The roar that echoed through the Dragon's Tooth Peaks was not the howl of a monstrous beast, nor the shriek of a tortured soul. It was the sound of pure, unadulterated, capsaicin-fueled agony, a bellow of such monumental, world-shaking intensity that it made the very mountains tremble. It was, unmistakably, Saitama. And he was having a very, very bad reaction to Genos's prototype Shadowfire Demon-Pepper Relish.
Shadow, Alpha, Beta, and Epsilon, poised on the precipice of their daring infiltration of Castle Maleficus, froze. The meticulously crafted tension, the thrilling anticipation of a shadowy confrontation with Crimson Count Valerius, all evaporated in an instant, replaced by a familiar, sinking feeling of impending, Saitama-induced chaos.
"Kinetic energy release… through uncontrolled locomotion… and extreme vocalizations?" Shadow repeated Genos's panicked report, his voice dangerously calm. He pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his hood, a gesture that was becoming his go-to stress response. My life is a series of increasingly absurd footnotes in the biography of a man whose greatest battles are fought against his own digestive system.
"Lord Shadow," Alpha said, her usual composure strained, "Saitama-sama's… distress… will undoubtedly alert Valerius and his entire legion to our presence. Our infiltration is compromised before it has even begun."
Beta, ever the pragmatist, was already calculating. "The decibel level of Sensei's vocalizations, combined with the seismic activity generated by his… 'uncontrolled locomotion'… is likely to be detectable for a radius of at least twenty klicks. Castle Maleficus is well within that radius. Probability of maintaining stealth: 0.0001%."
"Perhaps," Epsilon ventured, a hint of desperate hope in her voice, "Valerius will mistake it for… a particularly violent volcanic eruption? Or a mating call of some colossal, hitherto undiscovered, and very loud, mountain beast?"
Shadow just sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of all the shattered narratives in the multiverse. "No, Epsilon. Knowing our luck, Valerius will likely assume it is a new, avant-garde form of siege weaponry and commend its… innovative acoustic properties… before sending his entire army to investigate."
He was, unfortunately, not far off the mark.
Deep within the gothic, shadow-drenched halls of Castle Maleficus, Crimson Count Valerius, an ancient vampire lord of immense power and even greater arrogance, was enjoying a goblet of freshly squeezed… vintage (the vintage being a particularly unfortunate knight-errant from the previous century). He was reclining on a throne carved from obsidian and bone, listening to the tortured screams of his latest "guest" echoing from the dungeons below – a delightful symphony to his ears.
Suddenly, the castle itself began to tremble. The goblet in Valerius's hand rattled, sloshing precious crimson onto his velvet robes. The screams from the dungeon were abruptly drowned out by a roar so primal, so earth-shatteringly loud, that it made his ancient, undead heart skip a beat (or at least, quiver slightly in its desiccated cavity).
"What… in the blighted realms… was that?" Valerius hissed, his crimson eyes narrowing. He rose from his throne, his movements surprisingly swift for one so ancient. "Is it an earthquake? A dragon? Has that oafish Stonefist Clan from the Northern Wastes finally decided to test my patience with their primitive siege engines?"
A terrified-looking vampire valet, clad in immaculate, if slightly bloodstained, livery, scurried into the throne room, his face pale even for a creature of the night. "My Lord Valerius! The… the mountains… they are… shouting!"
"Shouting?" Valerius repeated, his lip curling in a sneer. "Don't be absurd, Gregor. Mountains do not shout. Unless…" A thought, dark and intriguing, began to form in his ancient mind. "Unless it is some new form of arcane assault? A sonic weapon of unprecedented power? Intriguing! Perhaps these meddlesome mortals have finally developed something… interesting."
He swept towards a high, arched window that overlooked the mist-choked valley of Umbraglen. And then he saw it. Or rather, he felt it. A series of localized, high-velocity impacts, like miniature meteor strikes, were occurring in the valley below, accompanied by flashes of light (which Valerius initially mistook for arcane explosions, but were actually Genos frantically trying to douse Saitama with every fire-retardant chemical in his arsenal) and another series of roars that seemed to be punctuated by phrases like "MY MOUTH IS A VOLCANO!" and "GENOS, I THINK I CAN TASTE COLORS!"
"Fascinating," Valerius mused, a predatory smile spreading across his pale features. "A chaotic, unpredictable energy signature. Not the work of the Cult, nor any magical discipline I recognize. Perhaps… perhaps these 'Night Blades' the Master has deployed are more… exuberant… than I anticipated." He licked his lips. "Send out the Sanguine Knights. And the Blood-Gorgers. I wish to have a closer look at this… performance. And procure a sample of whatever is causing such… spirited reverberations."
Back on the mountainside, Shadow Garden was in a state of controlled panic. Their carefully planned infiltration was now a very public, very loud, and very spicy disaster.
"We must reach Saitama-dono!" Shadow declared, his earlier plans for a stealthy castle assault completely abandoned. "If Valerius's forces locate him in his current… incapacitated… state…" He didn't need to finish the sentence. While Saitama was undoubtedly indestructible, the collateral damage he might cause while trying to soothe his burning innards could level the entire Dragon's Tooth region.
"Agreed, Lord Shadow," Alpha said, her sword already drawn. "But Valerius will be deploying his forces. We will have to fight our way through."
"Then we fight," Shadow said, a grim resolve hardening his voice. His dramatic castle infiltration was ruined, but perhaps… perhaps a desperate, running battle through a vampire lord's domain, while trying to reach their incapacitated (and highly volatile) demigod companion, could still have a certain… epic quality. Yes! A race against time! A desperate rescue! This could work!
Their descent back towards Umbraglen was significantly faster, and far less stealthy, than their ascent. They practically sprinted down the treacherous paths, their senses alert for the inevitable arrival of Valerius's minions.
They didn't have to wait long.
From the mists below, a cacophony of snarls, howls, and the leathery beat of giant wings heralded the arrival of the first wave. Ghouls, their bodies twisted and decayed, scrabbled up the rocks with unnatural speed. Hulking werewolves, their eyes glowing with feral hunger, bounded through the trees. And circling overhead, like grotesque vultures, were gargoyle-like creatures with leathery wings and razor-sharp talons – Valerius's Blood-Gorgers.
"They're here!" Epsilon cried, unleashing a barrage of razor-sharp slime projectiles that sliced through the first wave of ghouls.
"Engage!" Alpha commanded, her blade a silver blur as she met the charge of a massive, snarling werewolf.
The battle was joined. Shadow Garden, though outnumbered, fought with a desperate, disciplined fury. Shadow himself was a whirlwind of dark energy and flashing steel, his ebony blade cleaving through ghouls and parrying the claws of werewolves. Beta provided tactical analysis and covering fire with her specialized arcane bolts. Seraphina, her earlier emotional turmoil replaced by the cold, deadly focus of a Night Blade, moved like a phantom, her twin swords (one still slightly cracked, a permanent reminder of Saitama's artistic critique) finding the vital points of their monstrous foes.
But Valerius's forces were seemingly endless. For every creature they struck down, two more seemed to take its place, clawing their way up from the mist-choked valley.
And all the while, Saitama's agonized, spice-fueled roars continued to echo through the mountains, a bizarre, terrifying soundtrack to their desperate battle. "IT BURNS! IT BURNS LIKE A THOUSAND SUNS IN MY TUMMY! I THINK MY EYEBALLS ARE SWEATING!"
Meanwhile, in the distant, recovering Royal Capital of Midgar, another kind of chaos was brewing. The Godsbane Gauntlet, hastily moved up and poorly advertised, was nonetheless drawing a strange and motley crowd. The usual local champions and aspiring knights were present, but so too were a disturbing number of… unusual participants.
Figures cloaked in shadows, their faces hidden, radiating an aura of cold, deadly power. Hulking brutes whose origins were unknown, their eyes gleaming with a feral light. Even a few individuals who seemed… not entirely human, their features subtly wrong, their movements unsettlingly fluid.
Gamma, Zeta, and Eta, observing from a discreet vantage point overlooking the tournament grounds (a hastily converted jousting arena), exchanged worried glances.
"Malakor's warnings… Seraphina's intel…" Gamma fretted, wringing her hands. "These unknown combatants… some of them feel… wrong. Like the Night Blades. Or worse."
Zeta, her eyes narrowed in concentration, was using her unique sensory abilities to analyze the participants. "Several possess power levels far exceeding any registered local combatant. Their energy signatures are… discordant. Some feel… otherworldly."
Eta, her fingers flying across a complex arcane interface she had jury-rigged, muttered, "Dimensional fluctuations are higher around the arena. Minor, but present. The tournament itself might be acting as a… focal point. Or a lure."
The King and his court were present, trying to project an air of confidence and celebration, but their smiles were strained, their eyes darting nervously towards the more… unconventional… participants. Princess Iris, however, seemed to be scanning the crowds with a hopeful, almost desperate expression, as if searching for a certain bald hero in a yellow jumpsuit. Alexia, beside her, looked on with a mixture of disdain for the spectacle and a grudging, analytical curiosity about the unusual combatants.
The first few matches of the Godsbane Gauntlet began. They were mostly unremarkable – local knights and burly mercenaries trading blows with predictable ferocity. But then, one of the cloaked figures stepped into the arena. His opponent, a renowned local champion, a mountain of a man known as "Borin the Bull-Hearted," charged with a mighty roar.
The cloaked figure didn't even move. He simply… gestured.
Borin the Bull-Hearted froze mid-charge, his eyes widening in terror. He then let out a choked gasp, clutched his chest, and collapsed, his mighty form writhing on the ground for a moment before going still. There was no visible wound, no sign of attack. He had simply… died.
A horrified silence fell over the arena. The King turned pale. Princess Iris gasped.
The cloaked figure, without a word, turned and glided out of the arena, melting back into the shadows.
"Soul-severance…" Zeta whispered, her voice tight. "Or a cardiac arrest induced by pure, concentrated terror. That was no ordinary warrior. That was… a Night Blade. Or something very much like it."
The Godsbane Gauntlet, intended as a morale booster, was rapidly transforming into a hunting ground, a stage for terrifying, unknown powers to display their deadly capabilities. Midgar was vulnerable. And its strongest, most unconventional, and currently very spicy, defender was miles away, screaming about his internal organs being on fire.
Back in the Dragon's Tooth Peaks, Shadow Garden was still locked in a desperate battle. They were making progress, slowly, painfully, cutting a path through the tide of monsters towards the source of Saitama's agonized bellows.
Shadow, parrying a blow from a massive, bat-winged Blood-Gorger, allowed himself a grim thought. This is it. The true test. Not just of our strength, but of our resolve. We fight through hell itself, not just to save a town, or defeat a villain, but to rescue our… our incredibly powerful, incredibly idiotic, and currently very combustible, friend.
The word "friend" echoed strangely in Cid's mind. It was not a word he often associated with his carefully constructed persona. But as he fought alongside his Shades, their loyalty and skill a testament to the bonds they had forged, and as he thought of Saitama, whose sheer, unadulterated absurdity had somehow, inexplicably, become a vital, if chaotic, part of their new reality, the word felt… surprisingly appropriate.
He just hoped they reached him before he accidentally sneezed the entire mountain range into a fine, peppery dust. The fate of the Dragon's Tooth Peaks, and possibly the structural integrity of the entire continent, now rested on their ability to find a very large glass of milk. And perhaps, a very, very sturdy pair of earplugs for Count Valerius. His "interesting acoustic phenomenon" was about to get a whole lot more personal.