The Bifrost Bridge. Gateway to the Divine Palace.
The bridge is made of solid light. It stretches across the void of the galaxy, connecting the tournament grounds to the residential districts of the high gods. Usually, it is a spectacle of rainbow elegance.
Today, it is a kill box.
"Master," Genos says, scanning the horizon. His green Asgardian eye spins rapidly. "I count five thousand distinct energy signatures blocking the path. They are composed of reanimated sand and necrotic magic."
Saitama squints.
In front of them, blocking the bridge, is an army. Not the beautiful valkyries or the golden guards. This is the dark army of the underworld. Jackal-headed warriors, mummified giants, and beasts made of shadow.
Leading them stands a figure radiating cold, professional death. A jackal mask. Gold ornaments on bare, grey skin. A staff that weighs souls.
Anubis. Lord of the Necropolis.
Beside him stands a massive warrior clad in crimson armor, holding a halberd the size of a steeple.
Bishamonten. God of Fortune in War.
"We cannot let you pass," Bishamonten booms. His voice carries the weight of inevitable military defeat. "To allow such chaos into the inner sanctum is to invite the end of Dharma."
Anubis does not shout. He tilts his head. The jackal mask stares vacantly.
"Life is an error," Anubis whispers. "And I am the correction."
Saitama stops chewing the last pretzel rod.
He looks at the army. It stretches for miles.
"Genos," Saitama says. "They're blocking the VIP lounge. That means they're guarding the good food. Logic dictates the best steaks are behind them."
"Your deduction is flawless, Master." Genos steps forward. The plates on his back shift. The Asgardian gold he assimilated hums with green mana. "I will clear the path. Do not trouble yourself with pest control."
Combat Phase.
"Attacking a god?" Bishamonten scoffs. "You are merely a collection of mortal scrap."
He swings his halberd. The weapon creates a shockwave of luck-altering magic. The "Fortune of War" dictates that projectiles will miss him. Swords will break against his skin. Destiny favors him.
Genos does not use projectiles. He does not use swords.
"Machine Gun Blow," Genos announces. "Odin-Pattern Variation."
He thrusts his arms.
Green lightning erupts from his ports. His fists move fast enough to ignite the oxygen on the bridge. But instead of standard impacts, every punch releases a blast of localized disintegration magic—a mimicry of Odin's Gungnir energy he scanned earlier.
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!
Thousands of green beams sweep the bridge.
The army of the dead evaporates. There is no resistance. Sand turns to glass. Shadows are bleached out of existence by the divine light.
Bishamonten's luck tries to deflect the blows.
Fortune Failure.
Physics outweighs luck.
A hundred laser-infused punches hit the God of War in the chest.
"Implausible!" Bishamonten gasps as his divine armor shatters like porcelain. He flies backward, tumbling off the side of the rainbow bridge and into the galactic void below.
The army is gone. In three seconds.
Genos stands amidst the smoke, vents hissing steam.
"Path cleared at 40% efficiency. Energy reserves stable."
Saitama nods appreciatively. "Nice light show, Genos. You looked like a disco ball."
"Thank you, Master! I will strive to be a more efficient disco ball!"
The Judge.
Saitama walks forward.
Anubis remains. He stands alone on the scorched bridge. He hasn't moved. The chaos didn't startle him. He deals with the dead every day; silence is his friend.
"The machine has a heavy soul," Anubis says, voice scratching like sand on bone. "Burdened by vengeance. But you..."
The Death God points his staff at Saitama.
"...I cannot read you. Are you alive? Are you dead?"
Saitama stops. "I'm hungry. Can we do this later? I feel like my stomach is eating itself."
Anubis taps the staff. The world turns grey. The colors of the rainbow bridge rot away, replaced by the dun hues of the Duat—the Egyptian underworld.
A massive set of scales manifests behind Anubis. They are made of cosmic ivory, large enough to weigh mountains.
Technique: Weighing of the Heart.
"This is the end," Anubis states calmly. "It does not matter how strong your body is. If your heart is heavier than the Feather of Truth, Ammit will devour your existence. It ignores durability. It ignores strength. It attacks the concept of 'You'."
Saitama blinks. "Weighing my heart? Is this a medical checkup? My doctor says my blood pressure is fine."
"Silence." Anubis commands.
A spectral hand reaches into Saitama's chest. It phases through the suit, through the ribs.
Saitama looks down. "Hey! That tickles! Stop touching me there!"
The spectral hand pulls out a glowing orb. It isn't red. It's... beige. A dull, listless color.
It is the manifestation of Saitama's soul.
Anubis places it on the left scale.
He places the Feather of Truth on the right scale.
"Prepare for erasure," Anubis intones. "No mortal carries a heart light enough to—"
The scales drop.
CLANG.
But not the side Anubis expected.
The Feather of Truth side slams down.
Saitama's soul side rockets up. It hits the top of the measurement mechanism with a metallic clack.
Anubis freezes behind his mask.
"What?"
He looks at the feather. He looks at the soul orb.
"Light? It is... lighter than the feather? Lighter than truth? Lighter than nothing?"
"It floats!" Saitama points. "See? I told you I've been losing weight. Just cabbage soup for a week does wonders."
Anubis trembles. "This isn't weight loss. This is... spiritual hollowness. There is no ambition. No hatred. No ego. No desire. No grand purpose. It is... empty."
The scale begins to crack. It wasn't designed to measure absolute zero.
CRACK.
The cosmic ivory splinters. The concept of "Judgment" suffers a logical error.
"You possess infinite power," Anubis whispers, backing away. "Yet your soul weighs less than dust. You are an affront to purpose."
"It's not empty," Saitama corrects him, looking offended. "There's a lot of stuff in there. Like remembering to separate recyclables. And cat videos."
The Beast Arrives.
The spell shatters.
But Anubis is desperate. The calm Judge breaks.
"If I cannot weigh it... I WILL EAT IT!"
He slams his hands together.
The shadow beneath him boils.
Ammit. The Devourer of Souls.
A monstrosity rises—part crocodile, part lion, part hippo. It is the size of a battleship. It exists partially in the spirit realm, capable of biting ghosts.
"Eat him!" Anubis screams.
Ammit lunges. Jaws open wide enough to swallow the bridge.
Saitama stands there. He is looking at Buddha, who is picking his teeth.
"Hey, Buddha. Is that crocodile considered an endangered species? I don't want to get fined."
Buddha shrugs. "It's a spirit construct. Technicality. No fine."
"Cool."
Ammit's jaws snap shut on Saitama.
Darkness.
The beast swallows him whole.
Anubis sighs, relieved. "It is done. Inside the stomach of Ammit, there is no escape. The soul is digest—"
BOOM.
Ammit's stomach explodes.
Not a gore explosion. A punch explosion.
The spirit beast vaporizes into purple mist instantly.
Saitama stands in the center of the mist, shaking slime off his cape.
"Ew," Saitama grimaces. "Ghost saliva is even worse than normal saliva. It's cold."
Anubis drops his staff. He falls to his knees. The scales are broken. The beast is dead. His judgment means nothing.
"I am death..." Anubis whimpers. "I am the end..."
Saitama walks up to him.
"You're not death," Saitama says. He pokes the god's jackal snout.
"You're a guy in a fursuit blocking the cafeteria."
Saitama walks past him.
Genos follows. "I believe that classifies as a 'Fursona', Master. I can look up therapy groups for him."
"Don't bother, Genos. He seems the type to brood."
The VIP Lounge Door.
They finally reach it.
Massive double doors made of pearl and gold.
"ENTRANCE FOR SUPREME DEITIES ONLY" the sign says.
Saitama pushes the doors.
They are locked.
"Of course," Saitama sighs.
He knocks.
Knock-knock.
"Hello? Room service? Hero Association?"
No answer.
Saitama pulls his arm back.
"Normal Knock."
He punches the door.
The door explodes inward. Not just the door—the archway, the foyer, and the reception desk behind it.
Inside.
The room is dim, lit by floating candles. It smells of incense and fear.
Sitting at a round table are the last standing heavy hitters. The plotting committee.
Odin.
Loki.
Hermes.
Ares.
And standing in the shadows... a man in a tuxedo with a monocle, looking entirely too amused. Jack the Ripper.
The gods freeze as debris slides across the marble floor to their feet.
Saitama steps through the smoke, wiping slime off his yellow suit.
He looks at the spread on the table.
Divine nectar. Golden ambrosia. Fruits of immortality.
But in the center?
A platter.
On the platter sits a massive, steaming, perfectly seared...
Dragon Steak.
Saitama's eyes widen. His pupils dilate. The world focuses to a single point.
The aroma wafts toward him. Savory. Smoky. High-grade protein.
"Is that..." Saitama's voice trembles with emotion. "...lunch?"
Odin stands slowly. His eye is wide.
He doesn't look at Saitama. He looks behind Saitama.
Through the broken door. Through the shattered bridge. Out into the void.
"You fool," Odin whispers. "You broke the Seal of Ammit. You broke the vibrations of Tartarus."
The room begins to shake.
Not from a punch.
From beneath.
The Awakening.
The floor of the VIP lounge bulges. The marble cracks.
Magma bleeds through the fissures.
A voice, ancient as the crust of the planet, rumbles from everywhere.
"WHO WALKS SO HEAVILY UPON MY BACK?"
A massive hand—made of stone, soil, and tectonic plates—bursts through the floor, flipping the table.
The Dragon Steak flies into the air.
Saitama watches the steak fly.
"My steak," he whispers.
The hand crushes the steak.
Saitama stops.
The color drains from the world.
The comedy drains from the scene.
Genos takes a step back. "Warning. Master's mood: Catastrophic."
From the earth, Gaia rises. A titan larger than a mountain, forming from the very matter of Valhalla. She screams, a sound of earthquakes and volcanos.
"I AM THE MOTHER OF TITANS! I AM THE EARTH! BEGONE, FLEA!"
She raises a fist the size of a city. She brings it down to crush the lounge, the gods, and the bald man.
Saitama does not look at the Titan.
He looks at the smear of grease on the floor that used to be his lunch.
He slowly tilts his head up.
The shadows over his eyes darken. The outlines of his face sharpen. The art style shifts from 'webcomic gag' to 'visceral horror'.
"You stepped on it," Saitama says.
He clenches his right fist.
It isn't a normal grip. It creates a vacuum that sucks the air out of the room.
The gods at the table—Odin, Ares, Loki—huddle together. For the first time, they aren't worried about the Titan attacking them.
They are terrified of the man standing in front of them.
"Serious Series," Saitama breathes.
The air pressure drops to zero.
"Serious Punch."
He throws the fist upward.
It connects with Gaia's city-sized hand.
There is no resistance.
The hand obliterates.
The arm obliterates.
The shockwave travels up the Titan's body, vaporizing stone, magma, and ancient magic.
The force exits the atmosphere.
It creates a hole in the sky that reveals not stars, but the raw white void of the paper the story is written on.
Gaia doesn't scream. She ceases to be.
But the punch doesn't stop.
It continues upward.
It hits the concept of the dimension itself.
The "Roof" of Valhalla peels back like the lid of a sardine can.
Sunlight from a dozen different universes pours in.
Saitama lowers his hand. Smoke rises from his entire body.
He looks at the grease spot on the floor.
"Genos," Saitama says. Voice flat. Dead. "We're going to the human world. These gods have terrible table manners."
Genos bows low, ignoring the apocalypse occurring around them. "Yes, Master. I will research local buffet options in Tokyo immediately."
Odin stares at the hole in the sky.
Hermes is writing furiously in his notebook: 'Subject: Baldy. Power Level: No.'
Jack the Ripper takes a sip of his tea, though the cup is rattling in his hand.
"Well," Jack smiles. "That was... rude."
Cliffhanger.
Through the hole Saitama punched in the dimensional roof, something descends.
A singular drop of black ink.
It lands on the floor of the VIP lounge.
It expands. It takes shape.
From the ink rises a man. He wears a suit. He has no face. Just a smooth surface reflecting the cosmos.
The Author (Manifestation).
He looks at Saitama.
Saitama looks at him.
"You tore my page," the faceless man says.
Saitama picks his ear. "Fix it then. You have insurance, right?"