The banquet, as promised, was held in the grand hall of the Magic Knights headquarters.
Long tables overflowed with roasted meats, exotic fruits, and wines that sparkled with captured starlight. Normally, a gathering like this would be a boisterous affair, filled with the arrogant laughter of nobles and the proud boasting of knights.
Tonight, it was as quiet as a tomb.
The captains sat at a single, long table. Their pristine uniforms were in perfect order, but they looked like soldiers who had just survived a war they hadn't understood. Dorothy was awake but pale. Rill kept staring at his own hands, as if he no longer trusted them to create anything meaningful.
Nozel Silva hadn't spoken a single word. He was drinking, methodically and silently, his gaze fixed on the wall. Fuegoleon sat beside him, equally silent, the spirit Salamander curled at his feet, chirping nervously.
The Black Bulls had a table to themselves in a corner. Most of them were too intimidated by the atmosphere to eat. Except for Charmy, who was methodically building a small mountain of food on her plate, and Saitama.
Saitama was eating a steak. It was, he had to admit, a very good steak. He was enjoying it immensely.
The quiet, respectful fear in the room was a palpable thing. Knights from other squads would walk by their table, intending to approach, only to meet Saitama's blank, placid gaze and lose their nerve, scurrying away.
He had broken more than their spells in the arena. He had broken their entire system of value. Rank, mana, bloodline—what did any of it mean in the face of a man who could part the heavens and then decide not to?
Asta sat beside him, nursing a glass of water, his knuckles white. The metaphysical strain of what he'd done in the arena still hummed in his bones. He could still feel the echo of that vast, silent cage.
"Are you feeling alright, Asta?" Noelle asked, her voice a soft murmur. She looked from the traumatized captains to Saitama's oblivious chewing and finally to Asta's pale face. "You… did something back there, didn't you? When he stopped his punch."
Asta just nodded, too exhausted to explain.
Genos stood behind Saitama's chair, ever the silent guard. His optical sensors were recording everything—the heart rates of the captains, the ambient mana fluctuations, the subtle shifts in the political landscape of the room. He had already compiled a 300-page preliminary report titled: Sensei's Demonstration: Psychological Impact Assessment on a Feudal Magiocracy.
Finally, someone dared to break the silence.
It was Fuegoleon Vermillion. He stood, his chair scraping against the marble floor, the sound unnaturally loud. He walked, with the measured grace of a lion, across the hall to the Black Bulls' table.
He didn't address Yami, his longtime rival. He didn't look at Asta or any of the others. His fiery, noble gaze was fixed entirely on Saitama.
"I have been the captain of the Crimson Lion Kings for eight years," Fuegoleon said, his voice deep and resonant, commanding the attention of the entire hall. "I have fought foreign armies, ancient beasts, and traitors to the kingdom. In all that time, I have never been so completely and utterly outclassed."
Saitama finished his bite of steak. "The steak is really good. You should try it."
The absurdly mundane response should have been insulting. Instead, it was so jarring, so completely disconnected from the gravitas of the moment, that it was disarming. Fuegoleon actually blinked.
"You possess a power that defies all logic," he continued, refusing to be deterred. "Yet in the final moment… you showed restraint. May I ask why?"
This was the question on everyone's mind. Why stop?
Saitama looked from his plate to Fuegoleon's intense, sincere face. He thought about it for a second. The flicker of memory, the image of his old apartment. The quiet appeal he'd felt from… somewhere.
"I dunno," he said, shrugging. "Just felt like I shouldn't." He picked up a piece of bread. "Also, you guys weren't really trying to kill me, just beat me up. Seemed rude to punch back too hard."
The logic was so simple, so childishly straightforward, it was profound. He hadn't stopped because of some grand moral calculus. He'd stopped because it felt like the polite thing to do.
Fuegoleon stared at him, searching for some hidden meaning, some secret intent. He found nothing. Only the calm, plain truth.
He bowed.
Not a polite nod. A full, formal bow of a warrior to a greater warrior, his head bent, his fist over his heart. "For your strength, and for your mercy, you have my respect."
With that, he turned and walked back to his table, leaving a stunned hall in his wake.
Yami watched the exchange, a slow, wry smile spreading across his face. He leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the table, the first one to break the tense formality.
"See, kid?" he muttered to Asta. "Sometimes the best way to win a fight is to just be so weird they give up."
Just as a murmur began to ripple through the room, a new figure entered the hall. It was Marx, his expression grim and urgent. He walked directly to the head table where Julius Novachrono had been observing the scene.
Marx leaned in and whispered something in the Wizard King's ear.
Whatever it was, the effect was immediate. Julius's detached, scholarly demeanor vanished. A cold, hard light entered his eyes. He stood, his presence silencing the hall once more.
"Captains," he said, his voice devoid of its usual cheer. "I apologize for cutting this banquet short."
He looked around the room, his gaze passing over the shaken captains, the nervous knights, and the impossible man eating his steak.
"We have a situation. A high-ranking devil has just manifested. In the Heart Kingdom." His eyes locked with Yami's. "It is Megicula. And the Queen of the Heart Kingdom has formally requested our aid."