Saitama hung in the air, a tiny sun eclipsing the might of the World Tree.
Below him, the five remaining captains instinctively fell into a defensive formation. They were no longer trying to win. They were trying to survive.
From the tunnel, Yami's hand twitched towards his sword. "Asta. Get ready."
Asta's heart hammered. He drew the Demon-Slayer Sword, the metal cold and heavy, a stark contrast to the searing heat in his chest. He could feel it, even from here—the thrumming, resonant stillness that preceded a Saitama-level event.
In the royal box, Julius leaned forward, his elbows on the railing, his face a mask of rapt attention. This was it. The moment of truth. The data he had risked everything to see.
Saitama raised a fist.
His expression was still bored, but his posture was different. It held an ounce more weight, a fraction more purpose. He wasn't winding up for a Serious Punch. This was just a Normal Punch. But a Normal Punch aimed at five captain-class mages was a force the Clover Kingdom had never, in its entire history, had to quantify.
Rill Boismortier reacted first, his artistic mind working faster than anyone. "Picture Magic: Fountain of Heliodor!"
A wave of golden paint erupted from his canvas, forming a shimmering, multi-layered barrier designed to nullify kinetic impact through conceptual negation. "It disperses any physical blow into harmless energy!" he yelled.
Fuegoleon summoned Salamander, which wrapped its body around the captains, creating a spiraling shield of soul-fire. Nozel's mercury formed a dense, reflective dome. Vangeance's remaining roots coiled into a protective sphere. Jack sank into the shadows, preparing a counter-strike, a razor's edge waiting for a single opening.
It was the ultimate defense. Four of the strongest shields in the world, layered and working in concert.
Saitama's fist began to descend. The air in the colosseum compressed. A low, gut-wrenching hum filled the space as the very atmosphere was pushed aside by the sheer force of his coming blow.
This is it, Asta thought. The point of no return.
Protect the limit.
He acted.
He didn't charge into the arena. He didn't yell. He did what Yami had taught him. He stood his ground, raised the Demon-Slayer Sword, and focused his entire will—every drop of his stubbornness, his desperation, his dream of becoming Wizard King—into the flat of the blade.
He aimed it not at Saitama the man, but at his own vision of that shimmering, golden cage.
He pushed.
He didn't try to break a bar. He didn't aim for the crack. He pressed his Anti-Magic against the entire metaphysical structure at once. A soft, undeniable pressure. An appeal.
Don't. Not like this.
In that infinitesimal moment before Saitama's fist made contact with the magical barriers, a memory flickered through his mind.
A small, grimy apartment. The smell of cabbage. A cheap TV droning on about a monster attack. A feeling of… something. Contentment? Peace? A day where he hadn't needed to fight.
It was a faded photograph, a ghost of a feeling. One of the few he had left.
The raw, obliterating power coiled in his arm hesitated. The killing intent, which he hadn't even realized was there, vanished.
His punch stopped.
One inch from Rill's conceptual paint shield.
The kinetic energy, the sheer physical force of a planet-buster, was still there. It had to go somewhere.
It didn't explode. It bloomed.
An invisible, perfectly silent shockwave of pure pressure erupted outwards, not as a destructive blast, but as a titanic gust of wind.
It peeled Rill's paint shield away like wallpaper. It blew Fuegoleon's soul-fire out like a candle. It warped Nozel's mercury dome into a shimmering ribbon. It tore Vangeance's roots from the ground and tossed them aside like weeds.
The wind tore through the arena, a roaring but harmless hurricane. It ripped the banners from the walls and sent hats flying in the stands. Knights and nobles shielded their faces, screaming in shock and awe.
The five captains were thrown backwards, skidding across the stone floor, their grand defensive spells shredded into nothing. They were unharmed, but their magic, their pride, their entire understanding of power, lay in ruins around them.
The only thing in the entire colosseum that didn't move was the royal box, protected by Julius's time magic.
Saitama landed softly in the center of the arena. His fist was still clenched. He looked at it, then at the five defeated but living captains. He seemed… confused. Like he had intended to swat a fly and had, for some reason he couldn't quite grasp, decided to just blow on it instead.
He looked over towards the entrance tunnel and saw Asta, his Anti-Magic sword still glowing faintly, a look of profound relief and exhaustion on his face.
Yami let out a slow, quiet breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. He did it. The kid actually did it.
The arena fell into a new kind of silence. Not shock, but a deep, unnerving reverence. They hadn't just witnessed a display of power. They had witnessed a display of mercy. He hadn't won by breaking the captains. He had won by choosing not to.
In the royal box, Julius Novachrono slowly sank back into his chair. The gleeful scientist was gone. In his place was the king, and for the first time, he looked truly afraid.
He had wanted to see the impossible. And he had.
A power that could destroy his entire kingdom, held back not by a magic seal or a divine law, but by a flicker of forgotten memory.
And a boy with no magic to remind him of it.