While Saitama was engaging in what could charitably be called "aggressive negotiations" with the enraged defenders of Diablos's Cradle at its newly redesigned entrance, the infiltration team was making their ascent. The crack in the fortress wall, courtesy of Saitama's "Normal Punch" aftershocks, was a jagged, treacherous scar running several stories high. Loose stones tumbled, and the dark, oily rock was slick with demonic ichor that seemed to writhe with a life of its own.
"Careful, Princesses," Shadow cautioned, his voice a low whisper that somehow carried perfectly over the distant roars and percussive impacts of Saitama's… diversion. "The very stones of this fortress are infused with malevolence. Do not let your guard down for an instant." He himself moved with an eerie, effortless grace, seeming to glide up the fractured wall as if gravity were a polite suggestion he chose to ignore.
Iris, agile and strong, found purchase on the treacherous handholds, her movements economical and precise. Alexia, though less experienced in such rugged mountaineering, compensated with fiery determination, her enchanted blade occasionally flaring to provide brief, helpful illumination or to incinerate a patch of particularly nasty-looking slime. Rose Oriana, surprisingly nimble for someone more accustomed to libraries and royal courts, used her rapier's tip to test footholds and her glowing amulet to ward off the insidious whispers that seemed to emanate from the very rock.
Below them, the sounds of battle were… escalating. There were fewer distinct roars from the cultists now, replaced by a series of perplexing thuds, crunches, and the occasional high-pitched yelp that was cut off abruptly. The ground still trembled intermittently, as if Saitama were casually rearranging the fortress's foundations.
"He seems to be… managing," Iris commented, pausing for a moment to glance down at the chaotic scene far below. All she could see was a whirlwind of yellow and red amidst a swarm of black-clad figures, and occasionally, a cultist or demonic knight being launched skyward at improbable velocities, disappearing into the gloom like a poorly aimed firework.
Shadow, who had reached a small ledge near the top of the crack, looked down with an expression that, had anyone been able to see it, might have been one of profound, almost artistic, appreciation. 'Managing? He is orchestrating a ballet of utter annihilation! He is not fighting them; he is deconstructing them, piece by piece, with the casual disdain of a bored god swatting flies. And the beauty of it… the sheer, unadulterated lack of effort! It's an insult to every warrior, every mage, every strategist who has ever striven for power. It is… perfect.'
"Indeed, Princess," Shadow replied, his voice smooth as oiled obsidian. "The Caped One is fulfilling his role with… characteristic enthusiasm. Let us not squander the opportunity he is so generously providing."
They finally reached the top of the crack, emerging into a dark, narrow corridor deep within the fortress. The air here was even fouler, thick with the stench of burnt offerings, stale blood, and a suffocating aura of concentrated despair. Flickering torches cast long, dancing shadows that seemed to writhe with unseen entities. The distant sounds of Saitama's "diversion" were more muffled here, a dull, rhythmic thumping that resonated through the stone floor like a giant, angry heartbeat.
"Alright," Alexia whispered, her eyes scanning the corridor. "We're in. Now what, Shadow? Where is this 'Heart of Diablos'?"
Shadow tilted his head, as if listening to something only he could hear. "The nexus of power… it draws me. This way." He gestured down a particularly dark and foreboding branch of the corridor. "But be wary. The Cradle is not merely stone and mortar. It is a living entity, in a sense. Its defenses are not limited to cultists."
As if on cue, the very walls of the corridor seemed to ripple. Grotesque faces, formed from the shifting stone, momentarily appeared, their empty eyesockets oozing black ichor, their silent screams echoing in the mind. The floor beneath their feet began to undulate, threatening to throw them off balance.
"Living architecture," Sherry Barnett would have gushed, had she been present. "Fascinating! The thaumaturgical principles involved must be…"
Rose Oriana raised her amulet, its glow intensifying. "Ancient wards. Illusions designed to break the will. Do not look directly at them. Focus on your purpose."
Shadow, however, seemed utterly unconcerned. He merely raised a hand, and a wave of deeper, colder darkness pulsed outwards from him. The illusory faces on the walls recoiled as if burned, the undulating floor stilled. "Trinkets and parlor tricks," he scoffed. "The Cult's imagination is as stunted as their morality." 'Still,' he thought, 'a decent test of their resolve. They are holding up… adequately. For mortals.'
They proceeded deeper into the labyrinthine fortress, Shadow leading them with an unerring sense of direction. The corridors twisted and turned, sometimes opening into vast, cavernous chambers filled with strange, pulsating machinery of unknown purpose, other times narrowing into claustrophobic tunnels where the air was heavy and hard to breathe. They encountered several patrols of cultists, but these were dealt with swiftly and silently by Shadow, who moved like a phantom, his slime sword appearing and disappearing in lethal arcs, leaving only whispers of dissolving darkness and the faint scent of ozone. Iris and Alexia, while capable, found themselves mostly watching, awed by his deadly efficiency when he chose to engage directly.
"You seem… familiar with this place, Shadow," Iris observed, after he had dispatched a trio of heavily armored cultist guards with a series of movements too fast for her eye to truly follow.
"The shadows whisper many secrets to those who know how to listen, Princess," Shadow replied enigmatically. "And the lairs of one's enemies often have a… certain predictability to their design." 'And I may have, on occasion, in a previous, less interesting life, meticulously studied blueprints of similar demonic fortresses for purely… academic purposes. One must be prepared for all eventualities, after all.'
Meanwhile, at the "front door," Saitama was starting to get a little annoyed. Not by the strength of his opponents – that was, as usual, laughably inadequate. But by their sheer, stubborn persistence. He'd punched his way through several demonic knights, a squadron of winged gargoyle-like creatures, and what seemed like an endless stream of robed cultists who kept chanting annoyingly loud slogans before being casually swatted aside.
"Seriously, guys?" Saitama called out, after punching a particularly large, multi-armed demon so hard it folded in on itself like a piece of bad origami before vanishing. "Don't you have, like, a surrender flag or something? My arm's getting tired from all this waving." (He meant punching, but his terminology was often… unique.) "And I think I missed the first five minutes of 'Space Patrol Luluco' because of this."
One particularly brave (or foolish) cultist sorcerer, hovering on a disk of dark energy, shrieked, "You cannot comprehend the glory of Diablos! We will fight until our last breath to ensure his advent!" He then unleashed a complex spell, a swirling vortex of shadow tendrils and screaming souls, aimed directly at Saitama.
Saitama sighed. He just tilted his head slightly. The vortex, which looked incredibly menacing and probably took the sorcerer years to master, simply… unraveled. Like a poorly knitted sweater. The screaming souls looked confused for a moment before dissipating. The shadow tendrils drooped, then dissolved.
The sorcerer stared, aghast. "My… my Soul-Flaying Cataclysm! It… it just… fizzled?"
Saitama yawned. "Looked kinda boring, anyway. Too many swirly bits." He then flicked a pebble from the ground with his thumb. The pebble, travelling at a speed that defied physics, struck the sorcerer's hovering disk. The disk shattered into a million pieces. The sorcerer yelped and tumbled to the ground, landing in an undignified heap.
"Okay, this is getting ridiculous," Saitama muttered to himself. "Where's Genos? He's usually good at cleaning up these mook-level guys."
Genos, at that moment, was engaged in a high-speed aerial battle with several of the winged gargoyles that had managed to evade Saitama's initial… greeting. His incinerator cannons flared, tracing lines of fire across the dark sky, each blast precisely aimed to neutralize a target without causing excessive damage to the already crumbling fortress (a task he was finding increasingly difficult, given the ambient chaos).
"Master!" Genos's voice crackled over their comms, a system Saitama usually forgot he had. "I am currently neutralizing airborne threats! The structural integrity of the fortress is… degrading rapidly due to your percussive engagements! Recommend focusing your attacks inward to minimize further widespread demolition, if possible!"
"Inward? Gotcha!" Saitama yelled back. He looked at the horde of cultists still hesitantly trying to swarm him. "Okay, guys! Field trip! We're going inside!"
And with that, he simply started walking into the fortress, swatting aside any cultist who got in his way with the same casual indifference one might display towards bothersome insects. The cultists, faced with an unstoppable, bright yellow juggernaut who seemed utterly immune to their deadliest spells and strongest warriors, began to fall back in disarray, their fanatical zeal rapidly evaporating into primal terror.
Back with the infiltration team, the rhythmic thumping from Saitama's activities had become noticeably closer, and the tremors more pronounced. Dust and small chunks of rock were now falling from the ceiling with alarming regularity.
"He is… redecorating, it seems," Alexia commented dryly, as a particularly large piece of stonework crashed down nearby, narrowly missing her.
Shadow, however, seemed to be guiding them with even greater urgency. "We are close. The Heart's resonance is… strong here. It calls with a hunger that could consume worlds." He led them into a vast, circular chamber, its ceiling lost in the oppressive gloom far above. In the center of the chamber, on a massive, obsidian altar, pulsed an object of terrifying beauty.
It was the Heart of Diablos.
It was roughly the size of a human head, a multifaceted crystal of a deep, pulsating crimson, like congealed blood and captured starlight. Veins of black lightning crackled within its depths, and it emitted a low, hypnotic thrum that vibrated in their very bones. The air around it was distorted, shimmering with raw, untamed demonic power. Dozens of cultist priests, their faces pale and ecstatic, were arranged around the altar, chanting in a sibilant, ancient language, their hands raised as they channeled energy into the pulsating Heart.
"There it is," Iris breathed, her hand tightening on Crimson Fang. The sheer malevolence emanating from the Heart was overwhelming, a suffocating wave of pure evil.
"The ritual is nearing completion," Shadow stated, his voice grim. "They seek to fully awaken its power, to unleash it upon this unsuspecting world. We must stop them. Now."
Before they could formulate a plan of attack, however, the main doors to the chamber – massive, iron-bound monstrosities – were suddenly blasted inwards, not with an explosion, but with a sound like a giant paper bag being popped.
Standing in the ruined doorway, silhouetted against the carnage he had presumably wrought in the outer halls, was Saitama. He was dusting off his hands.
"Whew," he said. "Long hallway. And surprisingly crowded. So, this is the main party room, huh? Smells even worse in here. You guys find the… uh… shiny red thingy yet?" He then spotted the pulsating Heart on the altar. "Oh, hey! Is that it? Kinda looks like a giant evil gummy bear."
The cultist priests, startled from their ritualistic trance, turned as one, their faces contorting in rage and horror at the sight of the yellow-clad intruder. The High Priest, a gaunt figure with eyes burning like hot coals, shrieked, "Blasphemer! You dare interrupt the sacred rite?! You will be the first offering to the awakened Heart!" He slammed his staff onto the altar, and the Heart pulsed violently, unleashing a wave of crimson energy that washed over the chamber.
Iris, Alexia, and Rose braced themselves, raising their own magical and physical defenses. Shadow simply melted deeper into the ambient gloom, his form becoming almost intangible.
The wave of demonic energy hit Saitama. He blinked. "Huh. Kinda tingly. Like static electricity, but… angrier."
The High Priest stared, his jaw slack. His most potent defensive wave, capable of flaying the flesh from a lesser knight or driving a mage insane, had elicited… a comment about static electricity.
"Right," Saitama said, cracking his neck. "Evil gummy bear. You guys are the bad guys. I'm the hero. Let's do this." He started walking towards the altar.
Shadow watched, a predatory stillness about him. 'The pieces are in place. The catalyst has arrived. Now… let us observe the reaction. Let us see how the concentrated essence of a demon lord fares against… this. This will be the true test. The ultimate data point.' His focus wasn't just on Saitama; it was on the Heart itself, on how it would respond to such an incomprehensible anomaly.
The symphony of unintentional mayhem was about to reach its crescendo. And the goosebumps on Shadow's skin were no longer just excited; they were having a religious experience. This was beyond his wildest, most carefully scripted scenarios. This was reality, hilariously, terrifyingly, and magnificently, rewriting itself.