The word "dance" hung in the supercharged air of the Godsbane Gauntlet arena, a deceptively elegant term for what was about to unfold. Sung Jin-Woo, the Shadow Monarch, stood poised, an epicenter of condensed necrotic energy. His elite Marshals – Beru the Ant King, Igris the Blood-Red Knight, Bellion the Grand-Marshal, and countless other formidable shadow soldiers – materialized around him, their forms more solid, more menacing than ever before. Their collective silver-blue gaze was fixed on Saitama, a silent promise of overwhelming, coordinated destruction.
Saitama, in contrast, just bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, a habit he'd picked up from watching too many boxing movies. "Okay, a dance, huh? Not really my thing. I got two left feet. But if it involves punching, I guess I can give it a shot." He cracked his knuckles, a sound that, for once, seemed almost underwhelming in the face of the legion of shadow warriors arrayed against him.
Shadow, Alpha, and Beta, from their precarious vantage point, felt the very fabric of reality strain under the weight of Jin-Woo's unleashed power. The Night Shard in Shadow's hand was practically vibrating itself to pieces, its cold light flickering erratically.
"This is… this is the true power of a Monarch," Alpha breathed, her voice hushed with a mixture of awe and terror. "He's not just summoning shadows; he is shadow. He commands legions that could overrun continents, worlds even."
Beta, her analytical mind struggling to keep up, stammered, "The synergistic energy output of his Marshals alone… it's… it's incalculable. Each one is a disaster-level threat in their own right. And Saitama-sama… he's asking about the choreography."
The "dance" began.
Jin-Woo didn't move. He simply directed. With a subtle inclination of his head, a silent command that resonated through the shadow realm, his legion attacked.
It was not a chaotic Zerg rush. It was a symphony of perfectly coordinated destruction. Igris, his spectral longsword wreathed in black flames, moved with the speed of a striking viper, aiming a decapitating blow at Saitama. Bellion, his immense draconic form casting a vast shadow, unleashed a torrent of soul-chilling shadow fire. Beru, his claws extended, flanked Saitama, his movements a blur of chitinous fury. And from all sides, an endless tide of shadow soldiers – knights, mages, beasts – surged forward, their attacks a relentless, overlapping barrage.
The arena became a maelstrom of shadow, fire, and raw, destructive energy. The crowd screamed, cowering behind magically reinforced barriers that seemed pitifully inadequate against the forces now unleashed. King Midgar had, by this point, simply passed out and was being fanned by a very pale, very terrified Chancellor Olba.
Shadow watched, his heart pounding in his chest, a strange mixture of exhilaration and dread coursing through him. This is it! The ultimate battle! A clash of unimaginable powers! The kind of spectacle that legends are made of! Even if my role in it is currently 'guy hiding on the roof trying not to get vaporized by stray shadow-dragon breath'!
And Saitama?
Saitama, in the heart of this apocalyptic storm, looked… mildly annoyed.
Igris's flaming sword, an attack that could cleave through fortress walls and sear the souls of lesser beings, simply… phased through him. Or rather, it encountered that same invisible, infinitely resilient barrier, the attack dissipating harmlessly, leaving Saitama completely untouched, though a few stray sparks did manage to singe a tiny hole in his cape.
"Hey!" Saitama exclaimed, swatting at his cape. "This is my good cape! Well, okay, it's my only cape. But still! Watch where you're swinging that thing, pointy-hat guy!"
Bellion's torrent of soul-chilling shadow fire washed over Saitama like a warm bath. He didn't even seem to notice it, apart from a slight squint as if the light was a bit too bright. "You guys really like fire, huh? Kinda makes the air all smoky. Not great for my sinuses."
Beru's relentless claw strikes, each one carrying the force of a battering ram, simply… bounced off. Beru, looking increasingly frustrated and bewildered, actually started to hop up and down, chittering angrily, as if personally offended by Saitama's sheer, unyielding imperviousness.
The endless tide of shadow soldiers crashed against Saitama like waves against a cliff face. Their swords shattered. Their spells fizzled. Their claws skittered harmlessly off his skin. He wasn't even dodging anymore. He was just… standing there, occasionally scratching his nose, or trying to get a better look at a particularly interesting-looking shadow beast ("Hey, that one looks kinda like a really angry poodle! Cool!").
Sung Jin-Woo watched this… display… with an expression that was becoming increasingly difficult to decipher. It was a mixture of profound intrigue, dawning disbelief, and a sliver of something that might have been… frustration? His Shadow Army, a force that had conquered dungeons, defeated Monarchs, and brought entire worlds to heel, was being rendered utterly, comically ineffective by a bald man who seemed more concerned about his sinuses than about the legions of death surrounding him.
"Your… resilience… is truly… noteworthy," Jin-Woo finally said, his voice carefully controlled, though a faint tremor of something unreadable ran through it. "But an army is not defeated by mere endurance. It is overwhelmed. It is crushed."
He raised his hand, and the shadows around him coalesced, swirling into a vortex of unimaginable power. The very air in the arena seemed to solidify, to groan under the pressure. His elite Marshals – Beru, Igris, Bellion, Tusk, Greed, and others – gathered around him, their forms blazing with an intensified, silver-blue light. They were preparing for a combined, overwhelming assault, a focused strike designed to shatter any defense, to annihilate any foe.
"Monarch's Authority: Shadow Obliteration."
This was not just an attack. It was a declaration. A statement of absolute power. The combined might of the Shadow Monarch and his most powerful servants, focused into a single, all-consuming beam of pure, concentrated necrotic energy and destructive force. It lanced across the arena, a black sun of annihilation, aimed directly at Saitama.
The arena floor beneath the beam vaporized. The reinforced magical barriers around the stands flickered and shattered. The very sky above seemed to darken, as if recoiling from the sheer, unadulterated power being unleashed.
Shadow, watching from his vantage point, felt a primal fear grip him. This was power on a scale he had never witnessed, never even imagined. This was not just world-ending; this was reality-ending. This… this is too much! Even for Saitama! Isn't it?! Please tell me it is! Because if it isn't, then nothing makes sense anymore!
The beam of Shadow Obliteration struck Saitama.
And Saitama… just stood there.
He didn't flinch. He didn't move. He didn't even seem to notice. The beam of apocalyptic, soul-crushing, reality-ending power washed over him like a gentle breeze, ruffling his cape slightly. He blinked once. Twice. Then he looked at Jin-Woo, a slightly confused expression on his face.
"Huh," Saitama said, his voice surprisingly clear amidst the dissipating echoes of unimaginable power. "That was… a pretty bright light. You guys trying to give me a tan? Because I don't really tan. Just kinda… get a bit red. And then peel."
Silence.
A silence so profound, so absolute, it was as if the universe itself had just collectively dropped its jaw.
Sung Jin-Woo, the Shadow Monarch, King of the Dead, wielder of the power to command legions and challenge gods, stared at Saitama. His silver-blue eyes, usually blazing with ancient power and unwavering resolve, were wide with a look of… of sheer, unadulterated, and possibly terminal, confusion.
His ultimate attack, the combined might of his entire being and his most powerful servants, an attack that could have unmade galaxies… had apparently been perceived as a slightly overenthusiastic tanning lamp.
His Marshals – Beru, Igris, Bellion, beings of immense power and loyalty – just stood there, their shadowy forms flickering, their silver-blue eyes blinking. They had no frame of reference for this. Their Monarch's power was absolute. It did not fail. It did not tickle. It obliterated.
Saitama, however, was starting to look a little… antsy. "So," he said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Was that it? Are we done with the light show? Because, y'know, I'm still kinda hoping to win this thing and ask that 'Master' guy about the relish. My jerky's getting kinda dry."
Shadow, on his perch, felt something within him snap. It wasn't a bone. It wasn't a muscle. It was, he suspected, the last, tattered remnant of his sanity. He started to laugh. A quiet, choked, hysterical laugh that he quickly smothered beneath his hood. He's worried about his jerky. After tanking a universe-ending shadow beam. This man is not a hero. He is a cosmic punchline. And we are all living in his absurd, hilarious joke.
Sung Jin-Woo slowly lowered his hand. The swirling vortex of shadow energy around him dissipated, leaving him standing alone, his legion of warriors now looking less like an army of death and more like a very confused, very intimidated, drama club.
He looked at Saitama, a long, searching look. Then, a slow, almost weary smile spread across his face. It was not a smile of mockery, or arrogance. It was a smile of… dawning, almost fearful, understanding.
"You… are not an anomaly, Saitama," Jin-Woo said, his voice losing all its monarchal echo, becoming surprisingly, almost startlingly, human. "You are… an impossibility. A fundamental break in the rules of existence." He shook his head, a gesture of profound, almost melancholic, resignation. "There is no… dance… with you. There is only… the inevitable."
Saitama just blinked. "Inevitable? You mean, like, eventually finding a really good sale on crab legs? Because I'm still holding out hope for that one."
Jin-Woo actually chuckled again, a genuine, almost heartfelt sound this time. "Perhaps. Perhaps that is precisely what I mean." He then raised his hands, not in attack, but in a gesture of… concession. "I yield, Saitama. Or rather… 'Blast.' The Godsbane Gauntlet… is yours."
He didn't need to say anything to his army. With a silent, almost mournful, ripple, the legions of shadow soldiers began to dissipate, melting back into the darkness from whence they came, leaving Jin-Woo standing alone in the center of the devastated arena.
The crowd, which had been expecting (and perhaps secretly hoping for) a truly cataclysmic battle, was left in stunned, confused silence. The final match of the Godsbane Gauntlet, the confrontation between two beings of unimaginable power, had ended… with a forfeit. Because one of them was, apparently, too absurdly, too casually, too boringly powerful to even fight properly.
Saitama looked around. "Huh? You're giving up? But we barely even started! I didn't even get to throw a punch yet!" He sounded genuinely disappointed.
"Throwing a punch… would be… redundant, Saitama," Jin-Woo said, a hint of dry amusement in his voice. "And likely… very, very messy. For everyone involved. Except, perhaps, for you." He then inclined his head, a gesture of respect that seemed both profound and utterly out of place. "You have… won. Your audience with the 'Master'… awaits."
As Jin-Woo spoke those final words, the air in the arena shimmered. The dimensional ward Beta had detected earlier pulsed with a new, intense energy. The very ground beneath their feet seemed to hum.
Shadow, on his perch, tensed. "It's happening! The 'Master' is making his move!" He clutched the Night Shard, its cold surface now burning against his palm. "Alpha! Beta! Prepare the disruption protocol! Saitama-dono, be ready for anything!"
But before Saitama could ask what a "disruption protocol" was, or if it involved snacks, the world around them shifted.
The arena, the crowd, the sky above – it all dissolved into a swirling vortex of black and purple light. A nauseating, disorienting sensation washed over them. Then, as quickly as it began, it stopped.
They were no longer in the Godsbane Gauntlet arena.
They were… somewhere else. A vast, empty space, seemingly infinite, a void of swirling nebulae and distant, dying stars. And before them, seated upon a throne carved from what looked like solidified nightmares, was a figure.
It was cloaked in shadows so deep they seemed to swallow the light, its features obscured, its form vast and imposing. An aura of immense, ancient, and utterly malevolent power radiated from it, an oppressive weight that pressed down on their very souls.
This was him. The "Master." The true architect of the chaos.
And he was finally, terrifyingly, here.
He raised a hand, a gesture that seemed to encompass galaxies. His voice, when it spoke, was not a whisper this time. It was a symphony of a thousand dying screams, a chorus of cosmic despair, a sound that promised utter, absolute, and eternal…
"Welcome, anomaly," the Master boomed, his voice echoing through the void. "And welcome, little shadows. You have all played your parts so… entertainingly ..."
The final act had truly begun. And the stage was no longer a mere city, or a forgotten castle. It was the very fabric of reality itself. Shadow gripped the Night Shard, his heart pounding. Saitama just looked around, a curious expression on his face.
"Huh," Saitama said. "This place is kinda empty. You guys got any chairs? My feet are killing me."
The Master's booming, evil laughter, which had been building to a crescendo of villainous triumph, faltered for a split second, a tiny, almost imperceptible, crack appearing in his cosmic, all-encompassing menace.
It seemed even ultimate evil masterminds were not immune to Saitama's unique brand of unintentional, narrative-breaking, comedic timing. The universe, it seemed, had one final, glorious punchline in store. And it was wearing a cheap, white cape.