The Royal Capital was electric with an energy that had nothing to do with magic.
Word of the "Special Demonstration" had spread like wildfire through the noble houses and Magic Knight ranks. The captains, summoned by a direct order from the Wizard King, had arrived with their entourages, their expressions a mixture of confusion, annoyance, and raw curiosity.
The event was held in the grand colosseum, an arena typically reserved for the final rounds of the Magic Knight exams or declarations of war. Thousands of knights and nobles filled the stands, their whispers a constant, rustling hum.
"A nine-on-one spar? Against some no-mana commoner Yami picked up?"
"I heard it was the Captain of the Black Bulls who defeated that beast. This must be one of his strange training methods."
"Utterly ridiculous. This is a waste of the Captains' valuable time."
In a private waiting chamber, the Black Bulls stood assembled. Or rather, they hovered anxiously. Saitama was sitting on a bench, eating a meat bun Charmy had given him.
"You're really not nervous?" Finral asked for the tenth time, pacing a hole in the stone floor.
Saitama swallowed his bite. "About what?"
"About fighting them!" Magna exclaimed, gesturing wildly toward the arena.
Down below, on the colosseum floor, the captains were gathering.
Nozel Silva stood with his arms crossed, his silver hair immaculate, his face a mask of aristocratic disdain. "A commoner rabble-rouser from the forsaken realm. What fresh madness has possessed the Wizard King?"
"Indeed," Fuegoleon Vermillion agreed, though his expression was more curious than contemptuous. "Yami is unconventional, but he is no fool. There must be more to this than we see."
Jack the Ripper was just grinning, a manic light in his eyes. "Whoever he is, I just want to cut him!"
They stood in a loose circle in the center of the vast arena. All nine of them. The pillars of the kingdom's defense. An assembly of power that could level a country.
Asta stood near the entrance tunnel, his hands clammy on the hilts of his swords. His role wasn't to fight, but to watch. To be the failsafe. The weight of it was immense.
From the royal box, Julius Novachrono rose. A hush fell over the crowd.
"Captains, knights, esteemed nobles," he began, his amplified voice echoing through the colosseum. "Today, we are here not for a trial or a tournament, but for a lesson. A lesson in the nature of strength itself."
He gestured to the entrance. "For too long, we have equated power with mana. Today, we test that assumption. I present to you the newest member of the Black Bulls, personally vouched for by Captain Yami Sukehiro!"
The massive gates rumbled open.
Saitama walked out, still chewing the last of his bun. He wore his yellow jumpsuit and white cape, the Black Bulls robe draped over it like an afterthought.
A wave of confusion, then outright laughter, rippled through the stands. He looked so utterly, painfully ordinary. No aura. No menacing posture. Just a bored-looking bald guy.
Nozel sneered. "Is this a jest?"
Even Fuegoleon looked taken aback.
Yami, standing beside Asta in the tunnel, took a final drag from his cigarette. "Showtime."
Saitama finished his bun and patted his stomach. He looked up at the nine captains, then around at the massive, cheering crowd.
"...So, how does this work?" he asked, his voice echoing in the sudden silence. "Do I just hit all of you at once, or should we go one at a time?"
The sheer, unadorned bluntness of the question was so unexpected it stunned the arena silent again. Jack the Ripper cackled. Nozel's expression hardened from disdain to genuine anger.
Julius, watching from his box, just smiled. "The rules are simple, Mr. Saitama. You must incapacitate all nine captains. The captains," he said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming the voice of a king, "will do whatever it takes to stop you. The demonstration begins… now."
The moment he said "now," a barrier of pure time magic shimmered into existence, enclosing the entire arena floor. A failsafe.
Charlotte Roselei of the Blue Rose Knights was the first to act. "Briar Creation Magic: Corpse-Hunting Briar Trees!"
Massive, thorny vines erupted from the ground, racing toward Saitama from all directions, aiming to ensnare him. Simultaneously, Gueldre Poizot of the Purple Orcas turned his body transparent, his Permeation Magic allowing him to vanish from sight, planning a sneak attack.
Saitama watched the thorny forest converge on him. He didn't move. He didn't even tense up.
Just as the briars were about to pierce him, he did something incredibly simple.
He took a step. A little hop.
He jumped straight up.
He sailed ten, twenty, fifty, then a hundred feet into the air, far above the grasping briars. The crowd gasped. Such a jump was impossible without reinforcement magic.
He hung there for a moment, a tiny yellow figure against the sky, before beginning to descend.
And that's when Fuegoleon pointed a single, imperious finger at him.
"Salamander," he commanded.
The Fire Spirit, a being of pure, catastrophic flame, materialized beside its master. It opened its mouth and unleashed a torrent of fire so immense it filled a quarter of the arena, a roiling fireball aimed to incinerate the falling man.
Saitama saw the world-ending blast of fire coming up at him.
He cocked back a fist. He threw a punch. Not a Serious Punch. Not even a Normal Punch.
It was just a lazy, downward jab, like he was trying to push an elevator button.
A column of air, perfectly cylindrical and utterly invisible, shot from his fist. It didn't disperse the flame. It didn't counter it with wind magic.
It punched a hole clean through the center of the blast.
The torrent of fire parted around the invisible column, continuing its path to the heavens, while Saitama fell cleanly through the perfect, circular tunnel he had just created in the heart of the inferno.
He landed on the ground with a soft thud, right back where he started, not a single hair on his cape singed.
The arena was dead silent. The Fire Spirit, Salamander, let out a confused chirp. Fuegoleon Vermillion, for the first time in his adult life, was completely and utterly speechless.
In the royal box, Julius Novachrono leaned forward, his knuckles white.
The lesson had begun.