Valhalla. Bifrost Ruins.
The sky tears open.
It isn't a violent tear like Typhon's escape. It isn't a careless smash like Saitama's exit.
It is precise. Calculated. Surgical.
A swirling vortex of black and violet energy opens above the reconstruction site where the Rainbow Bridge once stood.
A boot slams onto the scorched marble. Heavy. Industrial.
Blast. The S-Class Rank 1.
He stands up, adjusting his heavy shoulder pauldrons. His cape is heavy, weighed down by cosmic dust from a thousand different galaxies. He adjusts his sunglasses.
He checks a device on his wrist. It pings.
"Dimensional stability: 34%," Blast mutters. His voice is deep, sounding like rocks grinding in a mixer. "These guys run a messy shop."
"Halt!"
A shout echoes from the construction site.
Ares, currently carrying a stack of drywall, drops his load. He summons a spear.
"Another intruder?! We just fixed the west wing! I will not allow—"
Blast doesn't look at Ares. He lifts one finger.
He taps the air.
Dimension Cannon: Gravity Well.
A cube of distorted space manifests around Ares.
The gravity inside the cube increases by 500%.
WHAM.
Ares is flattened. He is plastered to the floor, his face pressed into the marble dust. He can't breathe. He can't move. He is a pancake of a war god.
"Quiet," Blast says. "I'm looking for the landlord."
Thor.
A shadow looms.
Thor steps over the flattened Ares. The Thunder God is bandaged, shirtless, covered in dust. He holds Mjolnir.
The hammer hums. Not with aggression. With curiosity. It senses the forces Blast manipulates—forces that mimic black holes.
"You are not him," Thor says calmly. He rests Mjolnir on the ground. The floor cracks. "But you are strong."
"And you're the one leaving doors open," Blast counters. He walks forward, the gravity cube around Ares dissipating so the god can gasp for air.
"Typhon. Rat-Titans. Divine runoff leaking into Sector Z. Do you have any idea how much paperwork that creates for me?"
Blast stops in front of Thor. He is shorter than the god, but his presence feels denser.
"I'm Blast. I handle interdimensional pest control. Take me to Odin."
Thor smiles. A small, weary smile.
"He is in the tent. Follow me, Pest Control."
Z-City. Saitama's Apartment.
The Hotpot.
The steam rises thick and savory. It fills the small room, fogging up the balcony windows.
In the center of the table sits the hotpot.
It is a battlefield.
"Genos," Saitama says, eyes narrowed, chopsticks hovering. "Target lock on the tofu."
"Negative, Master," Genos replies. He is holding his own chopsticks with his standard mechanical hand. His gold-plated god-arm is currently hovering under the pot, acting as the heating element. "The tofu requires twelve more seconds to reach optimal texture saturation. Premature extraction will result in a mushy consistency."
"I like mushy," Fubuki argues. She reaches for the ladle.
Click.
Saitama's chopsticks intercept her ladle.
A clash of wills. A clash of metals.
"Fubuki," Saitama warns. "House rules. You don't take the ladle until everyone has had a first pass at the meat."
"There's only three slices of beef!" Fubuki complains. "You bought the cheap pack!"
"It was on sale!" Saitama defends. "50% off because it was 'slightly gray'. It's fine! The heat kills the germs!"
The door opens.
King walks in. He looks tired. He looks hungry.
He sees the steam. He smells the ponzu sauce.
DOOM-DOOM-DOOM.
The King Engine starts up, anticipating flavor.
"I... I smelled cabbage," King says, trying to sound casual. "I thought I'd check for... safety."
"Sit down, King," Saitama gestures with his chin. "We saved you a mushroom. The Rat-Titan dropped it."
"You're eating sewer mushrooms?" Fubuki asks, horrified, even as she dips a piece of cabbage into her bowl.
"It's an enhanced fungal strain grown in a mana-rich environment," Genos explains. "I have sterilized it with UV radiation. It is safe."
King sits. He takes a mushroom. He eats it.
His eyes widen.
It tastes like earth. Like deep, ancient forests. Like the smell of rain on asphalt.
"Good," King mutters.
Saitama grins. He dips the grey beef.
"See? Divine sewer food. Can't beat the price."
Valhalla. The Command Tent.
Odin sits across from Blast.
The atmosphere is heavy. It feels like a business meeting between rival mafia dons.
"You knew he was here," Odin accuses, pointing a shaky finger at Blast. "The Bald One. You knew what he was."
"I suspected," Blast admits. He taps his sunglasses. "Saitama is a localized singularity. He broke his limiter. He exists outside the logic of your world... and mine. Usually, he stays in his lane. Groceries. TV. Monsters."
Blast leans forward.
"But you guys pulled him in. You kidnapped a singularity. That creates cracks."
Blast places a holographic projector on the table.
It activates. A 3D map of the multiverse appears.
A large, red tear is visible between the OPM dimension and the RoR dimension.
"This is the wound," Blast says. "You tried to heal it with rune magic. It's like putting a band-aid on a gunshot."
He points to the edges of the tear.
"Something is eating the edges. Something formless. The Author? A void entity? God?"
Brunhilde pales. "We erased the Author entity. Saitama punched him."
"You punched a manifestation," Blast corrects. "You can't punch a concept forever. Eventually, the Narrative fights back."
Blast stands up.
"I'm sealing this dimension off. Completely. No more portals. No more summoning. If you call Earth again, I won't send a hero. I'll send a black hole."
Odin grips Gungnir's shards (he kept them).
"We have no intention of returning. We are... reconstructing."
"Good."
Blast turns to leave.
But he stops.
He looks at the statues of the gods in the ruins.
"One warning," Blast says softly. "Saitama thinks he's just a guy. Let him keep thinking that. If he realizes he can actually reshape reality by wishing for it... we're all out of a job."
Z-City.
Saitama burps.
"Ah. That was okay. 7 out of 10."
The pot is empty. Even the broth is gone.
Fubuki is leaning back, patting her stomach. She feels... stronger. The mushroom's magical properties are subtly recharging her psychic batteries. She lifts a spoon with her mind. It flies into the ceiling.
"Oops."
Genos retracts his heating arm.
"Master. The energy efficiency of the meal was satisfactory. Cost per kilocalorie: 4 yen."
"Good numbers, Genos." Saitama stands up to clear the table.
Suddenly, the air in the apartment grows cold.
Not Fubuki's cold.
narrative cold.
The world loses color again. Just for a second.
Like a frame buffering.
The edges of the apartment—the corners of the ceiling, the lines of the floorboards—begin to vibrate. They turn fuzzy. Sketch-like.
"Hey," King says, his heart skipping a beat. "The graphics are glitching."
Saitama looks at his hand. It turns into a pencil sketch. Then back to flesh.
"Genos," Saitama says. "Is the TV reception bad?"
"Master... I am unable to perceive depth," Genos reports. "My optical sensors report we are becoming... 2D."
The Correction.
In the center of the living room, above the dirty hotpot, a rip appears.
White. Pure, blank white paper.
A hand reaches through. A hand wearing a white glove. It holds an oversized eraser.
The Editor.
A construct of the higher plane. Sent to fix the plot holes. Sent to erase the anomaly that refuses to fit the genre.
The Editor has no face. Just a smooth, featureless mask with the word DEADLINE printed on it.
It doesn't speak. It just wipes.
It swipes the eraser at the table.
The hotpot pot vanishes. Erased from existence.
"Hey!" Saitama yells. "I hadn't washed that yet!"
The Editor swings at Fubuki.
Fubuki screams, throwing up a psychic barrier. The eraser hits the barrier. The barrier turns into smudge marks and disappears.
The eraser touches Fubuki's shoulder.
Her shoulder pad vanishes. Just gone. Not cut. Erased.
"It deletes matter!" Genos charges his cannon. "Incinerate!"
He fires a blast.
The Editor erases the fire. It wipes the beam away like chalk on a blackboard.
It turns to Saitama.
The anomaly. The stain on the page.
The Editor raises the eraser with both hands. It prepares for a total scrub.
King is under the table, holding his breath. It's a mod, King thinks frantically. A griefing mod.
Saitama looks at the blank-faced entity.
He looks at where his pot used to be.
"That pot," Saitama says, voice low, "was a wedding gift. To my neighbor. Who lent it to me."
The Editor strikes.
A wave of white nothingness descends.
Saitama doesn't punch.
He grabs.
He catches the giant eraser.
His fingers dig into the rubbery conceptual material.
"You break my house. You steal my pot. You scare my guests."
Saitama pulls.
The Editor struggles. It tries to write him out.
Saitama headbutts the text. The words shatter.
"Shut up," Saitama says.
He rips the eraser out of the entity's hands.
"Give me that."
Saitama looks at the entity.
He holds the giant eraser.
"Let's see how you like it."
Serious Series: Serious Rub.
Saitama rubs the eraser on the entity's face.
Vigorously. Like he's trying to remove a stubborn stain.
Rub-rub-rub-rub-rub.
The entity screams—a sound like paper tearing.
Its head is erased.
Its body is erased.
Its concept is erased.
Saitama keeps rubbing until only white dust remains.
He stops.
He is holding a nub of a giant eraser.
The color returns to the room. The sketch-lines vanish.
Saitama blows the eraser dust off his hand.
Pooof.
"Genos," Saitama says, tossing the eraser nub into the trash bin. "Add 'new pot' to the budget."
"Yes, Master." Genos records the battle data. Target: Conceptual Editor. Elimination method: Aggressive Erasure.
King crawls out from under the table.
"Is it... is it over?"
"Yeah," Saitama says. He picks up a leftover piece of cabbage that survived the erasure. "But now I'm hungry again."
Valhalla.
Blast stands at the dimensional tear.
He watches it seal up.
He saw the energy spike. He saw the "Serious Rub."
Blast chuckles. A low, gravelly sound.
"He erased the Eraser."
He shakes his head.
"Odin," Blast says without turning around.
"Yes?" The god approaches humbly.
"Don't worry about the Narrative anymore."
Blast taps a button on his gauntlet. A portal home opens.
"Saitama isn't part of the story," Blast says, stepping through. "He's the guy holding the book."
Portal closes.
Odin stands alone in the ruins.
He looks at his hands. He looks at the rebuilt sky.
For the first time in eons, he feels small. And strangely... relieved.
Being the All-Father was exhausting.
Maybe, he thinks, he should take up a hobby.
Fishing sounds nice.