Time stretched and warped within the confines of the root hollow, measured not in minutes or hours, but in the creeping chill of the ward-shadows and the deepening ache of fear and exhaustion. Gregor, Lyra, and Renn were trapped, pressed against the invisible boundary of Saitama's passive repulsion field, the chilling, life-draining tendrils of shadow mere inches from their skin. The cold was profound, seeping into their bones, making their teeth chatter despite their huddled posture. They could feel their warmth, their energy, being slowly, inexorably leeched away, a subtle but constant drain that left them feeling increasingly weak, lightheaded, and hollow.
Gregor fought to stay conscious, to keep his fear from overwhelming him. He focused on the faint, even sound of Saitama's breathing from the depths of the hollow, a bizarre point of stability in the swirling chaos of their predicament. The man was asleep, oblivious, yet his mere presence was the only thing keeping the shadows from completely consuming them. It was a terrifying paradox. He tried to speak, to call out to Saitama, but his throat was tight, his jaw trembling too much from the cold and fear. Besides, what would he even say? "Excuse me, reality-breaking stranger, could you please wake up and casually unmake the ancient, malevolent ward-shadows that are currently trying to turn us into frozen husks?" It sounded ridiculous even in his own mind.
Lyra was fading. Her breaths were shallow, her eyes half-closed, unfocused. The cold had numbed her limbs, and a strange, detached lethargy was creeping over her. She felt herself drifting, the fear receding slightly, replaced by a tired acceptance. It was almost… peaceful. To just let go. To stop fighting. She leaned heavily against Renn, who was shivering uncontrollably, his eyes wide with a terror that had gone beyond coherent thought. He kept making small, whimpering sounds, his gaze fixed on the writhing shadows just beyond their reach.
The sibilant whispering of the wards continued, a constant, unnerving chorus that seemed to coil around their minds, amplifying their despair, promising oblivion. The shadows pulsed with a cold, dark light, their forms occasionally shifting, testing the boundaries of Saitama's repulsion field, like predators probing the bars of a cage they couldn't break.
Outside, in the swirling mist, Kristoph, Zenon, and Elara maintained their vigil. The night was a canvas of shifting grey and black, the silence broken only by the faint, rhythmic drip of condensation from the ancient trees and the distant, almost inaudible psychic hum of the active wards.
Elara's brow was furrowed in concentration, her hands resting lightly on her staff, her senses extended. "Commander," she whispered, her voice tight, "the escapees… their life signs are weakening. The constant exposure to the ward-shadows… it's draining them significantly. Hypothermia is setting in, compounded by the direct energy leeching. Another hour of this… perhaps less… and they won't survive."
Kristoph cursed silently. He had hoped the situation would resolve itself, that Saitama would wake, or the wards would recede with the coming dawn. But the escapees were running out of time. Letting them perish while he stood by, even for the sake of observation, felt… wrong. It grated against his knightly vows, his fundamental sense of duty. But his orders regarding the Tempest were absolute: do not engage, do not provoke.
"Can you counter the draining effect from here?" Kristoph asked Elara. "Subtly? Without alerting the wards or the Tempest?"
Elara shook her head slowly. "The shadows are too pervasive, their draining effect too direct. Any counter-magic strong enough to shield them from this distance would be a significant energy expenditure, easily detected by the wards, and potentially by… him." She glanced towards the hollow, towards the impossibly still form of Saitama. "His dormant signature is so potent, so sensitive on some level, that even a targeted healing spell might register as an anomaly, an intrusion into his… space."
Zenon, ever pragmatic, offered another perspective. "If the escapees perish, Commander, the wards may recede, having neutralized the 'contagion' they detected. It might provide a clearer opportunity to observe the Tempest, or even withdraw, if the valley returns to its dormant state." It was a cold assessment, but tactically sound.
Kristoph wrestled with the dilemma. Duty to the mission versus duty to preserve life, however insignificant those lives might seem in the grand scheme of things, or compared to the potential cataclysm of waking Saitama unprepared. The King's orders had been to ascertain the nature of the Tempest, to report. There were no orders about saving every stray civilian, especially when it jeopardized the primary objective. Yet…
He looked towards the hollow again. Through a momentary thinning of the mist, he saw Gregor slump forward, his sword clattering softly to the ground. He was still conscious, but barely. Lyra was almost completely still. Renn was openly weeping, his small body wracked with shivers.
"Damn it," Kristoph breathed. He couldn't just watch them die. Not like this. "Elara," he decided, his voice firm despite the tremor of apprehension, "prepare a targeted, minimal-energy warming charm. Enough to stave off critical hypothermia for a short while. Shield its signature as best you can. Time it for a moment when the ward activity seems to lull, if it ever does. Zenon, be ready to create a diversion, something to draw the wards' attention away from the hollow, if Elara's spell is detected."
"Commander, the risk—" Zenon began.
"I am aware of the risk, Sergeant," Kristoph cut him off, his tone leaving no room for argument. "But we are Knights of Midgar. We do not stand by and watch the innocent perish if there is even a sliver of a chance to aid them without catastrophic consequences. Prepare."
Elara nodded, her expression grim but resolved. She began to gather her will, her fingers tracing subtle patterns in the air, drawing on the faintest ambient energies, shaping a delicate, almost undetectable warmth. Zenon checked his throwing knives, his gaze scanning the misty valley for potential targets or distractions. The tension in their small group ratcheted up another notch. They were about to poke the sleeping dragon, or rather, the ancient valley and the even more ancient, slumbering powerhouse.
Inside the hollow, just as Gregor felt his consciousness beginning to fray, a faint, almost imperceptible warmth began to spread through his chilled limbs. It wasn't much, just enough to push back the encroaching numbness, to clear his head slightly. He looked at Lyra and Renn. Their shivering seemed to lessen marginally. A flicker of confusion, then dawning awareness, crossed his face. Magic? Where was it coming from?
The ward-shadows seemed to react almost instantly. The sibilant whispering intensified, taking on an angry, agitated edge. The tendrils pulsed, their cold aura spiking. They seemed to sense the external magical influence, however subtle, an intrusion upon their contained domain. Several tendrils detached from the main mass and began to flow outwards, back towards the entrance of the hollow, as if seeking the source of the interference.
"They detected it!" Elara hissed, her concentration strained. "The wards are reacting, searching!"
"Zenon! Now!" Kristoph ordered.
Zenon didn't hesitate. He selected a small, flat stone and, with a practiced flick of his wrist, sent it spinning silently through the mist, aiming for a cluster of loose rocks on the far side of the valley, well away from their position and the hollow. The stone struck with a sharp clack, dislodging a small cascade of pebbles that rattled noisily down the slope.
The effect was immediate. The questing shadow tendrils that had been exiting the hollow paused. The angry whispering faltered, then shifted, its focus turning towards the new sound, the unexpected disturbance. Several of the largest shadow masses detached from the main concentration around the hollow and began to flow rapidly towards the source of the noise, like dark hounds scenting new prey.
Elara seized the opportunity, focusing the last of her warming charm on the escapees while the wards were momentarily distracted. The faint warmth intensified for a crucial few seconds before she cut the spell, collapsing back against the tree trunk, breathing heavily, her energy reserves depleted by the delicate, shielded casting.
"It's done, Commander," she gasped. "They have a little more time. But the wards are thoroughly agitated now."
Indeed, the shadows that had moved towards Zenon's diversion, finding nothing but rocks, were now flowing back, their movements more erratic, more aggressive. The entire valley seemed to hum with a disturbed, angry energy. The mist swirled more violently. The whispering rose to a near-audible chorus of frustrated rage.
And then, from the back of the root hollow, came a new sound.
A yawn. A loud, protracted, deeply bored-sounding yawn.
Saitama stretched, his arms extending wide, his joints popping softly. He opened his eyes, blinking slowly in the dim light. He looked around the hollow, at Gregor, Lyra, and Renn huddled fearfully near the entrance, at the writhing, agitated shadows still filling the front half of the shelter, and then towards the entrance itself, where the main mass of the ward-shadows pulsed angrily.
"Huh?" he said, his voice still thick with sleep. "What's all the noise? Trying to sleep here." He rubbed his eyes. "And why's it so cold? Did someone leave the fridge open?"
He focused on the writhing shadows. "Oh. You guys again? Still here? Didn't you get the hint?"
The ward-shadows, sensing the awakening of the immense power they had instinctively recoiled from, paused in their agitation. The sibilant whispering faltered. A new quality entered their collective consciousness – not fear, exactly, as they were manifestations of an impersonal, ancient magic – but a profound sense of caution, of encountering an anomaly that defied their programmed parameters.
Saitama stood up, stretching again. He looked remarkably well-rested. "Okay, seriously. It's almost morning, right? I'm starving. And you guys are making it hard to get back to sleep with all this… shadowy hissing."
He took a step forward, out of his passive repulsion zone, towards the main mass of the ward-shadows. The shadows recoiled visibly, flowing back several feet, as if scorched by an invisible heat.
"Look," Saitama said, addressing the pulsing darkness with the air of someone explaining something very simple to a particularly dim-witted pet. "We just want to leave. Find a town. Get some breakfast. Bacon, maybe. Eggs. Toast. You guys don't have any of that, right? Just… cold, shadowy gloom?" He paused, as if expecting an answer. The shadows just writhed silently, seemingly at a loss.
"Right. Didn't think so," Saitama continued. "So, if you could just… clear out? Let us pass? That'd be great. We promise not to, you know, leave any litter."
He took another step forward. The ward-shadows recoiled further, flowing back towards the entrance of the hollow, their forms flickering, their cohesion seeming to weaken in the face of his direct, albeit utterly unthreatening, approach. His presence, now fully awake, even without any overt display of power, was simply too much for their ancient, containing magic to bear. It was like trying to hold back the tide with a picket fence.
Saitama reached the entrance of the hollow and looked out at the misty valley, where the rest of the ward-shadows still pulsed and swirled. He sighed, a sound of profound, put-upon weariness.
"You know what?" he said, mostly to himself, but loud enough for everyone – Gregor, Lyra, Renn, and the hidden Knights – to hear. "This is taking too long. I'm really hungry."
He then did something so simple, so mundane, yet so utterly, reality-breakingly effective, that it left everyone who witnessed it (or sensed its aftermath) completely speechless.
He clapped his hands together sharply, once, to clear the dust off them. Then he rubbed them together briskly, as if warming them up on a cold day.
Fwshhhhhhhhh…
A wave of… something… radiated outwards from him. Not light. Not sound. Not concussive force. It was more like… a wave of absolute, unequivocal negation. A silent, invisible ripple that spread outwards through the misty valley at impossible speed, passing through trees, rocks, and living beings without physical effect, yet fundamentally altering the very nature of the ancient wards.
The sibilant whispering stopped. Instantly. Cut off mid-hiss.
The writhing shadow tendrils, both inside the hollow and throughout the misty valley, simply… ceased to exist. They didn't dissipate, didn't flee, didn't explode. They just… weren't there anymore. One moment, pervasive, menacing darkness. The next, just normal, misty pre-dawn gloom.
The oppressive psychic pressure vanished.
The ancient wards, the quarantine field that had held this valley in stasis for millennia, the complex web of containing magic… was gone. Erased. Unwritten from the fabric of reality as easily as wiping chalk from a blackboard.
The valley felt… empty. Quiet. Just a normal, misty valley on the cusp of dawn.
Saitama finished rubbing his hands, looked around, and nodded with satisfaction. "There. Much better. No more creepy whispers. Now, about that breakfast…"
He turned and walked out of the root hollow, into the now benignly misty valley, leaving behind three stunned escapees and, hidden in the trees, three equally stunned Royal Knights, all grappling with the sheer, casual, almost accidental deconstruction of ancient, powerful magic by a man who just wanted to warm his hands.