The combined armies of Midgar and Oriana were a magnificent, terrifying sight. Tens of thousands of soldiers, a river of polished steel and fluttering banners, flowed across the northern plains, their destination the distant, jagged silhouette of the Crown of the Heavens. The ground trembled under the weight of their march, the air filled with the rhythmic tramp of armored boots, the jingle of harnesses, and the low, grim hum of an army on the move. It was the largest military force assembled on the continent in a generation, a testament to the gravity of the threat they faced.
At the head of this vast host rode the vanguard, an elite force composed of the finest warriors from both kingdoms. Princess Iris, her silver armor gleaming, Anathema strapped to her back, rode with a stoic, focused determination, the weight of command settling upon her young shoulders. Lyraelle rode beside her, a serene, silver-haired specter, her ancient eyes scanning the horizon, sensing the growing darkness that awaited them. Knight-Commander Kristoph and his lieutenants flanked them, their faces grim, their movements a study in disciplined readiness.
And in the middle of this elite, high-stakes vanguard, walking with a slightly bored, shuffling gait, was Saitama.
He had been offered a horse. He had been offered a place in the King's own royal war-carriage. He had refused both. "Walking's fine," he had insisted. "The pace is a little slow, but it gives me time to think. Mostly about what's for lunch."
He had become a strange, walking paradox at the heart of the army. The common soldiers looked at him with a mixture of awe, terror, and profound confusion. They had all heard the stories: the Titan-Slayer, the Hero of Veridia, the Champion who won with a pat and a yawn. Some saw him as a divine guardian, a guarantor of their victory. Others saw him as an unpredictable force of nature, as dangerous to them as to the enemy. Most just tried not to make eye contact, lest he ask them a question about condiments they couldn't answer.
His presence had a peculiar effect on morale. On the one hand, knowing they had a being of such power on their side was undeniably comforting. On the other hand, it made their own roles, their own heroic sacrifices, feel somewhat… redundant. Why spend years mastering the blade when one man could end the war by flicking a pebble? It was a question many of the knights were quietly, grimly, asking themselves.
"So," Saitama said, breaking the solemn silence of the vanguard's march, addressing a deeply stressed-looking Sir Kaelan who was forced to walk beside him. "This 'Crown of the Heavens' place. Is it, like, a big crown? Made of heavens? Because that sounds kinda itchy. And hard to wear."
"It is a… metaphorical name, Mister Saitama," Kaelan explained, for what felt like the hundredth time. "It refers to the mountain's shape, and its ancient connection to celestial events."
"Oh," Saitama said, disappointed. "So, no actual crown. Bummer." He kicked a loose stone. "And you're sure there are no snacks up there? Not even, like, a trail mix vendor?"
"I… believe it is highly unlikely, sir," Kaelan sighed.
As they drew closer to the mountain, the landscape grew twisted, corrupted. The grass turned a sickly grey, the trees became gnarled, leafless claws reaching for the sky. The air grew cold, carrying the metallic tang of shed blood and the corrupting sweetness of dark magic. They began to encounter patrols of Cultist Reapers and their demonic beasts.
These were not the confused, disorganized rabble from the monastery. This was the Cult's main host, prepared for war. They fought with a savage, fanatical ferocity.
The vanguard engaged them in a series of brutal, bloody skirmishes. Iris was a whirlwind of silver light, Anathema singing in her hands as she cut down dark-robed sorcerers. Kristoph and his knights formed an unbreakable shield wall, holding the line against charging, monstrous beasts. Lyraelle moved like a ghost through the battle, her touch bringing a quiet, silver-fire death to any demon that came near, her presence a calming, strengthening aura for her allies.
Saitama, for the most part, just watched. He had been given strict orders by a very stern-looking Princess Iris: "Do not engage unless absolutely necessary! Do not use… excessive force! Let the army do its job! You are the final resort!"
He had grumbled, but agreed. It seemed like a lot of unnecessary work for everyone else, but he had promised to be a "team player." So, he stood on the sidelines, his arms crossed, offering helpful commentary.
"Ooh, that was a close one! He should have zigged when he zagged!"
"Hey, that monster has, like, eight legs! That's at least two too many!"
"You guys are doing great! Keep up the good work! Don't forget to hydrate!"
His presence, even as a non-combatant, had a bizarre effect. The Cultists, who had been briefed on the 'Tempest,' would often freeze in terror the moment they saw him, their attacks faltering, leaving them open to a finishing blow from a Midgarian knight. The morale of the allied army, on the other hand, soared. Fighting a horde of demons was a lot less scary when you knew that the guy who could punch mountains was standing right behind you, critiquing your footwork.
Finally, after days of grueling travel and constant skirmishes, they reached the base of the Crown of the Heavens. It was a single, colossal mountain, its peak a jagged circlet of black rock that stabbed at the bruised, perpetually stormy sky. The entire mountain pulsed with a palpable, sickening dark energy, a beacon of raw, chaotic power. A fortress had been carved into its slopes, a dark citadel from which the Cult's main army was now pouring forth to meet them on the field of battle.
The final battle had begun.
The two armies crashed together on the blighted plains before the mountain with a sound like a tidal wave of steel and thunder. It was a scene of epic, brutal carnage. Knights and demons clashed, their blades and claws ringing. Mages on both sides unleashed storms of fire and shadow, the very air crackling with raw, untamed magic.
Saitama stood on a small hill with Iris, Lyraelle, and the command staff, watching the vast, chaotic battle unfold below. "Wow," he said, a note of genuine awe in his voice. "That's a lot of people fighting. Looks like one of those big historical movies. Hope they have a good catering budget for all the extras."
Iris gripped his arm, her knuckles white. "This is not a movie, Saitama! This is real! People are dying!"
Saitama looked at her, then back at the battle. He saw a knight fall, his armor pierced by a demon's tusk. He saw a cultist consumed by a blast of holy fire from a Midgarian mage. He saw the chaos, the pain, the struggle. And he felt… that familiar, frustrating disconnect.
He could end this. Right now. One "Serious Punch" aimed at the dark fortress on the mountain, and the entire Cult army, their leaders, their ritual, would be gone. The war would be over. No one else would have to die. But he had been told not to. He had been told that his power was too great, too uncontrollable, that it might trigger the very cataclysm they were trying to stop.
He clenched his fists. This… this was the "responsibility" Lyraelle had spoken of. This was the true weight of his power. Not the effort of the punch, but the unbearable burden of not punching. Of having to stand by and watch people struggle, suffer, and die in a fight that he could end in a single second.
It was, he realized with a sinking feeling, the most profoundly, painfully boring thing he had ever been forced to do.
Meanwhile, beneath the Royal Palace…
The grand, heroic, and entirely pointless battle raging at the Crown of the Heavens was the perfect diversion. While the armies of the world clashed, while the Tempest stood on his hill, a constrained god, the true game was unfolding in the silent darkness beneath a sleeping city.
Shadow, accompanied by Alpha, Delta, and Gamma, moved through the deepest, most ancient catacombs beneath the palace. These were tunnels that predated the kingdom itself, sealed and forgotten, their existence known only to a select few – and to the Cult of Diablos.
"The energy readings are spiking, Lord Shadow," Gamma reported, her eyes fixed on a sophisticated arcane scanner. "The Cult's ritual at the mountain, even in its early stages, is causing a sympathetic resonance here. The final seal is weakening."
They arrived in a vast, circular chamber, almost identical in layout to the Sunken Temple. In the center, however, was not a sarcophagus, but a shimmering, pulsating sphere of pure, contained darkness, held in place by a series of massive, ancient, and now visibly cracking, golden chains of light.
"The Core of the Abyss," Alpha breathed, her eyes wide. "The source of the demon Diablos's power, sealed away by the First Hero."
And waiting for them, standing before the pulsating Core, were the true leaders of the Cult. The porcelain-skinned woman. The vortex of shadow. The being of bone and metal. And at their head, the cowled figure whose quiet voice commanded them all.
"So," the cowled leader said, their voice echoing in the vast chamber, their gaze fixing on Shadow. "The little rat has found its way to the larder. You have been a persistent annoyance, 'Shadow'."
Shadow just chuckled, a low, confident sound. He drew his ebony blade. "Annoyance? I believe the term you're looking for is 'protagonist'." He looked at the cracking seals. "It seems your grand plan is reaching its climax. A pity I'll have to bring the curtain down early."
The cowled leader let out a dry, humorless laugh. "You think you can stop us? You and your… girls?" He gestured, and the other three Fingers of Diablos moved to flank him, their own immense, dark powers flaring to life. "The resonance from the battle above will shatter the seal in moments! The power of Diablos will be unleashed, and our Master will finally have the key he needs to remake this world!"
Delta growled, her claws extending. "Less talking, more shredding!" she snarled.
Alpha and Gamma took up positions beside Shadow, their own blades gleaming, ready for the final confrontation.
"You speak of keys and masters," Shadow said, his voice a low, cool murmur, his own purple aura beginning to coalesce around him. "You are so focused on unlocking one cage, you have failed to realize you are already in another."
He raised his sword. "Let the real performance… begin."
The two ultimate shadow powers, the hidden manipulators who had vied for control of the world's destiny, were finally about to clash in the darkness, far from the eyes of the world, while the world's most powerful hero stood on a distant hill, bored out of his mind, completely unaware that the real final battle was happening right underneath his own bedroom.