The forest clearing, moments before a stage for imminent, professional violence, now hung suspended in a bubble of stunned, disbelieving silence. The only sounds were the distant, indifferent chirping of birds, the pained groans of the two operatives whose crossbows had spectacularly ceased to exist, and the faint, almost imperceptible hum that seemed to emanate from Saitama himself – a low thrum of barely contained, utterly unconcerned power.
The remaining ten operatives, elite swordsmen all, stood frozen mid-advance. Their visored helms and concealing cowls hid their expressions, but their rigid postures, the slight tremor in a sword hand here, the almost imperceptible shift of weight backwards there, spoke volumes. They had trained for years, faced down monstrous beasts, eliminated powerful mages, navigated lethal political intrigue. They understood combat, strategy, the cold calculus of violence. What they had just witnessed – crossbow bolts stopping mid-air, flicked back with enough force to atomize steel, all by a man who looked like he'd misplaced his grocery list – didn't fit into any known paradigm. It was magic beyond comprehension, or physics twisted into a horrifying new shape.
The metallic-voiced leader remained still, his hand still half-raised from the aborted attack signal. Behind his impassive helmet, his mind raced, desperately trying to process the new data, to recalibrate threat assessment, to formulate a viable response. All his training, all his experience, screamed at him that this… 'Tempest'… was not just an anomaly; he was an impossibility, a living violation of natural law. Their intel, however recent, had clearly, catastrophically, underestimated him.
Gregor, Lyra, and Renn huddled behind Saitama, their initial terror at the ambush now completely overshadowed by the sheer, jaw-dropping spectacle of his casual defense. Gregor had braced himself to die fighting for them. Instead, he was watching their would-be assassins grapple with the sudden, violent realization that they had brought knives – or rather, exploding crossbows – to a reality-breaking fistfight. Lyra peeked around Saitama's yellow suit, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and something akin to hysterical relief. Renn just stared, his mouth agape, seemingly incapable of forming a coherent thought.
Saitama sighed, breaking the silence. "Okay, look. I'm gonna ask one more time. Nicely." He gestured vaguely towards the surrounding operatives. "Can you guys just… go away? Find someone else to bother? Maybe take up a hobby? Knitting? Competitive cheese rolling? Anything that doesn't involve pointing sharp things at people who are trying to find breakfast."
His tone was still mild, almost pleading, but the underlying tremor of annoyance was more pronounced now. It was the sound of a man whose patience, already thin from hunger and a distinct lack of s'mores, was rapidly approaching zero.
The metallic-voiced leader finally lowered his hand, a slow, deliberate movement. He didn't speak immediately, the silence stretching taut again. The remaining operatives shifted uneasily, their gaze flicking between their leader and Saitama, awaiting orders, but clearly hesitant, their professional composure cracking under the strain of the incomprehensible.
One of the swordsmen, perhaps younger, less experienced, or simply more reckless, let his fear manifest as aggression. With a guttural yell, he broke ranks, lunging forward, his sword a silver blur aimed at Saitama's exposed flank. "For the Cause!" he shrieked, a desperate, almost suicidal battle cry.
The leader barked a sharp, "No! Halt!" but it was too late.
Saitama didn't even turn his head. As the sword point was inches from his side, he simply… leaned slightly. A small, almost imperceptible shift of his weight, like someone casually leaning away from a mildly offensive smell.
The swordsman, committed to his lunge, expecting to meet flesh, instead met… nothing. His blade whistled through empty air where Saitama's side had been a microsecond before. His momentum carried him forward, off-balance, stumbling past Saitama.
Saitama, still facing mostly forward, reached out his left hand, not in a grab, not in a strike, but more like he was about to pat a disobedient dog on the head. His open palm made contact with the back of the charging swordsman's helmet.
Thwump.
It was a soft sound. Almost gentle.
But the swordsman's forward momentum stopped instantly. His body went rigid for a split second. Then, all the kinetic energy of his charge, with nowhere else to go, seemed to travel up his spine and out the top of his helmet in a way that defied biomechanics. His eyes, visible for a fraction of a second through his visor as his head snapped back, rolled up into his skull. He didn't fly backwards. He didn't crumple. He just… dropped. Straight down. Like a puppet whose strings had been cut. He landed in a boneless heap at Saitama's feet, utterly unconscious, possibly for a very long time. His sword clattered beside him.
Saitama looked down at the unconscious operative. "See? This is what happens when you don't listen. Now he's gonna have a headache. And probably miss lunch." He sighed again, a sound laden with profound weariness. "Okay. Who's next? I really hope nobody's next. My stomach is starting to get seriously grumpy."
The remaining nine swordsmen, including the leader, took an involuntary, collective step backwards. The air crackled with their unspoken fear, their shattered confidence. One man, stopped with a casual lean and a gentle pat. The sheer, effortless disparity in power was suffocating. Their elite training, their years of combat experience, their superior weaponry – all of it was rendered utterly, laughably irrelevant.
The metallic-voiced leader finally spoke, his voice no longer flat and inflectionless, but laced with a new, raw emotion: horrified disbelief, and perhaps, a dawning understanding of the abyss he had just peered into. "What… what are you?"
Saitama turned to face him fully. "I told you. I'm Saitama. Hero for fun. And currently, a very hungry hero who just wants this pointless confrontation to be over so I can find some food." He gestured vaguely at the unconscious operative. "Look, no offense, but your guys aren't very good at this whole 'elite assassin' thing. Maybe try a different career path? Baking? Flower arranging? Much less likely to get patted into unconsciousness."
A ripple of something – fear, anger, utter confusion – went through the remaining operatives. One of them, visibly trembling now, actually lowered his sword slightly, his gaze fixed on Saitama with something approaching terror.
The leader raised a hand again, this time not in an attack signal, but a clear, unmistakable gesture for his remaining men to stand down, to hold. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, stopping a respectful distance from Saitama. The metallic tang was gone from his voice now; it sounded… human. Strained, but human.
"We… we were misinformed," the leader said, his voice rough. "The parameters of your… capabilities… were not accurately relayed." Understatement of the millennium. "Our objective was the retrieval of the Labyrinth escapees. We were not… prepared… for… this." He gestured vaguely at Saitama, at the unconscious man, at the wreckage of the crossbows.
"Yeah, well, next time, maybe do your homework," Saitama said, unimpressed. "Or just, you know, don't try to kidnap people. It's generally frowned upon." He paused. "So. Are we done here? Can we go now? My stomach is seriously considering staging a rebellion."
The leader seemed to wrestle with himself for a long moment. His orders were clear: retrieve the assets. Failure was not an option. But continuing this confrontation… was not just failure; it was suicide. Potentially catastrophic, widespread suicide for his entire unit, and possibly anyone else in the immediate vicinity if this… entity… decided to get genuinely annoyed.
He made a decision. A pragmatic one. A survivalist one. "Stand down," he commanded, his voice carrying clearly to his remaining men. "All units, disengage. Withdraw."
The relief among the remaining nine operatives was palpable, even through their masks and helmets. Swords were hesitantly, almost reverently, sheathed. They began to back away slowly, carefully, their eyes never leaving Saitama, as if expecting him to suddenly change his mind and obliterate them for the inconvenience.
The leader faced Saitama again. "We will… withdraw. For now." The unspoken 'but this isn't over' hung heavy in the air. "But know this, 'Tempest'… your actions… they have consequences. You have disturbed forces far beyond your comprehension."
Saitama blinked. "Consequences? Like, I have to pay for the broken crossbows? Because I'm pretty sure they shot first. Self-defense, you know." He shrugged. "And as for forces beyond my comprehension… mostly I just comprehend that I'm hungry. Everything else is kinda… background noise."
The leader just stared at him for a long moment, then slowly, deliberately, turned and began to retreat, melting back into the forest shadows with his remaining men. They collected their unconscious comrade and the groaning crossbowmen, disappearing as silently and professionally as they had arrived, leaving behind only the lingering scent of ozone, fear, and shattered steel.
Silence descended once more upon the clearing. Gregor, Lyra, and Renn slowly let out breaths they hadn't realized they were holding. They had been surrounded by a dozen elite killers, seconds from death, and now… they were alone again, with Saitama, who was currently examining a piece of exploded crossbow with mild curiosity.
"Huh," Saitama mused, poking a twisted piece of metal. "Cheaply made. No wonder it blew up so easily." He tossed it aside. "Okay! Bad guys gone! Seriously, breakfast now? Before another group of weirdos in matching outfits shows up?"
Gregor looked at the spot where the operatives had vanished, then back at Saitama. He felt a profound, bone-deep weariness, not just physical, but mental. He was tired of being terrified, tired of being confused, tired of trying to make sense of the impossible.
"Yes, Saitama," Gregor said, his voice flat with exhaustion. "Let's go find breakfast. And hope… hope there are no more ripples."
But he knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the core, that the ripples from Saitama's presence, from his actions, were only just beginning to spread. And they were likely to become tidal waves before long.