The tension in the abandoned art gallery, "The Obsidian Mirror," was thick enough to be sculpted into one of the grotesque statues that adorned its dusty halls. The "sleeper" Night Blade, whose name Shadow Garden would later learn was Seraphina, radiated an aura of icy, controlled lethality. Her black armor seemed to drink the faint moonlight filtering through the grimy skylight, and the twin swords she drew from sheathes at her hips hummed with a faint, dark energy. The dozen or so Cultists arrayed behind her looked grimly determined, ready to die for their cause and their deadly leader.
Saitama, on the other hand, was still examining a particularly unsettling sculpture that looked like a melted clown fighting an octopus. Mr. Fluffles, perched on his shoulder, twitched its nose, seemingly unimpressed by the artistic merit. Genos stood at alert, his cannons primed, his optical sensors cataloging every detail of Seraphina's armor and weaponry.
Up on the rooftop, Shadow and Alpha watched the unfolding… situation… with a mixture of professional detachment and profound internal screaming (mostly on Cid's part).
"Seraphina of the Silent Grave," Alpha whispered, her memory banks, supplemented by Beta's ongoing intel analysis, providing a name. "One of the Thirteen Night Blades. Said to be a master of silent assassination and blade techniques that can sever the soul. Her presence here confirms Malakor's intel. This gallery is indeed a significant Cult nexus."
"Sever the soul, you say?" Shadow mused, a flicker of genuine interest in his hidden eyes. Now that's a proper villainous ability! Something that can't just be punched away! Perhaps… perhaps this one will actually provide a challenge! A real, dramatic, soul-severing challenge! His hope, however, was a fragile, battered thing.
Down below, Seraphina finally broke the silence, her voice as cold and sharp as her blades. "You have defiled this sanctuary with your unworthy presence. For this, your pathetic lives are forfeit. The Master's will demands it."
Saitama turned from the sculpture, a slightly confused look on his face. "Sanctuary? Lady, this place is a dump. And who's this 'Master' everyone keeps yapping about? Is he, like, your boss? Does he give good dental?"
Seraphina's icy composure actually faltered for a split second. A flicker of disbelief crossed her features. This… buffoon… was not reacting as expected. There was no fear, no bravado, just… inanity.
"Your ignorance will be your undoing," she hissed, recovering quickly. "Cultists! Eliminate the cyborg! The bald one… is mine." She clearly perceived Genos, with his obvious weaponry and cybernetic enhancements, as the more immediate conventional threat. Saitama, despite his earlier… reputation… (which she was likely unaware of, being a "sleeper" agent), just looked like a bizarrely dressed civilian.
The Cultists, with battle cries of "For the Master!" and "Glory to Diablos!", surged forward, their rusty blades and crude magical attacks aimed at Genos.
Genos met their charge with cold, mechanical efficiency. "Incinerate! Gatling Arm!" Flames erupted, bullets flew. The narrow confines of the gallery became a chaotic ballet of light, shadow, and screaming Cultists. Genos was a whirlwind of destruction, his movements precise, his attacks devastating against the low-tier grunts.
Seraphina, ignoring the skirmish between her underlings and the cyborg, advanced on Saitama, her twin blades weaving an intricate, deadly pattern in the air. "You will witness the artistry of true despair, fool." Each step she took was silent, graceful, her dark armor making her seem like a phantom gliding across the dusty floor.
Saitama watched her approach, Mr. Fluffles still perched on his shoulder. "Artistry, huh? You know, I'm not much of an art guy. This place kinda gives me the creeps. All these statues look like they're gonna jump out and bite ya." He gestured with his thumb towards a particularly menacing gargoyle-like sculpture.
Seraphina's blades flashed, faster than the eye could follow. They weren't aimed to kill, not yet. They were aimed to test, to dissect, to instill terror. One blade sliced towards Saitama's throat, the other towards his eyes. The air around the blades shimmered with that soul-severing energy Alpha had mentioned.
Up on the roof, Shadow leaned forward, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge of the skylight. This is it! The soul-severing attack! He can't just punch his soul back together! This will require finesse! My moment to dramatically intervene and—
Saitama… tilted his head slightly to the left.
Seraphina's blades, imbued with dark magic and honed by years of assassination, passed harmlessly through the air where his head had been a microsecond before. There was no sound, no impact, just… empty space.
Saitama then reached out with his free hand – the one not holding Mr. Fluffles – and casually… flicked Seraphina's lead sword.
It was a small, almost dismissive gesture. Like flicking a gnat.
CLANG!
The sound was shockingly loud in the relative quiet of their personal confrontation. Seraphina's blade, a masterfully crafted weapon designed to cleave through steel and spirit alike, vibrated violently in her hand. A visible crack, like a spiderweb, spread across its obsidian surface. She stumbled back a step, her eyes wide with disbelief, a jolt of pain shooting up her arm.
"Whoa," Saitama said, looking at his finger. "Static electricity? Or are your swords just really fragile?"
Seraphina stared at her damaged blade, then at Saitama, her icy composure completely shattered. This wasn't possible. Her blade was infused with the Master's power, tempered in forbidden rituals. It should have passed through him like a phantom, or at least met unyielding resistance. It should not have cracked from a… a flick.
"What… what are you?" she whispered, her voice losing its cold edge, now tinged with a dawning, horrified confusion.
"I'm Saitama," he replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Hero for fun. And you guys really need to stop asking me that. It's getting repetitive."
On the rooftop, Shadow felt a familiar wave of despair wash over him. Fragile?! He called a soul-severing blade fragile?! After flicking it?! My dramatic intervention… my moment to explain the intricacies of soul-based combat… RUINED! AGAIN!
Alpha just sighed softly beside him, a sound of utter resignation.
Seraphina, however, was a Night Blade. She was one of the Master's chosen. She would not be deterred by one inexplicable event. "Trickery!" she snarled, her other blade flashing. "You will not mock the power of the Night!" She lunged again, this time putting her full speed and power into a series of lightning-fast strikes, each one aimed at a vital point, each one carrying that chilling, soul-disrupting energy.
What followed was less a sword fight and more… an exercise in futility for Seraphina.
Saitama, still holding Mr. Fluffles, who seemed to be enjoying the breeze from the rapidly moving blades, simply… avoided everything. He didn't even seem to be trying hard. He took a small step back here, tilted his head there, occasionally shifted his weight. Seraphina's deadly dance of death became a frustrating ballet around an unmovable, utterly unimpressed maypole. Her soul-severing energy washed over him like a gentle mist, having no discernible effect whatsoever.
"You're pretty fast," Saitama commented, ducking under a particularly vicious slash. "But your aim's a bit off. You sure you can see okay in that helmet?"
Seraphina was panting now, her movements becoming slightly less precise, frustration and disbelief warring on her face. Her underlings, meanwhile, were being systematically dismantled by Genos, their numbers dwindling rapidly. The sounds of their screams and Genos's weapon fire provided a chaotic soundtrack to Seraphina's increasingly desperate assault.
"Why… why can't I hit you?!" she cried, her voice laced with desperation. "Why doesn't my blade… affect you?!"
"Dunno," Saitama said, casually leaning away from a thrust. "Maybe I'm just not ticklish." He then noticed the sculpture he'd been looking at earlier – the melted clown fighting an octopus. "You know, this one here," he said, nodding towards it, "it's really ugly. Like, aggressively ugly. Did someone actually pay money for this?"
Seraphina, mid-lunge, faltered. Her attack went wide. She stared at Saitama, then at the sculpture, then back at Saitama. He was… he was critiquing the art? In the middle of a life-or-death battle? While her soul-severing blades were trying to end his existence?
This was the moment. The breaking point. The sheer, unadulterated, reality-bending absurdity of it all crashed down upon Seraphina of the Silent Grave.
Her training, her devotion to the Master, her pride as a Night Blade – it all seemed to crumble in the face of this bald man who was more concerned with the questionable aesthetics of a dusty art gallery than with her deadly assault.
Her shoulders slumped. Her remaining sword drooped. A single, frustrated tear actually traced a path down her cheek, visible even in the dim light.
"It… it was a gift," she choked out, her voice thick with unshed tears and existential despair. "From… from my grandmother. She… she said it had… character."
Saitama blinked. "Oh. Well, uh… taste is subjective, I guess." He looked at the sculpture again, then back at Seraphina. "Still pretty ugly, though. No offense to your grandma."
On the rooftop, Cid Kagenou felt his jaw literally drop. Alpha actually made a small, strangled sound that might have been a laugh, quickly suppressed.
HE BROKE HER SPIRIT! NOT WITH POWER, NOT WITH SKILL, BUT WITH AN UNINTENTIONAL, CASUAL CRITIQUE OF HER GRANDMOTHER'S QUESTIONABLE ART TASTE! Cid's mind was a swirling vortex of disbelief and a strange, horrified amusement. THIS ISN'T A BATTLE! THIS IS A THERAPY SESSION GONE HORRIBLY, HORRIBLY WRONG! OR RIGHT! I DON'T EVEN KNOW ANYMORE!
Seraphina, Night Blade, feared assassin, vessel of the Master's power, sniffled. "She… she always had terrible taste." Another tear rolled down her cheek. "But she meant well."
Saitama, looking profoundly uncomfortable, patted Mr. Fluffles. "Uh, there, there? Look, lady, I didn't mean to make you cry. It's just… a statue. You can probably, like, put a lampshade on it or something."
By now, Genos had finished dealing with the last of the Cultists. He approached, his cannons smoking slightly. "Sensei, all hostiles neutralized. Except for… this one." He looked at the weeping Night Blade with a confused tilt of his cybernetic head. "Is she… surrendering due to aesthetic disagreements?"
"I think so?" Saitama said, looking equally bewildered. "It's been a weird night."
Seraphina, her emotional dam completely broken, sank to her knees, her remaining sword clattering to the floor. "What… what is the point?" she sobbed. "Years of training… devotion… for this? To be defeated by… by an art critic?"
Shadow, on the roof, finally found his voice, though it was strained. "Alpha… perhaps… perhaps we should make our presence known. Before he inadvertently psychoanalyzes her into joining a pottery class."
Alpha, still trying to process the sheer bizarreness of what she had just witnessed, nodded mutely.
With a theatrical swirl of their cloaks (Shadow insisted), they dropped silently into the gallery from the skylight, landing with practiced grace a short distance from the emotional wreckage that was once Seraphina of the Silent Grave.
"Seraphina of the Night Blades," Shadow intoned, his voice resonating with carefully controlled authority (and a large dose of suppressed bewilderment). "Your misguided crusade ends here. Your 'Master's' influence wanes."
Seraphina looked up, her tear-streaked face a mask of confusion. "More… more of you? Who… who are all you people?"
Saitama, meanwhile, had spotted Shadow. "Oh, hey, robe guy! You missed it! This lady's grandma has really weird taste in statues. And her swords are kinda fragile." He then noticed the way Shadow and Alpha had entered. "Whoa, cool entrance! Did you guys, like, practice that?"
Shadow ignored him, focusing on Seraphina. He needed to salvage something from this utter fiasco. "We are Shadow Garden," he declared. "The shadows that hunt the shadows. Your 'Obsidian Mirror' has been shattered." He gestured vaguely around the gallery. Okay, that sounded pretty cool. Even if Saitama did all the 'shattering' by making her cry about a statue.
Seraphina just stared blankly, her will to fight, her devotion, her very identity as a Night Blade, seemingly dissolved by Saitama's accidental art critique.
The infiltration of "The Obsidian Mirror" had not gone according to plan. At all. There had been no stealthy takedowns, no dramatic confrontations, no display of Shadow Garden's elite skills. Instead, there had been a giant fluffy bunny, an impromptu art review, and a feared assassin brought to tears over a sculpture her grandmother liked.
Cid Kagenou had a growing suspicion that his life as an Eminence in Shadow was rapidly transforming into the straight man in a cosmic, absurdist comedy. And the universe, it seemed, had an impeccable sense of comedic timing, usually at his expense. The only question now was whether he'd eventually find it funny, or just develop a permanent eye twitch. The jury was still out, but the twitch was definitely winning.