The silence in Xar'Voth's void-like sanctum was absolute, save for the faint, almost imperceptible hum emanating from Saitama's raised fist – a hum that seemed to resonate with the very bedrock of existence, a promise of utter, irrefutable finality. Xar'Voth, the Weaver of Despair, a being of cosmic, reality-bending power, was, for the first time in its eons-long existence, experiencing an emotion it had only ever inflicted: pure, unadulterated terror.
Shadow Garden, battered, bruised, but still defiant, watched with a mixture of awe, disbelief, and a dawning, almost hysterical, hope. Shadow himself, clutching the now almost painfully hot Night Shard, felt his carefully constructed plans, his dramatic gambits, his entire Eminence persona, shrink into insignificance in the face of the sheer, unadulterated Saitama-ness that was about to unfold.
This… this is it, Cid thought, a strange sense of peace, almost of surrender, washing over him. No more schemes. No more manipulations. Just… this. The ultimate, cosmic punchline. And I have a front-row seat. It's… almost beautiful. In a terrifying, ego-shattering, my-entire-life-is-a-lie kind of way.
Xar'Voth, however, was not one to go down without a fight. Or at least, without a final, desperate, and ultimately futile, display of villainous bravado.
"You… you insignificant speck!" Xar'Voth boomed, its voice trembling slightly, the shadows around its throne writhing like a nest of agitated serpents. "You think your crude, physical force can touch ME? I am Xar'Voth! I am eternal! I am the entropy that unravels stars! I am the silence between heartbeats! I will unmake you! I will erase your pathetic existence from every timeline, every reality! You will be less than dust! You will be—"
"Okay."
Saitama's single, utterly unimpressed syllable cut through Xar'Voth's tirade like a hot knife through butter. He then, with a casualness that was almost insulting, threw his punch.
It wasn't a "Normal Punch." It wasn't even a "Consecutive Normal Punches." It was just… a punch. A straightforward, no-frills, "I'm-kinda-bored-and-want-this-to-be-over-with" kind of punch.
But the effect…
There was no sound. No explosion. No dramatic shockwave that ripped through the void.
There was just… absence.
One moment, Xar'Voth, the Weaver of Despair, He Who Whispers in the Cracks Between Worlds, was there, a vast, imposing figure of cosmic dread, wreathed in shadows and malevolent power, about to unleash unimaginable horrors upon reality.
The next moment, Xar'Voth… wasn't.
The throne of solidified nightmares… vanished. The writhing, tentacled shadow-constructs… winked out of existence. The oppressive, soul-crushing aura of ancient evil… dissipated like morning mist. The very fabric of the void-like sanctum seemed to shudder, then stabilize, the swirling nebulae calming, the distant, dying stars ceasing their mournful pulse.
It was as if Xar'Voth, and everything associated with it, had been… deleted. Erased from existence with the same casual finality one might use to delete a poorly written email.
Saitama lowered his fist. He flexed his fingers. He looked at the empty space where the ultimate evil mastermind had been a nanosecond before.
"Huh," he said, a slightly confused look on his face. "Guess he wasn't that tough after all. Just really loud. And kinda rude. Interrupting people when they need the bathroom? Not cool, dude. Not cool at all."
Silence.
A silence so profound, so absolute, it was as if the universe itself was holding its breath, trying to process what it had just witnessed.
Shadow Garden – Alpha, Beta, Epsilon, Seraphina – just stood there, their weapons lowered, their faces masks of utter, slack-jawed disbelief. They had faced down Night Blades, battled ancient vampires, and infiltrated cult strongholds. They had prepared for a desperate, last-ditch battle against a being of unimaginable cosmic power.
And it had ended… like this. With a single, casual punch. Because the ultimate evil mastermind had been rude about bathroom breaks.
Shadow slowly, deliberately, lowered the Night Shard. Its cold light had faded, its thrumming stilled. It felt… inert. Lifeless. As if its connection to its former master had been… irrevocably severed. He looked at the empty space where Xar'Voth had been, then at Saitama, who was now examining his knuckles with mild interest.
A strange, hysterical giggle escaped Shadow's lips. He quickly smothered it, but the damage was done. The sheer, unadulterated, reality-breaking absurdity of it all was too much. His carefully constructed Eminence persona, his years of chuunibyou-fueled delusions, his aspirations of being the ultimate shadowy mastermind – they all felt like a particularly elaborate, and ultimately pointless, practical joke.
And Saitama was the punchline. A punchline that had just saved all of existence. Accidentally. While complaining about indigestion.
"Lord Shadow…?" Alpha ventured, her voice barely a whisper, her golden eyes wide with a mixture of awe, terror, and profound, existential confusion. "Did… did Saitama-sama just… one-punch… the Weaver of Despair?"
"It would appear so, Alpha-sama," Beta confirmed, her voice equally hushed, though her hand was already reaching for a fresh (and hopefully more resilient) pen. "Preliminary analysis suggests a complete and total cessation of Xar'Voth's energetic and existential signatures. He has been… expunged." She paused. "The collateral damage to the immediate dimensional fabric, however, appears to be… surprisingly minimal. Almost as if Saitama-sama's fist… selectively erased him, without disturbing the surrounding reality."
Genos, who had been silently observing the entire confrontation, nodded with an air of quiet satisfaction. "As expected of Sensei. A flawless and efficient neutralization of a god-tier interdimensional threat. His control, even in the face of such overwhelming power, is truly remarkable." (He conveniently ignored the fact that Saitama's "control" usually involved not really thinking about what he was doing at all).
Saitama, overhearing, just shrugged. "Eh, I just punched him. He was being a jerk. And I really needed to find a bathroom." He then looked around the now-calm, but still unsettlingly empty, void. "So… now what? Is there, like, a prize? Or a gift shop? I'm still kinda hoping for that mini-catapult."
Before anyone could respond to Saitama's pressing concerns about souvenirs, the void around them began to shimmer. The swirling nebulae pulsed with a new, gentler light. The obsidian platform beneath their feet began to dissolve, not into nothingness, but into a soft, golden radiance.
"The pocket dimension is collapsing," Alpha observed, her hand instinctively going to her sword, though the oppressive menace was gone. "Xar'Voth's power was the only thing sustaining it."
"We will likely be returned to our point of origin," Beta surmised. "The Godsbane Gauntlet arena. Or what's left of it."
As the golden light enveloped them, Shadow felt a strange sense of… closure. The "Master" was gone. The Night Blades were scattered and leaderless. The Cult of Diablos, while still a lingering threat, had lost its primary source of power and direction. His grand, shadowy war… it was, in a very real, if anticlimactic, way… over.
What was an Eminence in Shadow to do when the ultimate evil had been accidentally one-punched out of existence by a bald guy looking for a bathroom?
The light faded, and they found themselves standing, not in the ruins of the Godsbane Gauntlet arena, but in a place that was both familiar and subtly different. They were back in Midgar, but the city seemed… brighter. Calmer. The oppressive, fear-laden atmosphere that had clung to it since the dimensional incursions began had lifted, replaced by a tentative, almost fragile, sense of peace.
They were in a large, ornate chamber, one Shadow recognized as a seldom-used audience hall within the Royal Palace. And they were not alone.
Standing before them, their expressions a mixture of relief, awe, and lingering disbelief, were not just King Midgar (who looked remarkably less green, and was actually standing upright, albeit leaning heavily on Chancellor Olba) and the princesses Iris and Alexia, but also the other core members of Shadow Garden.
Gamma was there, looking flustered but relieved, having apparently survived her babysitting duties for Mr. Fluffles (who was now happily munching on a carrot, seemingly unfazed by his recent interdimensional jaunt). Delta was there, her tail wagging furiously, her eyes fixed on Saitama with an expression of pure, unadulterated hero-worship. Zeta, the stoic beastkin scout, and Eta, the reclusive research prodigy, were also present, their usually impassive faces showing a rare flicker of… something. Surprise? Relief? It was hard to tell.
And standing slightly apart, her expression a complex mixture of residual fear, dawning hope, and a profound, weary understanding, was Seraphina, the former Night Blade.
"Lord Shadow! Alpha-sama!" Gamma cried, rushing forward (and nearly tripping over a conveniently placed royal footstool). "You've returned! And… and Saitama-sama! The… the terrible feeling… it's gone! The city… it feels… lighter!"
King Midgar, his voice still a little shaky, stepped forward. "Lord Shadow… Saitama… dono… what… what has transpired? The… the oppressive darkness that plagued our kingdom… it vanished, almost instantly. The very air feels… cleaner."
Shadow, still trying to process the sheer, unadulterated absurdity of the past… however long it had been (time had become a rather fluid concept lately), cleared his throat. He needed to say something. Something profound. Something Eminence-like. Something that would salvage at least a shred of his carefully crafted narrative.
"The… Weaver of Despair… has been… unraveled," Shadow declared, his voice resonating with as much gravitas as he could muster while still internally grappling with the image of Saitama asking a cosmic horror for directions to the bathroom. "His influence over this world, and indeed, over the cracks between realities, has been… permanently severed."
He conveniently omitted the part about how it had been severed. Let them assume it was due to his own brilliant, shadowy machinations, or a desperate, heroic last stand by Shadow Garden. The truth was just… too embarrassing. For everyone involved. Except, perhaps, for Saitama, who seemed completely unfazed by having just erased an interdimensional god-tier entity from existence.
Saitama, meanwhile, had spotted a platter of what looked like miniature pastries on a nearby table. "Ooh, snacks!" he exclaimed, making a beeline for them. "Hope they have some of that swirly kind I like."
A wave of profound, collective silence washed over the assembled royalty and Shadow Garden members as they watched the savior of all existence happily stuff his face with tiny eclairs.
It was Princess Iris who finally broke the silence, her voice filled with a childlike awe. "So… it's over? The bad man… he's really gone?"
"Yes, Princess," Alpha confirmed, a small, tired smile touching her lips. "He's gone." She glanced at Saitama, then quickly looked away, as if afraid she might start giggling uncontrollably.
Alexia, however, was looking at Saitama with a new, intense scrutiny. Her analytical mind, which had dismissed him as a powerful but ultimately artless brute, was now struggling to comprehend the sheer, incomprehensible scale of what had just happened. This wasn't just power. This was… something else entirely. Something that broke all the rules.
As the initial shock began to wear off, a sense of profound relief, and a dawning, almost giddy, sense of celebration, began to fill the chamber. The King, tears streaming down his face, actually hugged Chancellor Olba. The princesses embraced. Even the usually stoic Zeta and Eta allowed themselves small, almost imperceptible, smiles.
Delta, of course, just bounded over to Saitama and started trying to get him to share his pastries, her tail wagging so hard her entire body shook.
Shadow watched it all, a strange, almost melancholic, feeling settling over him. His grand, shadowy war was over. The ultimate evil was defeated. He had, in a way, achieved everything he had ever dreamed of.
And it felt… strangely empty.
Because he hadn't been the one to deliver the final blow. He hadn't been the one to unravel the Master's grand design with his brilliant intellect and shadowy prowess. He had been… a supporting character. An exasperated, often humiliated, supporting character in "The Hilariously Absurd Adventures of Saitama the Accidental Reality-Breaker."
But then, he looked at his Shades. He saw the genuine relief, the hard-won camaraderie, the loyalty that bound them together. He saw the hope returning to the faces of the King and his daughters. He saw Seraphina, a former enemy, now standing with them, a tentative smile on her face, a symbol of redemption, of a new beginning.
And he looked at Saitama, who was now trying to explain the finer points of eclair-eating etiquette to a very confused Delta, Mr. Fluffles perched on his head, looking like a tiny, fluffy, and slightly bewildered, king.
Maybe… maybe being an Eminence in Shadow wasn't about being the sole, all-powerful hero. Maybe it was about… creating the stage. Setting the scene. And then, sometimes, letting the universe, in all its bizarre, unpredictable, and often hilarious glory, write the final act.
A small, genuine smile touched Cid Kagenou's lips beneath his hood. The thrill wasn't gone. It had just… changed. It was no longer the thrill of personal glory, but the thrill of shared victory, however absurd. And the lingering scent of Demon-Pepper relish, which still clung faintly to the air around Saitama, was a surprisingly fitting perfume for the end of the world. Or, at least, the end of this particular world-ending crisis.
The future was uncertain. The Cult of Diablos, though weakened, still lurked in the shadows. Other Night Blades might still be out there. And Saitama… well, Saitama would always be Saitama, a walking, talking catalyst for chaos and unintentional heroism.
But for now, in this moment of quiet, almost surreal, peace, the Eminence in Shadow allowed himself to just… be. A spectator. A chronicler. And perhaps, just perhaps, a friend.
He just hoped Saitama wouldn't ask him for directions to any more condiment shops. His nerves, and his carefully crafted narratives, could only take so much.