The return from the Undercity was a walk of profound, echoing silence. Saitama, Iris, and Lyraelle emerged from the great iron gate into the palace sub-basement, their forms dusted with the fine, glittering sand that was all that remained of the Grave Walker hive. The Weaver and his silver-clad knights were waiting, their postures no longer ones of smug, detached observation, but of stiff, almost reverent, caution.
The Weaver, his face a mask of calculated neutrality that barely concealed the frantic recalibrations happening in his mind, inclined his head. "A… truly remarkable display of… 'cleansing,' Champion Saitama. The Undercity has not been so quiet in five hundred years. The King is… most eager to grant you your audience." His voice was still silken, but the undertone of amused superiority was gone, replaced by a note of wary, almost fearful, respect.
Saitama just dusted some crystal sand off his shoulder. "Yeah, yeah, the King. Whatever. What about the noodles? The lifetime supply? Is that still on the table? Because those sparkly zombie things were way crunchier than advertised, and I worked up an appetite."
"The… culinary arrangements… are being seen to with the utmost priority," The Weaver assured him, a muscle twitching near his eye. He then led the way, not back to the small antechamber, but up through the gleaming, clockwork heart of the Oriana Palace, towards the grand throne room itself. The guards they passed, who had previously been cold and hostile, now stared at Saitama with wide, terrified eyes, snapping to attention and practically pressing themselves into the walls to give him a wide berth. The news of what had happened in the Undercity, of the silent, glittering rain that had fallen, had clearly spread.
The Oriana Throne Room was a masterpiece of silver and light. The walls were made of polished, almost translucent, white marble, inlaid with intricate silver filigree that seemed to hum with a faint, contained energy. A massive, clockwork orrery, depicting the heavens with breathtaking precision, hung suspended from the impossibly high, domed ceiling, its gears turning with a silent, hypnotic rhythm. At the far end, on a simple but elegant silver throne, sat the King of Oriana.
He was an older man, his face gaunt but his eyes sharp and intelligent, his long white hair tied back in a severe, noble fashion. He looked less like a warrior king and more like a scholar, a philosopher, burdened by the weight of a crown he wore out of duty rather than desire. Beside his throne stood Princess Rose, now fully recovered, her expression somber and filled with a profound, quiet shame.
As Saitama's party entered, the entire Oriana court, assembled in the throne room, fell silent. They stared at the bald man in the yellow suit, the being who had casually solved a problem that had plagued their kingdom for centuries, as if he were a living god or a walking apocalypse. They weren't sure which, and were terrified to find out.
King Theron of Oriana (sharing a name with Midgar's Archmagus, a common source of scholarly confusion) rose from his throne. "Saitama of… elsewhere," he began, his voice a dry, academic tenor that held no trace of the arrogance of his diplomat, Duke Valois. "We have borne witness to your… 'demonstration.' You have done our kingdom a great service. One that we are… at a loss… as to how to properly repay."
Saitama looked at the King, then at the massive, silent throne room. "Well," he said, "a lifetime supply of noodles is a good start. And maybe some fries on the side? I could really go for some fries."
A ripple of stunned disbelief went through the Oriana court. The King, however, just sighed, a sound of profound, scholarly weariness. "Yes. The noodles. And the fries. It shall be… arranged." He then looked at Princess Iris. "Princess of Midgar. We have, it seems, much to discuss. Your… 'Hammer of Truth'… has been most… persuasive. We are now prepared to listen."
What followed was not a negotiation, but a confession. Faced with the undeniable evidence of his own knights' cowardice, the failure of his kingdom's finest exorcists, and the sheer, overwhelming, logic-breaking power of Midgar's new "diplomat," King Theron laid his cards on the table. He admitted that Oriana, like Midgar, had been infiltrated by the Cult of Diablos for years. He spoke of their whispers, their promises of power, their subtle manipulations of his court. The 'Tear of Diablos' had been gifted to Rose by a 'trusted advisor' who had, it now seemed, been a high-ranking Cult member all along. The attack had been as much a surprise to him as it had been to Midgar.
"We have been played, all of us," King Theron concluded, his voice heavy with shame. "The Cult sought to drive our two kingdoms to war, to create chaos and bloodshed from which they could profit. They used my daughter. They used your people's fear. And they almost succeeded."
Princess Rose stepped forward, bowing deeply to Iris, and then, with profound reluctance and shame, to Saitama. "I… I offer my deepest apologies," she said, her voice trembling. "I was… not strong enough to resist the artifact's influence. The things I did… the people I hurt… I will spend my life atoning for it."
Saitama just looked at her, then shrugged. "Hey, it's not your fault. You were being mind-controlled by a spooky magic rock. Happens to the best of us." He patted her gently on the shoulder. "Just try not to get possessed again, okay? It makes a big mess."
His simple, almost childish, absolution seemed to do more to soothe her guilt than any royal pardon could have. A faint, watery smile touched her lips. "I will… try, Champion Saitama."
With the truth now out in the open, the atmosphere in the throne room thawed. The shared threat of the Cult, and the shared, profound terror of Saitama's power, had forged a new, unlikely, and deeply pragmatic alliance between the two kingdoms. They agreed to share intelligence, to coordinate their efforts against the Cult, and to present a united front to the world. The Goodwill Festival, which had almost ended in disaster, had, through the most bizarre path imaginable, actually succeeded in its primary goal.
The meeting concluded with a formal state dinner. It was a far less tense affair than the one in Midgar. The Oriana nobles, now viewing Saitama with a mixture of terror and awe-struck reverence, went out of their way to be polite, offering him the best cuts of meat, laughing a little too loudly at his non-jokes, and ensuring his goblet was never empty.
Saitama, for his part, was having a great time. He was presented with a legally binding, magically sealed scroll, signed by the King himself, granting him an official "Lifetime Platinum Noodle Stipend," redeemable at any Lightning Broth House in the Oriana Kingdom. He held the scroll with a reverence he had not even shown to Anathema. It was, he declared, "the best piece of paper ever." He also got his fries. They were, he noted, "a little soggy, but the salt level was good. 4 out of 5 stars."
As the dinner wound down, The Weaver approached Saitama's small, informal group. "Champion Saitama," he said, his silken voice now holding a genuine, if still slightly unnerving, warmth. "Your… methods… are unconventional. But effective." He paused, his twilight eyes seeming to see more than they should. "The world is a complex place. Filled with shadows, with lies, with plots that have plots. It is rare to find a force that can simply… cut through it all. Like a hot knife through butter."
"Yeah, well," Saitama said, munching on a final, slightly soggy fry, "all that sneaky stuff just seems like a lot of work. It's way easier to just punch the main bad guy. Saves time."
The Weaver just smiled. "A profound philosophy. Perhaps one we could all learn from." He then turned to Lyraelle. "Lady of the Echo. Your re-awakening has changed the board. The True Enemy you speak of… the Cult's 'Master'… he will not remain idle, now that his pawns in both our kingdoms are being exposed."
"He will strike again," Lyraelle agreed, her voice a soft, solemn hum. "His patterns are ancient. Deception, followed by overwhelming force. He has tried to break us with whispers. Soon, I fear, he will try to break us with a hammer."
The words cast a momentary chill over the otherwise peaceful atmosphere. The immediate crisis was resolved. A new alliance was forged. But the true war, the one against the ancient shadow that had orchestrated all this, was still to come.
Saitama, however, just yawned. "More bad guys? Okay. Just tell me when and where. But maybe let me finish my dessert first? I heard you guys have some kinda clockwork-powered ice cream machine. I really wanna see that."
The Weaver just shook his head, a genuine, almost fond, smile on his face. The Hammer of Truth. The Fist of Peace. The Champion of Noodles. Midgar's secret weapon, and Oriana's new, terrifying, and deeply confusing ally. Whatever came next, one thing was certain: it would not be boring. And it would almost certainly, at some point, involve a discussion about the appropriate toppings for a victory sundae. The world had its champion. It just had to learn to live with his priorities.