed at the center of its chest.
KRA-KOW!
The sound was like a thunderclap and a thousand shattering chandeliers all at once. The Grave Walker's "indestructible" crystalline shell, along with the corpse within, did not just break; it exploded. It detonated in a cloud of fine, glittering crystal dust and desiccated bone fragments. The sheer force of the punch continued, a concussive wave that struck the three Walkers directly behind it, causing them to shatter as well.
Four down. One punch.
Saitama looked at his fist, then at the glittering dust settling around him. "Oh," he said, a familiar, sinking feeling of disappointment dawning on him. "They're… crunchy."
The remaining Grave Walkers, guided by the cold, emotionless logic of their hive mind, did not falter. They simply adjusted their tactics. They began to swarm him, not to strike, but to grab, to overwhelm, to immobilize him with their collective weight and strength.
"Hey! No piling on!" Saitama grunted as a dozen of the crystal zombies latched onto his arms and legs, their diamond-hard fingers scraping uselessly against his suit.
"This is annoying," he declared. He then flexed, just as he had with the Soul-Leeches.
The result was, once again, catastrophic for his opponents. The dozen Grave Walkers clinging to him instantly exploded outwards, their crystalline forms detonating like grenades, showering the area in a storm of glittering, razor-sharp shrapnel.
Iris and Lyraelle, who had been fighting their own desperate battle against the encroaching horde, were shielded from the shrapnel storm by Lyraelle's shimmering silver aura. They stared as Saitama, now free, stood in the center of a newly cleared circle, looking slightly put out.
"Man, these guys are really fragile," he complained. "They look tough, but then they just… pop. It's false advertising."
The entire horde, hundreds of them now filling the buried plaza, seemed to pause. The hive mind, a thing of cold, parasitic logic, was processing the new data. Direct assault: failure. Overwhelm tactic: failure. The intruder… was an anomaly that defied all known combat parameters. A new directive was issued through its silent, psychic network.
The Grave Walkers began to… merge.
They flowed towards the center of the plaza, their crystalline bodies dissolving, melding, reforming into a new, single, colossal entity. It was a giant, vaguely humanoid shape, easily fifty feet tall, composed entirely of the shimmering, diamond-hard crystal, its form constantly shifting, reforming, smaller Walkers being absorbed into its mass. A single, massive, baleful red eye, the size of a carriage wheel, formed in its chest, the collective consciousness of the entire nest focused into a single point. It was the hive mind's ultimate defense: a Giga-Walker.
The Giga-Walker raised a colossal, crystalline arm, preparing to bring it down and crush the entire area, Saitama included.
Iris and Lyraelle stared up at the towering monstrosity in horror.
Saitama, however, just looked at it and sighed. "Oh, come on. Another 'get bigger' trick? Is that, like, the only move you bad guys have? It's so unoriginal." He shook his head in profound disappointment.
He didn't even bother with a "Serious Punch." He didn't need to be serious. He was just… annoyed.
He leaped. A single, effortless bound that carried him fifty feet into the air, to the level of the creature's massive, glowing red eye.
He cocked his fist back.
"Okay, big guy," he said, as he hung suspended in the air for a moment. "Here's a new move for you."
He then delivered a single, sharp, focused punch directly into the center of the giant red eye.
He called it: "Consecutive Normal… Flick."
Wait, no, that wasn't right. He wasn't flicking. He was punching. He always got the names mixed up when he was bored.
"Whatever," he muttered. "Just… Normal Punch."
TINK.
The sound was, once again, impossibly small. It was the same sound Seraphina's sword had made against his wrist. The sound of an unstoppable force meeting an… even more unstoppable fist.
His knuckle connected with the core of the hive mind's consciousness. The giant red eye did not shatter. It did not explode. Instead, a single, tiny, perfect, spiderwebbing crack appeared at the point of impact.
The crack spread. Silently. Instantly. Across the entire fifty-foot form of the Giga-Walker. In a fraction of a second, its entire, colossal, diamond-hard body was covered in a network of trillions of microscopic fractures.
Then, with a sound like a mountain of sugar glass collapsing, the Giga-Walker… disintegrated. It didn't explode. It didn't fall. It just… crumbled. It dissolved into a silent, glittering, harmless waterfall of fine crystal sand, which then rained down upon the ancient plaza, covering the cobblestones in a beautiful, shimmering layer of dust.
The nest was cleansed. The hive mind was extinguished. The unkillable pests were, in every sense of the word, unmade.
Saitama landed softly in the center of the now-sparkling plaza, a fine dust of crystal sand settling on his shoulders. He looked around. "There," he said. "All clean." He then looked towards the gate, a determined expression on his face. "Okay. Now for those noodles."
Back at the entrance, The Weaver and his knights, who had been observing the entire battle through a sophisticated scrying device, were utterly silent. The Weaver stared at the screen, which now showed a perfectly clean, glittering plaza and a bald man walking purposefully towards the exit.
"His… his 'Normal Punch'…" The Weaver whispered, his voice, for the first time, laced with something that sounded almost like fear. "The data from the Regenerator… it was wrong. Incomplete. That was not the same level of force. He… he holds back. To an absurd, almost insulting, degree. The punch he used on the Regenerator was a tap. That… that was perhaps… a nudge."
He looked at his knights, their silver armor seeming to offer very little protection in that moment. "The King of Midgar did not send us a diplomat," The Weaver said, a new, chilling understanding dawning on him. "He did not send us a weapon. He sent us… a message. A very, very clear message."
He straightened up, his usual smug confidence replaced by a cold, pragmatic urgency. "Prepare the King's audience chamber," he commanded. "And tell the Royal Chef to prepare… everything. The 'Hammer of Truth' has completed his demonstration. And I suspect… he will be very hungry." The game of wits and subtle traps was over. It was time for a new game: the game of "give the reality-breaking demigod whatever he wants and pray he doesn't get bored again."