The days following the "Unraveling of Xar'Voth" (a suitably dramatic, if somewhat misleading, title Beta had coined for the event) were a period of strange, almost disorienting, calm for Midgar. The oppressive fear that had gripped the city lifted like a tangible weight. Sunlight, or what passed for it in this often-gloomy kingdom, seemed a little brighter. People actually smiled in the streets. The Godsbane Gauntlet was officially declared "concluded due to unforeseen cosmic de-escalation," and King Midgar, having recovered from his fainting spells (and a rather nasty wine-cellar-induced hangover), began the arduous task of rebuilding his kingdom's shattered morale and infrastructure.
Shadow Garden, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, found themselves without an immediate, world-ending crisis to manage. The "Master" was gone. The Night Blades were scattered, their power conduits (the Night Shards) rendered inert by Xar'Voth's demise. The Cult of Diablos, while still a persistent, festering wound, had lost its primary source of interdimensional backing and was now more a collection of disorganized, squabbling fanatics than a cohesive threat.
It was… an adjustment.
Shadow, in particular, found himself in a state of existential limbo. His grand, shadowy war, the one he had meticulously (and mostly imaginarily) waged for years, had been won. Not by his brilliant strategies or overwhelming power, but by a bald man who had essentially gotten annoyed at the ultimate evil for being a rude houseguest. What was an Eminence in Shadow to do now? Take up knitting? Start a particularly gloomy book club?
He spent a lot of time in his brooding-chamber (the commandeered townhouse library), sketching. He sketched the void where Xar'Voth had been, trying to capture the sheer, unadulterated nothingness of its defeat. He sketched Saitama happily eating eclairs, a study in blissful, destructive ignorance. He even, in a moment of profound, almost spiritual, weariness, sketched Mr. Fluffles wearing its tiny, light-up bowtie, a symbol of the sheer, unadulterated absurdity that had become his life.
The other members of Shadow Garden were also adjusting. Alpha, ever diligent, focused on consolidating their power, strengthening their intelligence networks, and preparing for any future threats (because, as she sagely pointed out, the universe, and particularly their Lord Shadow, had a knack for attracting trouble). Beta was working on a new, significantly more complicated, volume of the Chronicles, one that attempted to reconcile the epic, shadowy narrative of Shadow Garden with the often-hilarious, reality-bending interventions of Saitama. It was, she confided to Epsilon, like trying to write a Shakespearean tragedy co-starring a particularly disruptive clown who kept hitting people with rubber chickens.
Epsilon, no longer having to constantly regenerate her slime armor from near-fatal blows, actually found time to practice her music, her beautiful, melancholic melodies filling the halls of their headquarters, a stark contrast to the usual sounds of intense training or hushed, conspiratorial whispers. Gamma, much to everyone's relief, was not in charge of cooking, and was instead focusing on optimizing their supply chains and financial resources (which had taken a significant hit from all the "unforeseen collateral damage"). Delta, however, was inconsolable. With no immediate, world-ending threats to fight, and Saitama mostly focused on snacks and naps, she was bored. Utterly, tragically, and very loudly, bored. She spent most of her days trying to convince Sir Reginald Fuzzybottom to engage in "epic wrestling matches," much to the badger's stoic, unimpressed displeasure.
Zeta and Eta, the quiet, observant duo, were perhaps the most intrigued by the new status quo. They spent hours observing Saitama, running complex (and ultimately futile) scans, trying to understand the nature of his impossible power. Eta, the reclusive researcher, even attempted to collect a sample of Saitama's dandruff for analysis, a mission that ended with her being gently, but firmly, shooed away by Genos, who was fiercely protective of his Master's… biological integrity.
Seraphina, the former Night Blade, was finding her place within this strange, chaotic, yet undeniably effective, organization. She provided invaluable insight into the Cult's remaining structure and the likely hiding places of any surviving Night Blades. She also, surprisingly, found a kindred spirit in Epsilon, the two of them bonding over their shared experiences of having their carefully constructed worldviews shattered by encounters with overwhelming, often inexplicable, power (though Epsilon's trauma was more related to her past, while Seraphina's was a more recent, art-critique-induced phenomenon).
And Saitama? Saitama was… happy. He had good food (King Midgar, in a fit of profound, if slightly terrified, gratitude, had declared him "Royal Guest of Honor for Life," which came with unlimited access to the palace kitchens). He had his animal companions (Mr. Fluffles had become a minor celebrity in the Royal Gardens, particularly among the younger, less traumatized, griffins). He had Genos, who was diligently trying to recreate the Shadowfire Demon-Pepper Relish recipe, though his initial attempts had resulted in several small explosions and a lingering, eye-watering haze in their assigned royal quarters.
But even Saitama, in his blissful state of snack-fueled contentment, knew that this couldn't last. This wasn't his world. He had his own city, his own (mostly empty) apartment, his own (mostly ignored) responsibilities as a registered hero (even if he was still stuck in B-Class).
One afternoon, as Shadow was dramatically contemplating the existential implications of a particularly well-drawn shadow in his latest sketch, Saitama wandered into his brooding-chamber, a half-eaten drumstick in one hand, Mr. Fluffles perched on his head, now sporting a tiny, impeccably tailored, royal guardsman's helmet.
"Hey, robe guy," Saitama said, his voice surprisingly subdued. "Got a sec?"
Shadow turned, his Eminence persona snapping back into place. "Saitama-dono. To what do I owe this… unexpected visit?"
Saitama took a bite of his drumstick, then gestured vaguely around the room with it. "So, uh… now that the big, scary, void-monster guy is gone, and everyone seems to be, y'know, not screaming in terror anymore… I was kinda thinking… maybe it's time for me and Genos to head back home."
Shadow felt a strange pang. It wasn't sadness, not exactly. It was more… a sense of an ending. The end of this bizarre, chaotic, and undeniably memorable chapter in his (mostly self-invented) life.
"You wish to return to your own dimension?" Shadow asked, his voice carefully neutral.
Saitama nodded. "Yeah. It's been… interesting here. And the food's been great. But, y'know, I got stuff to do back home. Like… grocery shopping. And maybe see if King is up for a game. And I think I left a window open."
Shadow almost smiled. Of course. The fate of his own world hinges on… an open window.
"The interdimensional breaches have largely stabilized since Xar'Voth's… departure," Shadow mused. "But a controlled, targeted return to your specific reality… that will require considerable arcane energy. And precise calculations. Genos-dono may possess the technical knowledge, but the… power source… will be a challenge."
Genos, who had entered silently behind Saitama, stepped forward. "Indeed, Lord Shadow. While I have theorized several methods for reopening a stable trans-dimensional gateway, the energy requirements are… substantial. Far exceeding my own internal power core's capacity."
Saitama looked from Genos to Shadow. "So… we're stuck here?" He didn't sound particularly distressed, more mildly inconvenienced. "Aw, man. I was really looking forward to that ramen place. They do a two-for-one deal on Tuesdays."
Shadow considered. His initial, selfish thought was a flicker of relief. If Saitama was stuck here, then perhaps… perhaps his own narrative could continue, with Saitama as a permanent, if unpredictable, fixture. But then he looked at Saitama's genuinely disappointed face, at the thought of missed ramen deals and open windows, and he realized something else.
This wasn't Saitama's stage. He was a visitor. A very powerful, very disruptive, and ultimately very decent, visitor. And he deserved to go home.
"Not necessarily, Saitama-dono," Shadow said, a new plan, a final, grand gesture, forming in his mind. "Shadow Garden possesses… resources. And I… I believe I know of a place. A nexus of power, dormant for centuries. A place where the veil between worlds is naturally thin. If we can harness its energy…"
He was thinking of the "Well of Whispers," an ancient, forgotten ruin deep within the Shadowlands, a place said to be so saturated with raw magical energy that few dared to approach it. A place he had always intended to use for some grand, shadowy purpose. Perhaps… perhaps this was that purpose.
"You would… help us, Lord Shadow?" Genos asked, a hint of surprise in his voice.
"Xar'Voth was a threat to all realities," Shadow said, his voice resonating with a carefully crafted gravitas. "Your assistance in… neutralizing… that threat was… invaluable. Consider this a… reciprocal gesture. A balancing of the cosmic scales." And also, if I'm being perfectly honest with myself, a way to ensure Saitama doesn't accidentally get bored and punch a new hole in reality while trying to find his way home, thus starting this whole mess all over again.
Saitama grinned. "Awesome! Thanks, robe guy! You're not so bad, for a dude who talks like he's narrating a spooky movie all the time."
Shadow ignored the backhanded compliment. "The journey will be perilous. The energies at the Well of Whispers are volatile, untamed. But… it is our best chance."
And so, a new, final quest was undertaken. Not a quest for vengeance, or power, or even spicy relish. But a quest to send a hero home.
The preparations took several days. Alpha, Beta, and the other Shades, while saddened by the prospect of Saitama's departure (Delta was particularly distraught, and had to be bribed with promises of "epic sparring matches" with a very reluctant Seraphina), threw themselves into the task with their usual efficiency. They gathered arcane catalysts, charted ancient ley lines, and prepared for any potential dangers they might encounter in the Shadowlands.
The farewells were… awkward. King Midgar, in a tearful, rambling speech, presented Saitama with the "Order of the Golden Griffin, First Class (with Extra Fluffy Trim)," the kingdom's highest honor, and a lifetime supply of royal-grade honey cakes. Princess Iris gave him a hand-drawn picture of him punching a (very cartoony) monster, with "To Blast, the Bestest Hero!" scrawled at the bottom. Alexia, in a rare moment of vulnerability, simply nodded at him, a flicker of grudging respect in her eyes.
Saitama, laden with honey cakes, a slightly crumpled drawing, and Mr. Fluffles (who was now wearing the Order of the Golden Griffin like a very fancy collar), just grinned and said, "Thanks, guys! This has been… weird. But mostly fun. Don't go getting into too much trouble while I'm gone, okay?"
As they stood at the edge of Midgar, ready to embark on their journey to the Well of Whispers, Saitama turned to Shadow. "So, robe guy. You gonna be okay without me around to accidentally solve all your problems?" There was a teasing glint in his eye.
Shadow actually chuckled, a soft, genuine sound. "Shadow Garden has faced darkness before, Saitama-dono. And we will face it again. But your… unique contributions… will undoubtedly be… missed." He paused. "And Saitama… if you ever find yourself… bored… in your own dimension… and in need of a particularly challenging… grocery run… perhaps the rifts between worlds are not as permanently sealed as we might hope."
It was as close to an invitation, an admission of a strange, absurd, yet undeniable camaraderie, as the Eminence in Shadow could manage.
Saitama grinned. "Yeah, maybe. But first," he said, his eyes gleaming with a new, familiar, and slightly terrifying, sense of purpose, "I gotta find that two-for-one ramen deal. And Genos? We need to make a new shopping list. I saw some really cool-looking power tools in that one shop… and maybe a slightly bigger wardrobe for Mr. Fluffles. His hat collection is getting out of control."
The adventure was ending. But for Saitama, the quest for good food, cool stuff, and the occasional decent fight, was eternal. And for Shadow Garden, life after Saitama would be… quieter. More predictable. Perhaps even a little… boring.
But they would always have the memories. And the lingering, undeniable, and surprisingly fond, scent of Demon-Pepper relish and cosmic absurdity. The universe was a strange place. And they had just had a front-row seat to its strangest, and most powerful, punchline.