The purplish mushrooms Saitama had eyed with cautious optimism turned out to be a profound disappointment. After poking one tentatively with a stick, then sniffing it (it smelled vaguely like old socks and damp regret), he'd decided against raw consumption. His brief attempt to generate fire by rubbing two sticks together, a technique he'd seen in an old survival movie once, resulted only in splinters and a growing sense of irritation. He'd even tried punching the air really fast near some dry leaves, hoping friction heat might do the trick, but all he achieved was a small, localized gust of wind that scattered the leaves further.
"This is dumb," he declared to a particularly stoic-looking fern that resembled a giant green feather. "Back home, I'd just get takeout. Or Genos would cook. He makes a pretty decent miso soup, even if he sometimes overdoes it with the tactical analysis of a leek's structural integrity."
His stomach echoed his sentiment with a groan that sounded like a disgruntled bear roused from hibernation. The initial excitement of finding himself in a new, albeit strange, place was rapidly being eroded by the primal, gnawing demand for calories. He was starting to miss the comforting, if often chaotic, normalcy of Z-City. At least there, a vending machine selling lukewarm corn potage was never too far away.
The Valgothian Deepwood, as it was known to the locals (though Saitama was blissfully unaware of its ominous reputation), continued to unfold around him in a bewildering tapestry of alien beauty and subtle menace. The twin moons, Argent and its fractured twin, Selene, cast elongated, dancing shadows through the colossal trees, their ethereal light painting the glowing mosses and bizarre fungi in shades of silver, violet, and eerie green. Strange, multi-toned bird calls, more melodic and complex than anything on Earth, occasionally broke the silence, only to be answered by distant, guttural roars or the rustling of unseen creatures in the undergrowth. The air itself felt different – cleaner, perhaps, but also heavier, charged with an almost tangible energy that made the hairs on his arms stand on end, though he barely registered it beyond a fleeting thought that maybe he needed to moisturize.
He'd passed by what looked like giant, iridescent beetles scuttling through the leaf litter, each the size of a small dog. He'd seen flowers that pulsed with their own internal light, their petals unfurling and retracting in slow, hypnotic rhythms. Once, he thought he saw a tree move, its branches shifting like languid arms, but he blinked, and it was still again. Probably just tired. Or hungry. He could relate.
"Maybe I should try catching one of those glowy bug things," he mused, absently swatting at a large, moth-like creature with feathery antennae that drifted too close to his face. It dodged his casual swipe with surprising agility. "Are bugs a good source of protein? Genos would probably have a full nutritional breakdown. Annoying, but useful."
His foot caught on something, and he stumbled, catching himself before he face-planted into a patch of particularly squishy-looking luminescent fungi. He looked down. It wasn't a root. It was a footprint. A very large, very deep footprint, clearly not made by any animal he recognized. It was roughly humanoid, but far too big, with three broad, claw-tipped toes pressed deep into the damp earth. The edges were still relatively sharp, suggesting it wasn't ancient.
"Huh. Big fella," Saitama commented, crouching down for a closer look. "Wonder if he knows where the nearest grocery store is." He looked in the direction the prints seemed to be heading – deeper into the woods, towards a region where the trees grew even denser and the shadows lay like pools of ink. "Well, it's a lead, I guess. Better than just wandering aimlessly. Maybe he's got snacks."
With a renewed, if somewhat desperate, sense of purpose, Saitama began to follow the trail of enormous footprints. He wasn't particularly stealthy about it, his red boots crunching on twigs and dry leaves, his occasional sighs of hunger echoing through the trees. The concept of being hunted, or of needing to hunt with any degree of subtlety, was alien to him. Problems usually resolved themselves with a single, decisive action. Finding food, however, was proving to be a surprisingly persistent, multi-stage problem.
In the Royal Palace of Midgar, the atmosphere in the King's private solar was thick with unspoken anxieties. King Olric Midgar, a man whose regal bearing was increasingly strained by the weight of recent events, sat heavily in his ornate throne-like chair, his gaze fixed on the flickering candlelight. His council of advisors, a collection of aging nobles and stern-faced military commanders, stood arrayed before him, their expressions varying shades of grim. Princess Iris and Princess Alexia stood to his right, their youthful presence a stark contrast to the weathered faces of the council.
The report from the Royal Sorcerers had been… unsettling. Just as Shadow had indicated, the energy readings from the Valgothian Deepwood had spiked dramatically, exhibiting patterns unlike anything previously recorded. They spoke of a 'chaotic resonance' and 'spatial distortions' that hinted at immense, untamed power. Combined with the continued silence from the noble houses bordering that region, the implications were dire.
"So," King Olric finally spoke, his voice a low rumble that betrayed his fatigue, "this… entity, 'Shadow,' whose reliability is questionable at best, points us to the Valgothian Deepwood. Our own sorcerers confirm unusual activity there. And my daughters now propose sending a reconnaissance force into what is rumored to be one of the most dangerous, monster-infested territories in the kingdom, based on the word of a phantom."
Lord Valerius, Captain of the Royal Knights, a veteran warrior with a face like a weathered shield, stepped forward. "Your Majesty, with respect, the disappearances are undeniable. Lord Istvan, Lord Olba, Baron Hess… these are not minor houses. Their combined military strength is significant. For them to vanish without a trace suggests a threat beyond common bandits or territorial disputes." He paused, his gaze sweeping towards the princesses. "Princess Alexia's analysis of the converging reports, including this new energy signature, warrants investigation. If there is a new power rising in the Deepwood, we must know its nature."
Iris added, her voice firm, "Father, Shadow also mentioned a 'newcomer,' an 'Unknowing Tempest' whose arrival coincided with this energy spike. He described this individual's power as 'utterly overwhelming.' If such a being is loose in our lands, whether friend or foe, we cannot remain ignorant."
An older, more cautious advisor, Chancellor Evrard, stroked his neatly trimmed grey beard. "Overwhelming power, Princess? Such claims are often exaggerated. And to risk Royal Knights based on the pronouncements of a figure who operates in the shadows, who could very well be manipulating us towards his own ends…"
Alexia met his gaze coolly. "Chancellor, the 'manipulation' has, thus far, provided us with the only concrete lead we have. Ignoring it would be a greater folly. We are not proposing a full-scale invasion, merely a highly skilled, discreet reconnaissance team. Their objective: to observe, gather information, and assess the threat level. Not to engage, unless absolutely necessary for their own survival."
King Olric leaned forward, his elbows on the polished wood of the table before him, steepling his fingers. The firelight glinted off the royal signet ring on his hand. He looked from Iris to Alexia, a flicker of pride mixed with concern in his eyes. His daughters, though young, possessed a keen intellect and a courage that often surpassed that of his more seasoned advisors.
"And who would lead such a perilous undertaking?" he asked, his gaze settling on Captain Valerius.
Valerius nodded gravely. "I would entrust this to Knight-Commander Kristoph. He is our finest scout, skilled in both covert operations and swordsmanship. He possesses a calm head and the experience to navigate treacherous terrain and assess unknown threats. He can take a small, elite unit – say, Sir Zenon, our foremost tracking expert, and Sorceress Elara, for magical analysis and defense."
"Kristoph..." the King mused. Knight-Commander Kristoph was indeed a good choice. Reliable, disciplined, and fiercely loyal. "Very well." He sighed, the decision weighing heavily on him. "Dispatch Knight-Commander Kristoph and his chosen team to the Valgothian Deepwood. Their orders are clear: ascertain the nature of the disturbances and the veracity of this 'Tempest's' presence. They are to prioritize their own safety and report back at the earliest opportunity. No heroics. No unnecessary risks."
"It shall be done, Your Majesty," Captain Valerius declared, bowing deeply. Iris and Alexia exchanged a brief, determined glance. The first move had been made. Now, they could only wait, and hope that the information gleaned would be worth the undeniable risk.
Deep within the most ancient, lightless heart of the Valgothian Deepwood, where the twin moons' glow dared not penetrate and even the luminescent mosses failed to thrive, a different kind of light pulsed. It was a sickening, visceral purple-black, emanating from a chasm that seemed to descend into the very bowels of the earth. The air here was not just cold; it was a bone-chilling void, thick with the stench of decay, sulfur, and something else… an ancient, slumbering intellect that reeked of cosmic hunger and profound, patient malice.
Around the chasm, strange, crystalline structures had grown, pulsating faintly with the same unholy light. And within the chasm itself, something vast and terrible stirred. It was not a single entity, but a collective consciousness, a gestalt horror that had slumbered for eons, slowly seeping its influence into the world above. The Order of Diablos, in their ignorant ambition, had merely scratched the surface of its prison, mistaking its faint whispers for the voice of their long-dead demon.
Now, two new stimuli had reached its diffuse awareness.
First, the violent, abrupt tear in the fabric of reality caused by Vorlag's arrival and equally abrupt departure. A raw, chaotic energy signature that had briefly illuminated the pathways between worlds, like a flash of lightning in a dark room. Interesting. Primitive.
Second, a far more concentrated, yet paradoxically quieter surge. The arrival of Saitama. This was different. It wasn't the chaotic splash of dimensional travel; it was like a star suddenly appearing where no star should be, its gravity subtle yet overwhelmingly potent, bending the local laws of physics without even trying. It was an anomaly of such magnitude that even the slumbering horror felt a flicker of something akin to… curiosity. Or perhaps, the predatory interest of a connoisseur discovering a rare, exotic new flavor.
A voice, or rather, a chorus of voices that spoke as one, echoed not in sound but as a psychic vibration that resonated through the very rock and shadow of the Deepwood. It was ancient, patient, and utterly devoid of anything recognizable as empathy.
**
A tendril of shadow, thicker than any tree trunk, solidified from the darkness within the chasm, its tip glowing with baleful energy. It probed the air, questing.
**
The psychic voice focused, a predatory hum intensifying. **
A low, multi-toned chuckle, like grinding glaciers and shattering stars, echoed in the minds of any sentient creature unfortunate enough to be attuned to such frequencies within a hundred-mile radius. Lesser beasts whimpered and fled. Even the hardy Shadowfang Direwolves felt a primal urge to cower.
**
The tendril of shadow slowly retracted back into the chasm, the purple-black light pulsing with a hungry, expectant rhythm. The ancient horror settled back into its patient observation, a spider at the center of a vast, dark web, feeling the faintest, most intriguing vibrations from a new, unusually heavy fly that had just blundered into its outer threads.
Saitama, oblivious to the cosmic horrors contemplating him as a potential amuse-bouche, paused in his tracking. The giant footprints had led him to the edge of a small, surprisingly clear stream. The water gurgled merrily over smooth, moss-covered stones. It looked clean. He was thirsty.
He knelt down, cupped his hands, and took a long drink. It was cold, crisp, and incredibly refreshing. "Hey, not bad," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his glove. "Beats tap water in Z-City. That stuff always tastes a bit like old pipes and regret."
As he stood up, he noticed something on the other side of the stream, nestled amongst a patch of unusually vibrant blue ferns. It wasn't a supermarket, but it was definitely man-made. Or at least, someone-made. It was a small, weathered wooden sign, crudely painted with an arrow pointing further into the woods. The lettering was in a script he didn't recognize, all sharp angles and flowing curves, but the arrow was universal. Arrows usually pointed towards something. And something was better than nothing. Especially when that nothing was an empty stomach.
"Alright! Progress!" Saitama declared, a spark of his usual, pre-hunger optimism returning. He easily hopped over the stream, landing with a soft thud on the other side. He looked at the sign again, then in the direction the arrow indicated. The woods looked even darker and more foreboding that way, if possible. The giant footprints also seemed to be heading in roughly the same direction.
"Maybe Big Foot and Pointy Sign know each other," he mused. "Could be a roommate situation. Hope they stock instant noodles."
With a shrug, he set off again, following the arrow and the footprints, deeper into the forbidden heart of the Valgothian Deepwood, a beacon of oblivious, overwhelming power heading straight towards a convergence of ancient evils, royal investigators, and quite possibly, a really disappointing lack of convenience stores.