Chương 10: The Bureaucracy of a God

The administrative wing's secondary parlor was far more opulent than the sterile sub-level briefing room, though it had not entirely escaped the day's trauma. A hairline fracture ran vertically through the mahogany paneling of the west wall, and the heavy velvet curtains had been drawn tight to block out the harsh, artificial glare of the Atlesian floodlights illuminating the courtyard below. Saitama sat heavily on a green plush sofa that looked entirely too expensive for his yellow jumpsuit.

In front of him, resting on a low glass coffee table, was a massive ceramic bowl piled high with white rice, flanked by a plate of flash-fried chicken and a small dish of salted vegetables. Chop. Chop. Chop. The rhythmic, hyper-accelerated clicking of wooden utensils was the only sound in the room for three full minutes.

General James Ironwood stood by the cold fireplace, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, watching the bald man consume a mountain of carbohydrates with a mixture of military disgust and clinical fascination.

"Is the local cuisine to your liking, Mr. Saitama?" Winter Schnee asked, standing rigidly beside the doorway. He eats like an animal, she thought, her lips thinning. No posture, no grace. Yet his body density must be astronomical to process kinetic force like that. Winter thought. Her white gloved hand rested on the pommel of her saber, her eyes tracking the rapid movement of his chopsticks.

"Mm. It's pretty good," Saitama said around a mouthful of rice, swallowing heavily before pointing a chopstick at the plate.

"The chicken's a little different from the stuff in Z-City, tastes kinda wild, but the rice is perfect. Honestly, I thought you guys were gonna feed me some weird space paste."

"We are a civilized society, Saitama," Glynda Goodwitch said, stepping forward from the shadows near the bookshelf. She held a neat stack of physical papers in her hands, completely bypassing the electronic Scrolls they usually used. She placed the papers on the edge of the glass table, away from the grease splatters.

"Though our civilization is currently facing an unprecedented existential strain. Which brings us to the terms of your presence here." Saitama didn't look up from his bowl.

"Terms? Look, I told the guy with the flask, I just need a place to sleep until I can figure out how to get my phone to work again."

"And you have one," Qrow Branwen said, leaning his shoulder against the window frame. He was holding a clean glass of water this time, Glynda's compromise, and his red eyes were fixed on the white cape draping over the sofa.

"The upper faculty dorms are mostly intact. You've got a bed, a shower, and a kitchen. And Jimmy over there just signed off on a corporate line of credit that'll keep that belly of yours full for the foreseeable future."

"Really?" Saitama paused, a piece of chicken suspended an inch from his mouth. His simple, dot-eyed face lit up with a genuine, comical relief.

"Wow. No rent? Back home, my landlord would literally break down my door if I was three days late. You guys are way nicer than old lady world-ender."

"It is not charity," Ironwood interrupted, his voice dropping into a hard, resonant authority that cut through the casual atmosphere of the parlor. He took three measured steps forward, his heavy boots clicking against the hardwood floor.

"It is a strategic accommodation. In exchange for this shelter, this food, and our cooperation in finding a way to return you to your... sector... we require your services." Saitama swallowed the chicken, his expression flattening into a look of mild, familiar dread.

"Uh oh. Here it comes. You're gonna make me join the army, aren't you? I told you, I don't do military stuff. The uniforms are always too tight and there's way too many meetings."

"We are not asking you to enlist, Specialist Saitama," Winter said, her voice sharp.

"The Atlesian military relies on discipline, synchronization, and chain of command. An... unpredictable variable such as yourself would disrupt our tactical formations."

"She means you're too weird for the grunts, baldy," Qrow chucked, taking a sip of his water. Glynda tapped her riding crop against the paperwork on the table.

"What we are offering is a designated position within the auxiliary defense framework of Beacon Academy. Effective immediately, you are being appointed as the Special Campus Security Consultant." Saitama blinked.

"Security Consultant? So... like a night watchman?"

"Essentially," Glynda nodded, her green eyes fixed on him with a intense, serious weight.

"The internal security of the kingdom has been compromised. The White Fang and the rogue Atlesian units have been pushed back, but the threat of future incursions remains high. Your duties will be simple. You will reside on campus. You will be permitted to move freely within the perimeter. But should a Level-Four threat or higher breach the walls, specifically creatures of the scale you witnessed on the tower, you will be expected to deploy and neutralize them."

Saitama leaned back against the plush cushions, using a toothpick to clear his teeth. So basically, it's just like my old hobby He thought, his mind drifting back to the long, empty afternoons in the Ghost Town of Z-City. I sit around, play video games, wait for a giant monster to break a building, and then I go punch it. Except here, they actually give me a free apartment and groceries upfront instead of making me collect monster parts for cash.

"Yeah, okay. I can do that," Saitama said, shrugging his shoulders.

"It sounds way easier than the C-Class quotas I used to have to hit. If I didn't report a crime every week, the Association would threaten to demote me."

"There is one final condition," Ironwood said, his voice dropping into a whisper that felt like iron sliding over stone.

"You do not leave the Vale sector without explicit clearance from Professor Goodwitch or myself. The global political climate is currently volatile. If the other kingdoms, Mistral or Vacuo, discover that Atlas is housing an unregistered combat asset capable of altering the weather with a physical strike, it could trigger a global conflict before we can repair the CCT network."

"Yeah, yeah, don't go out of bounds. I get it," Saitama said, standing up from the sofa and brushing a few grains of rice off his yellow stomach. Ironwood watched him closely, his cybernetic eye performing another rapid diagnostic scan. He accepted the terms without a single question regarding our enemy. The general noted, his jaw tightening. No questions about Salem. No questions about the Relics. He truly does not care about the fate of this world, only his immediate comfort. He is a god who thinks like a tenant.

Ironwood let out a quiet, imperceptible breath of relief, casting a brief, meaningful glance toward Glynda and Qrow. The worst-case scenario, having to explain the millennium-old shadow war to an unquantifiable entity, had been avoided. But before Saitama could fully reach for the final piece of flash-fried chicken, he paused. He set his wooden chopsticks down across the rim of the ceramic bowl with a soft clack, his simple, dot-eyed face shifting into a slightly contemplative, blocky expression.

"You know," Saitama said, leaning back against the plush green cushions and looking around at the four adults, "I was talking to those kids out by the fountain earlier. And the more I look at that shattered moon out the window, the more I'm sure of it. This place is definitely not my world." Winter's hand immediately tensed against the pommel of her saber, her shoulders squaring into a defensive posture.

Glynda remained perfectly still, her green eyes narrowing behind her spectacles as she braced for whatever revelation was about to come.

"Not your world?" Qrow asked, swirling the water in his glass, playing dumb with practiced ease.

"What's that supposed to mean, baldy?" This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

"It's like those late-night anime shows I watch back home when I can't sleep," Saitama explained, raising a red-gloved hand and gesturing vaguely toward the ceiling.

"It's a classic isekai logic. A regular guy gets sucked into a weird dimensional tear, crosses over to a completely foreign land with crazy architecture, and suddenly has to deal with a whole new set of rules." The sheer absurdity of his statement caused a different kind of tension to enter the room. Glynda's brow furrowed deeply, her riding crop halting its steady rhythm against her palm. She looked at the bald man, trying to parse if he was playing a bizarre psychological game.

Ironwood merely hardened his posture, his cybernetic eye performing a rapid biometric check that still yielded absolutely nothing. Winter's hand immediately tensed against the pommel of her saber, her shoulders squaring into a defensive stance.

"Are you saying you are from another world, Mr. Saitama?" Ironwood asked. Winter spoke up, her voice sharp and dripping with absolute skepticism.

"Physical displacement across separate dimensional planes is scientifically undocumented. To suggest you originated from an entirely different reality is... highly improbable, if not completely absurd."

"She's right," Glynda added, her voice recovering its crisp, authoritative academic tone as she adjusted her glasses.

"While Remnant has its share of unexplained phenomena, the existence of an alternate universe violates the basic foundational tenets of our history and geography. It is far more likely you are suffering from severe spatial disorientation." Saitama blinked, looking entirely unfazed by their disbelief as he casually scratched his chin.

"Well, call it whatever you want. But none of your maps have Z-City or A-City, or any cities on them."

"Not that I want to believe, but it kinda makes a twisted kind of sense, you know?" Qrow cut in, shifting his weight from the window frame and swirling the water in his glass. He looked at Ironwood, Glynda and Winter. His red eyes narrowing with a dangerous, cynical clarity.

"Think about it. Look at how clueless the guy has been since he dropped out of the sky. He didn't know what a Huntsman was. He didn't know what the kingdoms were. He even treats our Lien like play money. If he were an operative from Mistral or a rogue asset from Atlas, he'd at least know what a Semblance is. His absolute ignorance about literally everything in Remnant fits perfectly if he actually fell out of a completely different sky."

"It's still scientifically impossible, Qrow," Winter said, still maintaining her skepticism. Ironwood remained silent, his gaze fixed on Saitama, his mind weighing Qrow's logic against Winter's rigid skepticism.

"Oh, and also," Saitama leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his blank gaze locking onto Ironwood's rigid frame.

"From what I've seen of those stories, there's always a pattern."

"Pattern?" Ironwood asked in confusion.

"Yeah," Saitama continued, his voice entirely conversational yet carrying an eerie, grounded weight.

"In ninety percent of those shows, there's always a Demon Lord. Or some kind of ultimate final boss hiding out in a dark, scary castle somewhere, making evil plans to wipe out humanity. It's practically a rule of the genre." A suffocating, absolute silence slammed into the room like a physical shockwave. On the inside, the four guardians of Remnant's deepest secrets felt their hearts collectively skip a beat. The sheer, absurd accuracy of his guess hit them like a kinetic strike. He hadn't been briefed.

He hadn't seen the networks. He didn't know about the Grimm Pools or the Grimm Queen ruling over the dark lands of Evernight. Yet, through the sheer, ridiculous lens of comic book tropes and cheap television, this bizarre stranger had just completely deduced the exact existential threat threatening to tear their civilization apart. Qrow almost choked on his swallow of water, coughing fiercely into his fist to mask his sudden panic.

Winter's cybernetic commander didn't blink, but the micro-stutter in Ironwood's robotic eye flared rapidly, flashing a sequence of erratic red diagnostic codes across his internal display. Glynda's breath caught sharply in her throat, her riding crop tightening in her grip until the leather creaked under the strain. He knows?! Winter thought, a cold sweat breaking out beneath her immaculate white collar. Or is he testing us? Ironwood's mind raced through a dozen tactical contingencies in a millisecond.

If Saitama knew about Salem, if he realized they were hiding the existence of a dark force of pure destruction, their fragile arrangement would vaporize. But they had already decided. They had to keep him in the dark. Forcing his facial muscles into a mask of pure, unbothered military indifference, Ironwood straightened his posture, crossing his arms back over his chest.

"A 'Demon Lord'?" Ironwood said, his voice smooth, carrying the hollow, calculated gravity of a seasoned politician.

"I'm afraid your television shows have given you a rather romanticized view of conflict, Mr. Saitama. Reality is rarely so centralized."

"The General is correct," Glynda chimed in smoothly, her voice steadying as she adjusted her glasses.

"Our world does not suffer under the tyranny of a single antagonist. The Creatures of Grimm are a vast, decentralized force of nature. They possess no singular consciousness, no central command, and certainly no 'final boss'. They are simply drawn to human negativity, as you saw today." Saitama blinked, staring at her for a long, quiet moment. His simple, dot-like eyes didn't widen, nor did they narrow. He just looked incredibly underwhelmed.

"Oh," Saitama muttered, slouching back into the sofa with a heavy, disappointed sigh.

"So there's no dark lord? No ultimate evil creature I can just go punch real hard so the portal opens up and lets me go home?"

"Sorry to disappoint ya, kid," Qrow said, forcing a lazy, cynical smirk back onto his face as he set his glass down on the bookshelf.

"No magical castles to storm. Just a lot of ugly, black-skinned monsters that need cutting down whenever they wander too close to the walls. It's a lot of boring, repetitive grunt work."

"Man... that really sucks," Saitama said, rubbing the back of his bald head, his rubber glove squeaking loudly against his skin.

"I was really hoping for a shortcut. If it's just endless waves of those regular dog monsters, this is gonna take forever." Winter let out a slow, cautious breath, her fingers relaxing by a fraction of an inch away from her saber hilt. The lie had held. The hurricane had been successfully kept inside its cage, entirely unaware that the eye of the storm was watching him from across the ocean.

"Well, then..." Saitama picked up the paperwork Glynda had left, squinting at the lines of text.

"Where do I sign? My hand's a little greasy, so I might smudge the paper."

"A verbal agreement will suffice for now, Mr. Saitama," Glynda said, her shoulders dropping by a fraction of an inch as she pulled the papers back. The immediate crisis of managing the strongest creature on the planet had been resolved through the sheer leverage of a rice bowl.

"Winter will escort you to your quarters. Tomorrow morning, you will be provided with a standard identification voucher."

"Awesome," Saitama said, turning toward the door with a lazy wave of his red glove.

"Thanks for the food, robot-arm guy. Hey, lady with the sword, make sure the room has a TV. I need to see if they broadcast those late-night anime reruns here." As Winter led Saitama out of the parlor, her posture stiff with a professional disdain that couldn't entirely mask her curiosity, the remaining three adults stood in the quiet room. Qrow didn't waste a second.

He immediately reached inside his coat, pulled out his silver flask, and took a long, desperate swig, his shoulders dropping the tight, defensive posture he had maintained for the last hour.

"Gods above," Qrow muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he leaned heavily against the wooden bookshelf.

"That was entirely too close. My heart is still trying to kick its way out of my ribs." Glynda didn't scold him for the drinking this time. Instead, she lowered her riding crop, her hands visibly trembling as the adrenaline began to fade. She walked over to the desk, placing both palms flat on the mahogany surface just to steady herself.

"He was guessing," Glynda whispered, her voice devoid of its usual academic iron.

"He had to be. There is absolutely no way he could have known about her. No archives, no data networks, not even the majority of our own military knows the truth. To deduce Salem's existence based on... on comic books and late-night television?"

"It doesn't matter if it was a guess or an intuition," Ironwood said. He hadn't moved from his spot by the window. His back was turned to them, his cybernetic eye casting a faint, rhythmic red glow against the glass as he stared out at the broken moon.

"The fact remains that his instincts brought him directly to the center of the board. If he begins to look closer, if he starts asking the students or tracking the Grimm migrations..."

"He won't," Qrow cut in, shaking his head as he capped the flask.

"Did you look at his eyes, James? The guy is a complete blank slate. He's not looking for a grand conspiracy. He's looking for a coupon day and a quick way out. The moment you told him there wasn't a Demon Lord, you saw how fast he deflated. He bought the lie because the truth sounds like too much work."

"We cannot rely on his apathy as a strategy, Qrow," Ironwood countered sharply, turning around to face them. His expression was grim, the lines on his face deeply etched by exhaustion.

"You saw what he did to the Wyvern with a single, casual blow. If he discovers we lied to him, if he realizes we are using him as a shield against an entity of darkness while keeping him in the dark, he could turn that power on Atlas. Or worse, Salem could find a way to offer him what he wants."

"Salem can't give him a portal home any more than we can," Glynda pointed out, though her green eyes remained shadowed with anxiety.

"But James is right. We are playing a highly volatile game. If he ever discovers the existence of the Evernight Castle, he will go there. Not to join her, but to punch her, exactly as he said." Qrow let out a low, grim chuckle that held absolutely no warmth.

"A very powerful witch who wants to destroy humanity, meeting a guy who kills giant monsters with one punch because he's bored. Honestly? I don't know who I'd feel worse for."

"This isn't a joke," Ironwood said coldly.

"We keep him contained. We keep him satisfied with the standard Grimm threats around the kingdom borders. Winter will monitor his movements, and Glynda, you will ensure the staff at Beacon keeps him isolated from any sensitive intelligence." Glynda sighed, adjusting her glasses as she straightened up.

"And if he encounters a threat that forces us to reveal more?" Ironwood looked back toward the door where the bald man had exited, his jaw setting into a rigid, uncompromising line.

"Then we cross that bridge when we burn it. For now, he is an asset we cannot afford to lose, and a secret we cannot afford to let slip."