The silence that descended upon the root hollow was absolute. It wasn't just the absence of the sibilant whispering or the rustle of agitated shadows. It was deeper, more profound – the silence of something ancient and powerful suddenly, utterly ceasing to exist. The oppressive psychic pressure vanished like smoke in a gale. The bone-deep chill radiating from the ward-shadows dissipated instantly, leaving behind only the natural coolness of the pre-dawn air. The darkness within the hollow lightened fractionally, no longer thickened by malevolent sentience, allowing the faint grey light from outside to penetrate more easily.
Gregor stood frozen, his sword still lowered, his body numb not just from the lingering cold but from sheer, system-shocking disbelief. The writhing, draining shadows that had filled the hollow moments before, promising a slow, terrifying demise, were just… gone. Not defeated, not driven back – erased. He blinked, expecting them to reappear, expecting some trick, some illusion. But there was nothing. Just the damp earth floor, the massive tree roots forming their shelter, and the faint mist swirling outside.
Lyra slowly lifted her head, her eyes wide and unfocused. The debilitating cold that had been sinking into her marrow was gone, replaced by a tingling numbness as warmth tried to return. The despair that had consumed her moments ago felt distant, unreal, overridden by the sheer impossibility of what had just happened. Had she imagined the shadows? Had they all hallucinated the entire terrifying ordeal? But the lingering chill in her bones, the memory of that draining touch, was too real. She looked towards the back of the hollow, where Saitama was now stretching, seemingly unconcerned.
Renn pushed himself up into a sitting position, shivering violently, though less from cold now and more from reaction. He stared at the empty space where the shadows had been, then at Saitama, then back at the empty space. His mind, already frayed by exhaustion and fear, couldn't process the transition. It was like watching a nightmare dissolve into mundane reality without any intervening logic. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
Saitama finished his stretch and looked back at them. "See? All better. Told you that hissing was annoying." He walked towards the entrance, peering out into the misty valley. "Looks like it's almost morning. Perfect time for breakfast. Let's get a move on."
Gregor finally found his voice, though it was rough, strained. "Saitama… what… what did you do?"
Saitama glanced back, seemingly surprised by the question. "Hm? Oh, the shadows? They were cold and noisy, so I got rid of them." He rubbed his hands together again briefly, demonstrating. "Just gotta… you know. Shoo 'em away properly."
Shoo them away. He spoke of erasing ancient, powerful ward-magic, manifestations of the valley's very essence, as if he were dispersing pigeons in a park. Gregor felt a wave of dizziness wash over him. The scale of Saitama's power wasn't just immense; it was fundamentally incomprehensible. It operated on rules Gregor couldn't even begin to guess at. Was rubbing his hands together some kind of arcane ritual? A trigger for a hidden artifact? Or was the action itself utterly irrelevant, just a physical tic accompanying an act of pure, unadulterated will that reshaped reality on a whim? He suspected the latter, and the thought was terrifying.
"Right," Gregor said, swallowing hard. He forced himself to stand, pulling Lyra and Renn to their feet. They were weak, trembling, but alive. The immediate threat was gone. That was all that mattered right now. Trying to understand Saitama was a luxury they couldn't afford. Survival was the only priority. "Let's go. Out of this valley. Before anything else wakes up."
They stumbled out of the root hollow, following Saitama into the swirling mist, leaving the temporary shelter behind. The valley floor felt different now. The unnerving pressure was gone. The silence felt less predatory, more… empty. The faint sounds of the forest beyond the valley – distant bird calls greeting the approaching dawn, the rustle of small animals – began to filter in, no longer suppressed by the ancient wards. It was as if Saitama's hand-rubbing hadn't just erased the shadows, but had popped a bubble, letting the outside world seep back into this long-isolated place.
Hidden behind their oak tree, Kristoph, Zenon, and Elara remained utterly still, processing the silent cataclysm they had just witnessed. The mist swirled around them, now just ordinary water vapor, devoid of the patterns and pressure that had marked the active wards.
Kristoph stared at the spot where the root hollow entrance was dimly visible, his mind struggling to categorize the event. Annihilation. Negation. Erasure. None of the words felt adequate. Saitama hadn't fought the wards; he had simply unmade them. Casually. Accidentally, almost. Because they were annoying him.
Zenon slowly lowered the hand that had been resting on his knives. His face, usually a mask of pragmatic calm, was pale, his eyes betraying a deep, primal unease. He had faced down terrifying beasts, deadly assassins, powerful sorcerers. He understood combat, stealth, survival. He did not understand this. This wasn't power; it was something else, something that broke the fundamental rules of existence.
Elara was trembling, her hand pressed against her staff as if for support. As a sorceress, her entire reality was predicated on the laws of magic – the flow of energies, the structure of spells, the power of wards and runes. What Saitama had done… it was the antithesis of everything she knew. It wasn't counter-magic; it wasn't dispelling. It was deletion.
"Commander," she whispered, her voice barely audible, shaky. "The wards… they are gone. Not suppressed. Not broken. Gone. The energy signatures… completely erased. The ambient magic of the valley floor is… neutral. Normal. As if the wards never existed." She looked at Kristoph, her eyes filled with something akin to existential dread. "How? How is that possible? No ritual, no artifact signature… just… him."
Kristoph had no answers. He could only catalog the observation. "He possesses the ability to negate or erase magical phenomena through means unknown, possibly related to kinetic energy application or an inherent property of his being. The trigger appears minimal, possibly even subconscious or reflexive when sufficiently annoyed." He filed the report mentally, knowing how utterly inadequate, how borderline insane, it sounded. How could he report this to the King, to the council? 'Subject can erase ancient magic by rubbing his hands together when inconvenienced'?
He watched Saitama lead the escapees out of the hollow and begin moving southeast again, vanishing into the mist. The immediate crisis, both for the escapees and potentially for their own position, was over. But the implications were staggering.
"He just dismantled millennia-old containment wards like wiping condensation off glass," Kristoph murmured, shaking his head slowly. "What were those wards holding back? Or in? And what happens now that they're gone?"
Zenon pointed towards the ground near the hollow, where faint trails were already becoming visible as the mist began to thin slightly with the approaching dawn. "Tracks indicate they're continuing southeast. Towards the edge of the valley."
"We follow," Kristoph commanded, his voice regaining its firmness, though the undercurrent of profound unease remained. "More than ever, we need to understand him. And we need to know what consequences his actions have unleashed upon this forest." He pushed himself away from the tree, signaling the others to move.
They resumed the hunt, moving through the now eerily ordinary mist, the silence broken only by the returning sounds of the forest waking up. But the silence felt different now – not the silence of containment, but the silence of absence, of a lock being removed from an ancient, unknown door. They followed the impossible footprints, acutely aware that they might not just be tracking a man, but the harbinger of unforeseen changes, walking in the wake of casually erased magic.
As the first true rays of dawn finally pierced the dense canopy, painting the mist in hues of pale gold and rose, Saitama and the escapees emerged from the valley onto slightly higher ground. The mist began to burn away rapidly, revealing the Deepwood in the clear morning light. It was still dense, ancient, and intimidating, but the specific wrongness of the valley was behind them.
Gregor, Lyra, and Renn paused, blinking in the strengthening light, breathing the clean air deeply. They had survived the night. They had survived the Labyrinth, the monsters, the shadows. It felt unreal. Gregor looked back towards the misty valley, a profound shiver running down his spine despite the growing warmth of the sun. He had no desire to ever know what slept beneath those ancient wards, or what might happen now that they were gone.
Saitama stretched luxuriously in the sunlight, basking like a lizard. "Ah, morning! Finally! See? Told you it would get brighter." He patted his stomach, which rumbled audibly. "Okay, breakfast time. For real now. Which way to the nearest pancake house?"
Lyra actually managed a small, genuine smile. Renn looked exhausted but relieved. Gregor just sighed, rubbing his temples.
"No pancake houses, Saitama," Gregor said wearily. "But… with the sun up, I can get a better bearing. Midgar… should be that way." He pointed southeast, where the trees seemed slightly less ancient, the terrain beginning a long, slow descent. "Still a long walk. But possible."
"Good enough!" Saitama declared cheerfully. "Let's go! Last one there buys!" He started off at a brisk walk, seemingly rejuvenated by the sunlight and the prospect of eventual food.
Gregor watched him go for a moment, then looked at Lyra and Renn. "Come on," he said, offering Lyra a hand up. "Let's get out of this forest."
They followed Saitama, their steps lighter now, buoyed by survival and the simple promise of daylight. Behind them, unseen, unheard, something deep within the heart of the now-unwarded valley shifted. A tremor, almost imperceptible, ran through the bedrock. A single, ancient stone within a long-buried structure cracked. And dust, undisturbed for millennia, drifted in a darkness that no longer felt quite so dormant. The consequences of Saitama's hand-rubbing had yet to fully manifest.