The information gleaned from Seraphina, combined with Zeta and Eta's deep-level intelligence gathering (which involved methods best left undescribed, but were remarkably effective), began to paint a clearer, if still deeply unsettling, picture of the Thirteen Night Blades. Each was a specialist, a uniquely terrifying cog in the "Master's" grand, shadowy machine. And the next name on Shadow Garden's list, the one Seraphina had spoken of with a particular shudder, was "Puppet Master Jervois."
"Jervois is not a frontline combatant in the traditional sense," Seraphina had explained, her voice hushed as if merely speaking his name could summon him. "He controls from afar. His puppets… they are not mere wooden dolls. They are crafted from flesh and bone, imbued with twisted life, their strings pulled by his dark will. He can control dozens, hundreds even. Entire towns have fallen silent under his influence, their populations replaced by his… creations."
This was the kind of insidious, widespread threat that Shadow Garden excelled at combating. Brute force, Saitama's specialty, would be less effective against an enemy who never showed his face, who operated through a legion of proxies. This was a mission for stealth, for precision, for unraveling a web of control.
"His last known area of operation," Alpha reported, pointing to a map of a remote, mist-shrouded region several days' travel from Midgar, "is the town of Silberbrunnen. It went dark three cycles ago. No communication, no trade caravans returning. The Royal Scouts sent to investigate never came back."
Shadow's hidden eyes gleamed. "Silberbrunnen. A town of silent puppets. An excellent stage for Jervois to play his macabre symphony." He turned to his assembled Shades. "This will be a delicate operation. We must locate Jervois himself, sever his control, and liberate the town – if there is anything left to liberate."
This time, Cid was determined. This was his mission. Saitama, with his penchant for accidental, large-scale destruction and his utter inability to comprehend the concept of subtlety, would be a liability.
"Alpha, Beta, Epsilon, you will accompany me," Shadow declared. "Delta, Gamma, Zeta, Eta, you will remain in Midgar, coordinating with Seraphina, monitoring Cult activity, and… ensuring our other… assets… do not inadvertently level any more historical landmarks." He studiously avoided looking in the direction of Saitama's quarters.
Saitama, who had wandered in during the briefing, attracted by the smell of freshly brewed (and surprisingly decent) coffee Gamma had managed not to ruin, looked up from his third cup. "So, you guys are going on a road trip? Cool. Can you bring me back some of those weird swirly pastries from that bakery near the East Gate?"
Shadow sighed internally. "Saitama-dono, this is a… highly specialized undertaking. Your particular talents are best suited for… a more direct form of engagement, should it become necessary after the primary objective is achieved." Translation: Please, for the love of all that is shadowy, stay here and try not to punch the moon out of orbit because you got bored.
Genos, ever perceptive, understood the unspoken implication. "Sensei, it appears this mission requires a level of infiltration and subtlety that might be… hampered by our usual operational methods. Perhaps we could use this time to further explore Midgar's technological archives? I am particularly interested in their theories on arcane energy conversion."
Saitama shrugged. "Archives sound boring. But if you guys are gonna be gone for a few days, maybe I can finally catch up on my sleep. Been having weird dreams lately."
No one pressed him on the nature of his "weird dreams." The thought of what Saitama might dream about was, frankly, too terrifying to contemplate.
And so, Shadow Garden's elite infiltration team set off for the mist-shrouded town of Silberbrunnen. The journey was swift and silent, befitting their shadowy nature. They traveled light, under the cover of darkness, their senses alert for any sign of Cult activity or Jervois's influence.
As they neared Silberbrunnen, the atmosphere grew increasingly oppressive. The mist was unnaturally thick, clinging to the ground like a shroud, muffling all sound. The trees that lined the road were gnarled and dead, their branches like skeletal fingers clawing at the grey sky. A profound, unsettling silence hung over the region.
"The air is thick with Jervois's magic," Epsilon whispered, her slime bodysuit shimmering faintly as it analyzed the ambient energies. "It's a subtle, pervasive enchantment. Designed to dull the senses, to instill… compliance."
"He's already at work," Alpha confirmed, her golden eyes scanning the oppressive gloom. "The town itself is likely completely under his thrall."
They reached the outskirts of Silberbrunnen. The town was eerily still. No lights shone from the windows of the quaint, timber-framed houses. No smoke curled from the chimneys. The only sound was the faint, mournful creak of a weathered inn sign swaying in the non-existent breeze.
"We proceed on foot," Shadow commanded. "Stealth is paramount. We locate Jervois, neutralize him. The puppets will fall when their master is severed."
They moved through the silent streets like ghosts, their footsteps making no sound on the cobblestones. The town was not empty. Figures moved in the shadows, stood motionless in doorways, peered from behind darkened windows. But they were not alive. Their movements were jerky, unnatural, their eyes vacant and staring. They were Jervois's puppets, the former inhabitants of Silberbrunnen, their wills stolen, their bodies now mere playthings for a sadistic puppet master.
It was a chilling sight, even for the battle-hardened members of Shadow Garden. The sheer, silent horror of an entire town transformed into a grotesque marionette show was profoundly unsettling.
"His control is… absolute," Beta murmured, her voice tight with disgust as she documented the scene. "This is not mere mind control. He has… reanimated them. Twisted them."
Shadow felt a cold fury rise within him. This was the true evil of the Cult, the casual disregard for life, the perversion of the natural order. This was the kind of darkness he had (ostensibly) dedicated his life to fighting. Jervois… your strings will be cut, and your stage will become your tomb.
They moved deeper into the town, towards the central square, where the arcane energy was strongest. The puppets became more numerous, their jerky movements more coordinated, as if sensing the intruders. But they did not attack. Not yet. They simply… watched. Their vacant eyes followed Shadow Garden's every move, a silent, unnerving audience.
"He knows we're here," Alpha whispered. "He's playing with us."
"Let him," Shadow replied, his voice a low growl. "His arrogance will be his undoing."
They reached the town square. In the center, atop a makeshift platform constructed from broken market stalls, stood a figure. He was tall and gaunt, clad in elaborate, theatrical robes of black and purple. His face was pale and sharp, with a cruel, mocking smile playing on his lips. Long, slender fingers, like a conductor's, twitched at his sides. This was Puppet Master Jervois.
And surrounding him, standing in perfect, silent rows, were dozens upon dozens of his puppets – men, women, even children, their eyes blank, their movements controlled by invisible strings. The entire population of Silberbrunnen, a silent, captive army.
"Well, well, well," Jervois said, his voice a smooth, cultured tenor that dripped with disdain. "Shadow Garden, I presume? How… predictable. Did you enjoy the welcoming committee? I find they add a certain… ambiance to my little performances."
"Your reign of terror ends tonight, Jervois," Shadow declared, stepping out from the shadows, his ebony blade gleaming in the faint, misty light. Alpha, Beta, and Epsilon fanned out beside him, their weapons ready.
Jervois chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. "Reign of terror? My dear, shadowy interloper, this is not terror. This is art. The sublime beauty of absolute control. The exquisite dance of flesh and will, orchestrated by a true master." He gestured grandly to his puppet army. "Behold! My masterpiece! Silberbrunnen, the town that dances to my tune!"
With a flick of his wrist, a dozen puppets – former town guards, still clad in their rusted armor – jerked into motion, their movements unnaturally fast and precise, their blades aimed at Shadow Garden.
"A mere overture," Jervois sneered. "Let us see how well you dance, little shadows."
The battle began. Alpha, Beta, and Epsilon engaged the puppet guards, their skills honed and deadly. Alpha's blade was a silver blur, severing the invisible strings of control with each strike, causing the puppets to collapse lifelessly. Beta used her analytical mind to predict their jerky, unnatural movements, her attacks precise and disabling. Epsilon's slime-enhanced agility allowed her to weave through their attacks, her sword finding the hidden control mechanisms Jervois had implanted in his creations.
Shadow, however, focused solely on Jervois. This was his fight. The puppet master versus the master of shadows.
"Your control is an illusion, Jervois," Shadow said, advancing slowly. "A perversion of true power. I will show you the meaning of absolute severance."
Jervois merely smiled, his eyes glittering with amusement. "Such bravado! But can you withstand the full orchestra?" With a flourish of his hands, more puppets surged forward – blacksmiths wielding heavy hammers, farmers with pitchforks, even bakers with rolling pins, all moving with a deadly, unnatural coordination.
The fight was intense, chaotic. The sheer number of puppets was overwhelming. For every one they disabled, two more seemed to take its place. The town square became a nightmarish battlefield of flailing limbs, clashing steel, and the eerie, silent advance of the puppet horde.
Shadow moved like a phantom through the chaos, his blade a whisper of death. He wasn't just fighting puppets; he was fighting the very will of Jervois, the dark magic that animated them. He could feel the puppet master's strings, intangible yet potent, trying to ensnare him, to control him. But Shadow's will, his (carefully cultivated) aura of absolute darkness, resisted.
This is it! Cid thought, a thrill coursing through him despite the danger. A true battle of wills! My shadowy resolve against his manipulative control! This is the drama! This is the Eminence!
He parried a blow from a puppet blacksmith, its hammer imbued with Jervois's dark strength, then spun, his blade severing the strings of three puppets simultaneously. He was a whirlwind of controlled fury, a dark avenger cutting through the tide of mindless abominations.
But Jervois was skilled. He adapted, sending waves of puppets in complex, overlapping attack patterns, trying to overwhelm Shadow Garden through sheer numbers and relentless pressure. Beta was forced to use several of her more potent explosive devices to clear space. Epsilon's slime armor was beginning to show signs of strain from deflecting so many blows. Even Alpha, a peerless warrior, was being pushed back, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
"You see?" Jervois cackled from his platform, conducting his puppet army with maniacal glee. "You cannot fight an entire town! You cannot fight the will of a true artist! Soon, you too will join my collection! Such exquisite additions you will make!"
Shadow gritted his teeth beneath his hood. They were being worn down. Jervois himself remained untouched, protected by his endless legion. He needed to break through, to reach the puppet master.
"Alpha! Beta! Epsilon! Create an opening! 'Shadow Pierce Formation'!" Shadow commanded.
The three Shades responded instantly, their movements shifting, their attacks becoming more focused, more aggressive, aiming to create a temporary breach in the puppet line.
It was at this precise moment, as Shadow Garden prepared for a desperate, high-stakes maneuver, that a loud, profoundly bored yawn echoed through the silent, mist-shrouded town square.
Everyone – Shadow, Alpha, Beta, Epsilon, Jervois, and even the jerky, mindless puppets – froze.
From the edge of the town square, strolling casually through a gap in the puppet ranks that had inexplicably, almost respectfully, parted for him, came Saitama. He was rubbing his eyes, looking like he'd just woken up from a very long, very unsatisfying nap. Mr. Fluffles was still on his shoulder, looking equally sleepy. Genos followed a step behind, his expression, as always, dutifully alert.
"Man," Saitama said, stifling another yawn, "that was a weird dream. I dreamt I was being chased by a giant talking meatball that kept trying to sell me life insurance. Super stressful." He looked around the chaotic town square, at the piles of disabled puppets, at Shadow Garden locked in combat, at Jervois conducting his macabre orchestra. "Oh, hey. You guys are having a party? Looks kinda messy."
Jervois stared, his jaw slack, his conducting hands frozen in mid-air. "Who… who in the blighted realms are you?!"
Shadow felt his meticulously crafted dramatic tension, his desperate struggle against overwhelming odds, his entire heroic narrative, deflate like a punctured lung. No… Not now… Not HIM… I was SO CLOSE to a cool finishing move!
"I'm Saitama," he replied, looking at Jervois. "And you're the guy making all these dolls dance? Kinda creepy, dude. You ever think about getting a less weird hobby? Like, collecting stamps? Or competitive eating?"
Jervois, a master manipulator, a sadist who reveled in control, a being who had bent an entire town to his will, found himself utterly, completely, and profoundly… speechless. This… this imbecile… had just wandered into the heart of his masterpiece and was critiquing his life choices.
"These are not dolls, you oaf!" Jervois finally sputtered, his face contorted with rage. "They are instruments of my will! An extension of my power! Puppets! Attack him! Tear him limb from limb!"
A dozen of the nearest puppets, including a particularly large and menacing-looking former butcher wielding a massive cleaver, jerked into motion and lunged at Saitama.
Saitama just sighed. It was the sigh of a man whose nap had been interrupted, whose weird dreams were still lingering, and who was really, really tired of creepy guys with weird hobbies.
He didn't even look at the attacking puppets. He just… sneezed.
It wasn't a particularly loud sneeze. Just a normal, "Achoo!"
But the concussive force of that sneeze…
The dozen attacking puppets were not just blown back. They were disintegrated. They exploded into a shower of splintered wood, torn fabric, and rapidly dissipating dark energy. The shockwave continued, ripping through the ranks of the puppet army, sending them tumbling like bowling pins, their invisible strings snapping like overtuned guitar wires. Even Jervois, on his platform, was buffeted by the force, his elaborate robes billowing, his cruel smile wiped clean off his face, replaced by an expression of utter, mind-numbing shock.
The entire town square, which moments before had been a scene of chaotic battle, was suddenly, almost comically, still. Piles of broken puppets lay everywhere. The remaining ones stood frozen, their strings severed, their vacant eyes staring.
Saitama sniffled, rubbing his nose. "Ugh. Think I'm catching a cold. This mist is probably bad for my sinuses."
Shadow, Alpha, Beta, and Epsilon just stood there, weapons still raised, amidst the carnage. They had been preparing for a desperate, last-ditch offensive. And Saitama had just ended the entire battle… with a sneeze. Because he was having a bad dream about a talking meatball.
Jervois, his face pale as a corpse, stared at Saitama, then at the devastation of his puppet army, then back at Saitama. The power he had wielded, the control he had savored, the art he had created… all undone. By a sneeze.
"My… my orchestra…" he whispered, his voice trembling. "My… masterpiece…"
Saitama looked at him. "Yeah, about that. It was kinda loud, and all the jerky movements were giving me a headache. You really should consider stamps, dude. Much quieter."
Puppet Master Jervois, one of the Thirteen Night Blades, a being of insidious power and cruel artistry, did the only thing a self-respecting, utterly defeated villain could do in the face of such overwhelming, incomprehensible, and frankly insulting power.
He fainted. Clean away. He just crumpled onto his makeshift platform, out like a light.
Shadow slowly lowered his ebony blade. He looked at Saitama, who was now examining a splintered puppet arm with mild curiosity. He looked at the unconscious Jervois. He looked at his dumbfounded Shades.
The Eminence in Shadow took a deep breath. And for the first time, a genuine, undeniable, and utterly weary smile touched his lips beneath his hood. The sheer, unadulterated absurdity of it all… it was almost… liberating. His narrative was a smoking ruin. But damn, if it wasn't a hilarious ruin.
"Well," Shadow said, his voice surprisingly light, "it seems the… final curtain… has fallen on Jervois's performance. Rather more… abruptly… than anticipated." He then looked at Saitama. "Saitama-dono. Your… respiratory distress… appears to be remarkably potent."
Saitama just shrugged. "Gesundheit, I guess." He then brightened. "Hey, since all these dolls are broken, you think anyone will mind if I use some of this wood for a campfire? I'm still kinda craving those swirly pastries."
The liberation of Silberbrunnen was complete. Not with a bang, but with an "Achoo." And the Eminence in Shadow was beginning to suspect that his carefully crafted role was less "mastermind" and more "exasperated narrator of the Saitama Show." The thrill was definitely still there, but it was now accompanied by a persistent, nagging desire for a very, very strong drink.