The Gray Monk's Monastery stood silhouetted against the bruised twilight sky like a mouthful of broken teeth. Perched atop a rugged, windswept hill a day's ride north of Midgar, it was a place steeped in grim history and local superstition. Once a bastion of a severe, long-forgotten ascetic order, it had been abandoned for centuries, its stone walls crumbling, its bell tower silent, its once-hallowed halls now home only to nesting crows and creeping ivy. Or so the stories went.
The truth, as known to the kingdom's intelligence services and now, to Saitama, was far more sinister. The monastery served as a capstone, a surface-level facade for a much deeper, more extensive complex: a labyrinth of catacombs, hidden chambers, and unholy ritual sites that served as the primary nerve center for the Cult of Diablos in the region. Here, under the guise of ancient ruins, dark-robed acolytes conducted forbidden research, summoned lesser demons to serve as guards, and stockpiled artifacts of immense, malevolent power. It was a place of deep shadow, whispered incantations, and the ever-present stench of corrupting magic.
And, according to the King's hastily fabricated intelligence, it was also the central depot for all stolen instant noodles in a hundred-league radius.
Inside the monastery's deepest sanctum, a vast, circular chamber lit by the sickly green-purple glow of pulsating dark-energy crystals, a senior cultist known as Prelate Malakor presided over a ritual. He was a tall, gaunt man, his face half-hidden by the deep shadow of his hood, his visible skin pale and etched with faint, glowing runes. Before him, suspended in a shimmering containment field, was a writhing mass of pure shadow – a captured entity from some minor abyssal plane, its essence being slowly siphoned to power the monastery's defensive wards.
"The resonance grows stronger," Malakor intoned, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that echoed in the chamber. "The fall of the Titan, the dissolution of the Valley Wards… these were not random events. A new power has emerged in this kingdom. A chaotic, unpredictable force."
A younger acolyte, her face flushed with a mixture of fear and fervent zeal, knelt beside him. "Prelate, our observers in the capital confirm the rumors. They call this power 'The Tempest.' They say he was crowned champion of their pathetic tournament."
Malakor sneered. "A champion of a mortal kingdom is but an insect to the glory of the coming age. But this insect… this 'Tempest'… possesses a sting we do not yet comprehend. We must be cautious. Strengthen the outer wards. Double the demonic patrols. We cannot allow Midgar's foolish knights to stumble upon us while our great work is so close to fruition."
"It shall be done, Prelate," the acolyte said, bowing deeply.
As she rose to leave, a faint tremor ran through the stone floor of the chamber. The dark-energy crystals flickered. The siphoned shadow-entity in the containment field pulsed erratically.
"What was that?" Malakor snapped, his head whipping around. "An earth tremor?"
The acolyte looked confused. "I… I felt nothing, Prelate."
Malakor's rune-etched skin tingled. He could feel it. A subtle, yet profound, disturbance in the ley lines, in the very fabric of space around the monastery. It wasn't the thrum of magic or the rumble of an earthquake. It was something else. A ripple of… arrival.
He extended his own senses, his dark magic probing the air outside. He felt… nothing. No armies marching, no magical siege engines preparing, no dragons descending. Just… a single, bafflingly quiet, yet overwhelmingly potent… presence. Standing right outside their main gate.
Saitama landed.
His "flight" from Midgar, a single, sustained leap, had covered the distance in roughly twenty-seven seconds. He had slightly overshot his landing, soaring past the monastery and having to perform a comical, Looney Tunes-esque mid-air stop by flailing his arms and legs, before dropping down into the courtyard just outside the main entrance. He landed with a soft thump that nonetheless sent a network of hairline cracks spreading across the ancient flagstones.
He brushed the dust from his pristine hero suit. "Nailed it," he said to himself. He looked around. The monastery was… creepy. Lots of gargoyles with grumpy faces, crumbling walls, and a general air of 'no soliciting.' The main gate was a massive, iron-bound oaken door, sealed shut with rust and, presumably, dark, forbidden magic.
"Okay," Saitama mused, consulting the King's heavily embellished map. "Gray Monk's Monastery. 'Here Be Noodle Hoarders.' This is the place."
He walked up to the massive, sealed door. He noted the lack of a handle, a knocker, or even a letterbox. "Hmm. Not very welcoming." He put his ear to the door. He couldn't hear anything. "Guess nobody's home."
He considered his options. He could punch the door down. That was usually effective. But it was also messy, and might damage the noodles inside. He could try to climb the walls. But that seemed like a lot of effort, and he might scuff his new boots. He decided to try a more diplomatic approach first.
He cleared his throat and knocked. Not a thunderous, door-shattering blow, but a simple, polite knock-knock-knock with his knuckle.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
Each polite knock landed with the concussive force of a siege ram, sending shockwaves through the ancient oak and iron. The entire gate shuddered violently in its stone frame. The thick bar on the other side, forged from enchanted steel, bent into a U-shape. The hinges groaned, threatening to tear loose from the stone. Dust and small fragments of wood rained down.
Inside the monastery, the effect was more pronounced. The "boom" of Saitama's knocking echoed through the halls like cannon fire, shattering stained-glass windows depicting tortured saints, toppling suits of ancient, cursed armor, and causing the demonic patrols – hulking, horned beasts summoned to guard the corridors – to startle and look around in confused panic.
In the deepest sanctum, Prelate Malakor was thrown back a step by the sheer sonic force that vibrated through the stone. The containment field around the shadow-entity flickered violently, almost failing.
"What is that?!" the young acolyte shrieked, covering her ears. "Are we under attack?!"
Malakor's eyes were wide with a mixture of rage and disbelief. Attack? This wasn't an attack. This was… a doorbell. A terrifyingly, absurdly powerful doorbell. "The wards!" he roared. "The outer gate wards! Why did they not trigger?!"
He didn't know that his most powerful death-curses and soul-draining traps, woven into the fabric of the gate, were designed to react to hostile intent, to magical signatures, to the life force of intruders. Saitama's knock possessed none of these. It was just… kinetic energy. A lot of it. The wards didn't know how to process a threat that was simultaneously so polite and so physically overwhelming. They simply… failed to activate.
Saitama, outside, waited a moment. Nobody answered. "Guess they're really not home." He knocked again, a little harder this time, more of a knock-knock-knock-KNOCK.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. KRA-KOOOOM!
On the final, slightly more insistent knock, the massive iron-bound oak gate, which had withstood centuries of wind, rain, and the occasional siege by disgruntled peasants, simply gave up. It didn't just break; it exploded inwards, disintegrating into a cloud of splinters and twisted iron shrapnel that shot down the main entrance hall like a massive shotgun blast. The demonic guards in the hall, who had been cautiously approaching the gate, were instantly shredded by the debris, their screams cut short.
The resulting shockwave and vacuum ripped through the monastery, extinguishing torches, shattering artifacts, and sending acolytes tumbling down corridors.
Saitama peered into the now-open, smoke-filled entrance hall. "Hello? Anybody here? I'm here about the… uh… noodle situation?" He sniffed the air. "Smells kinda… dusty. And a little like burnt demon." He shrugged and walked inside, stepping carefully over the splinters that had once been a formidable gate.
The entire monastery was now on high alert. Alarms, both magical and mundane, shrieked through the halls. Acolytes scrambled for weapons. Demonic monstrosities were unleashed from their pens, roaring in confusion and rage.
Prelate Malakor watched the chaos unfold through his scrying crystal, his face a mask of cold fury. "An intruder! One single intruder! He breached the Umbral Gate as if it were parchment! All units, converge on the Grand Vestibule! Unleash the Gore-Hounds! Activate the Flesh-Golems! I want him torn limb from limb!" He then looked at the flickering containment field in his own chamber. The stability of his ritual was threatened. "I will complete the siphoning. Deal with this… pest."
Saitama, meanwhile, was wandering through the Grand Vestibule, a large, vaulted hall decorated with unsettling tapestries and statues of things with too many tentacles. He looked around. "Lots of spooky decorations. But no noodle aisle. This is very poor store layout."
A pack of Gore-Hounds, massive, skinless canines with exposed muscle and teeth like shards of obsidian, bounded into the vestibule, snarling and drooling acidic saliva. They saw Saitama and charged, a tide of slavering, monstrous fury.
Saitama watched them come. "Oh, more angry dogs. You guys get around." As the first Gore-Hound leaped for his throat, he simply… held out his hand, palm open, as if signaling it to stop.
The Gore-Hound, mid-leap, slammed into his palm and… stuck. Its momentum vanished instantly, its body held fast, quivering, its slavering jaws inches from Saitama's impassive face.
"Bad dog," Saitama said calmly. He then, with a flick of his wrist, tossed the Gore-Hound upwards. It shot through the vaulted stone ceiling, leaving a perfectly circular, dog-shaped hole, and vanished into the stormy night sky above, its surprised yelp fading into the distance.
The other Gore-Hounds skidded to a halt, their monstrous instincts screaming at them that something was fundamentally, existentially wrong.
Saitama looked at them. "Okay, who wants to play fetch next?" He then noticed two massive figures lumbering into the vestibule from side corridors. They were Flesh-Golems, towering abominations stitched together from the parts of countless victims, animated by necromantic energies, their mismatched limbs wielding massive, crude cleavers. They were slow, but incredibly strong and nearly impossible to kill by conventional means.
They lumbered towards Saitama, raising their cleavers.
Saitama looked from the hesitating Gore-Hounds to the approaching Flesh-Golems. He sighed. "Okay, this is getting crowded. And you're all between me and the potential noodle stash." He clenched his fist. "I guess I'll just have to clean up a bit." He then unleashed a single, straightforward, entirely un-special punch into the empty air in front of him.
He called it: "Normal Punch."
The effect was not normal.
The air itself compressed, becoming a solid, invisible wall of pure kinetic force that erupted outwards. It wasn't an explosion of fire or light; it was an explosion of pure, unadulterated pressure.
The remaining Gore-Hounds, the two Flesh-Golems, the unsettling tapestries, the tentacled statues, a significant portion of the far wall of the Grand Vestibule, and a good chunk of the corridor behind it, were all simultaneously hit by this wall of force. They didn't just get blown back. They were… erased. Pulverized into fine dust and component atoms in an instant. The stone walls simply vanished, leaving a gaping, perfectly clean hole leading deeper into the monastery. The very air in the chamber screamed, then fell silent.
Saitama lowered his fist, a wisp of steam curling from his knuckles. He blew on it gently. "There. Much tidier." He looked at the massive new opening he'd created. "And now I have a shortcut. Cool."
He then ambled through the newly created hole, resuming his quest, leaving behind a scene of absolute devastation and a monastery full of cultists who were rapidly beginning to understand that the 'pest' at their gate was, in fact, the god of pest control, and he was not in a good mood. The noodle crusade had begun in earnest.