The "suitable quarters" provided for Saitama within the Royal Palace were, by any normal standard, opulent. It was a spacious suite of rooms in a relatively secluded wing, clearly hastily prepared but furnished with rich tapestries, polished darkwood furniture, and a bed so large and laden with silken pillows it looked more like a small, fluffy cloud than a place to sleep. A private bathing chamber adjoined, complete with a sunken marble tub and an array of scented oils and soaps that Saitama eyed with suspicion, wondering if they were edible. Large, arched windows offered a stunning view of the palace gardens and the sprawling city beyond.
For Saitama, however, the primary attraction was the small table that had been quickly laden with an assortment of fruits, cheeses, freshly baked bread, and a pitcher of what smelled suspiciously like lukewarm goat's milk. He fell upon it with the enthusiasm of a man who hadn't seen a proper snack spread since… well, since the refreshment table in the courtyard.
"Hey, not bad!" he declared around a mouthful of bread and cheese. "Still no pancakes, but this'll do for now. Needs more butter, though. And maybe some of those little cocktail sausages."
Gregor, Lyra, and Renn had been escorted to more modest, but still comfortable, guest chambers nearby. They had been provided with clean clothes – simple, practical tunics and trousers that felt like silk after their tattered rags – and the promise of a proper hot meal and a chance to wash away the grime and terror of their ordeal. For them, it was paradise. They were safe, clean, and fed. The looming uncertainty of their future was, for the moment, held at bay by these simple, profound comforts.
Captain Valerius had assigned the task of Saitama's "liaison" to a young, remarkably stoic, and visibly apprehensive knight named Sir Kaelan. Kaelan was known for his patience, his meticulous attention to detail, and his unfortunate tendency to draw the shortest straws when it came to unusual assignments. He now found himself standing awkwardly in Saitama's opulent suite, trying to explain the concept of a "royal guest" to a man who was currently attempting to juggle three apples while complaining that the room didn't have a good dartboard.
"So, Mister Saitama," Kaelan began, his voice carefully neutral, trying to channel the unflappable composure of his superiors, "His Majesty trusts these accommodations are… to your satisfaction?"
Saitama dropped an apple. "Huh? Oh, yeah, it's fine. Bed looks comfy. View's okay. Bit too many fancy gold things everywhere, though. Kinda distracting." He picked up the apple, then looked at Kaelan. "So, you're like… my butler? Or my parole officer? Because if it's parole, I really didn't do anything wrong. The rock guy totally started it."
Kaelan took a deep breath. "Neither, sir. I am your assigned liaison. My duty is to ensure your needs are met, to facilitate your… cooperation… with the Crown's scholars, and to… well, to generally ensure your stay is… uneventful." The unspoken part of his job description, he knew, was 'try to prevent the walking apocalypse from accidentally leveling the Royal Palace out of boredom or a misplaced craving for instant noodles.'
"Uneventful sounds boring," Saitama commented, successfully juggling two apples now. "Are there, like, any monsters around here I can punch? Just for fun? To pass the time?"
Kaelan paled slightly. "Ah, no, Mister Saitama. The Royal Capital is… generally monster-free. His Majesty specifically requested that you refrain from any… unsolicited heroics… within the city walls."
"Aw, man." Saitama dropped both apples. "No monsters? What's a hero supposed to do all day then? Stare at the fancy gold things?" He sighed. "This is gonna be a long 'guest-ship'."
The news of Saitama's arrival, and the King's decision to house him within the palace, spread through the Royal Court like wildfire. Whispers filled the gilded corridors, the private chambers, the training yards. The "Tempest," the "Titan-Slayer," the "Bald Cape" – he was the sole topic of conversation, his reported deeds growing more outlandish with each retelling. Some viewed him with terror, a ticking time bomb nestled in the heart of their power. Others saw opportunity – a weapon to be controlled, a force to be harnessed for their own ambitions. Still others, a cynical few, dismissed it all as exaggerated peasant tales or a clever political maneuver by the King.
In the Royal Council chambers, Kristoph, Zenon, and Elara delivered their full, unvarnished report to a hushed assembly of the kingdom's most powerful figures – grim-faced ministers, stern generals, ancient Magi whose eyes held the wisdom and weariness of centuries. They recounted the events in the Deepwood, from the discovery of the Labyrinth escapees to the fall of the Titan, detailing Saitama's every baffling action, his casual displays of impossible power, his utter lack of guile or discernible motive beyond basic comforts.
The Council listened in stunned, often horrified, silence. When Kristoph described Saitama punching the Earth Titan's arm into oblivion, a collective gasp went through the room. When Elara detailed his effortless negation of the Valley Wards, the ancient Magi exchanged looks of profound disbelief and dawning terror.
"This… power…" Lord Valerius, head of the Royal Knights, finally said, his voice heavy. "It is beyond any scale we have ever conceived. A single being capable of such destruction… without magic, without artifact, without apparent limit…" He shook his head. "How do we even begin to categorize him, let alone control him?"
High Archmagus Theron, the most senior and respected of the Royal Magi, a man whose age was lost to memory and whose eyes seemed to peer into the very fabric of reality, stroked his long white beard, his gaze distant. "He is not a product of this world's magic, that much is clear. His energy signature, or rather, the absence of a conventional one coupled with the sheer kinetic force he generates… it suggests an origin, or a nature, that is fundamentally alien to our understanding of the cosmos." He paused, his ancient eyes fixing on Kristoph. "You say he shows no malice? No ambition?"
"None that we could discern, Archmagus," Kristoph confirmed. "His primary concerns seemed to be… food, shelter, and a new cape. He referred to himself as a 'hero for fun'."
A ripple of dark amusement, quickly suppressed, went through some of the more cynical council members. A hero for fun, with the power of a god. The irony was almost too much to bear.
"A dangerous variable," stated Chancellor Evrard, his expression grim. "The King's decision to house him within the palace… it is a gamble. A necessary one, perhaps, given the alternatives, but a gamble nonetheless. What if his 'fun' involves leveling the capital because the royal chef overcooks his eggs?"
"That is why patience, observation, and… careful management… are paramount," King Olric stated, his voice cutting through the rising anxieties. He had joined the council session after his initial encounter with Saitama in the courtyard. "We must understand him. We must find a way to… integrate him, or at least neutralize his potential for accidental catastrophe, without provoking a direct confrontation we cannot possibly win."
He looked around the table at his most trusted advisors. "The 'Tournament of Champions' is scheduled to begin in three weeks. It is a tradition, a display of Midgar's strength, a gathering of the finest warriors and mages from across the kingdom and beyond." A new, calculating light entered his eyes. "Perhaps… this tournament could serve a dual purpose this year. A means to assess the Tempest's capabilities in a… somewhat… controlled environment. And perhaps, a way to subtly introduce him to the concept of… responsibility. Or at least, to keep him entertained and out of trouble."
The idea hung in the air, audacious and fraught with peril. Use the kingdom's most prestigious martial event as a glorified stress-test for a being of unimaginable power?
"You would… invite him to participate, Your Majesty?" Archmagus Theron asked, his eyebrows raised.
"Not invite, necessarily," the King mused. "But create a situation where his… participation… becomes inevitable. Or at least, highly probable." He thought of Saitama's desire for "fun" and his competitive streak when it came to mundane things. "A grand prize, perhaps? Something to appeal to his… unique sensibilities? A lifetime supply of his preferred foodstuff? The title of 'Kingdom's Strongest Hero (For Fun)'?"
A few council members exchanged uneasy glances. It sounded like madness. But given the alternative – an bored, hungry, omnipotent being wandering their capital – it might just be the least insane option available.
"The risks, Your Majesty…" Chancellor Evrard began.
"Are immense," the King acknowledged. "But the potential rewards – understanding, perhaps even a measure of influence over, a power that could reshape our world – are equally so. We proceed with caution. We prepare contingency plans for our contingency plans. But we will understand the Tempest."
As the Royal Council debated the delicate, terrifying logistics of managing Saitama and the impending tournament, Saitama himself was facing his own set of challenges in his gilded cage. Sir Kaelan, his patience wearing thin, was attempting to explain the concept of royal etiquette for the upcoming "welcoming feast" the King had (somewhat reluctantly) ordered in Saitama's honor.
"...and so, Mister Saitama, when addressing His Majesty, it is customary to bow, and to refer to him as 'Your Majesty'," Kaelan explained, for what felt like the tenth time. "And one generally refrains from asking about the buffet menu during formal introductions."
Saitama, who was trying to see if he could stick a silver spoon to his nose using only static electricity (he couldn't), looked up. "Bow? Why? Does his back hurt? Is he old? Maybe he needs one of those comfy reclining chairs." He frowned. "And if I can't ask about the menu, how will I know if they have pancakes? That's, like, the most important part of any feast."
Kaelan closed his eyes, counted silently to ten, then opened them again. "It is a matter of… respect, sir. Tradition."
"Tradition sounds boring," Saitama declared. "And itchy. Like this fancy shirt they gave me." He tugged at the collar of the silken tunic he'd been provided, which was indeed several sizes too small and strained precariously over his physique. "Can I just wear my jumpsuit to the feast? It's way more comfortable. Even with the hole."
Kaelan felt a migraine beginning to form behind his eyes. This was going to be a very, very long assignment. He wondered if it was too late to request a transfer to the most remote, monster-infested border garrison in the kingdom. It would probably be less stressful.
The gilded cage of the Royal Palace, intended to contain and study the Tempest, was already proving to be a source of profound bewilderment and existential stress for its keepers. And the whispers in the court, of fear, ambition, and the upcoming tournament, were growing louder, heralding a new, chaotic chapter for the Kingdom of Midgar.