Chương 54: Chapter 51: The Sheriff of Shion

The crisp, late-morning breeze sweeping through the rebuilt thoroughfares of Vale carried the pleasant scent of fresh pastries and motor exhaust. It was a perfectly ordinary day for the kingdom's citizens. But for the four Beacon First-Years navigating the crowded sidewalk, it felt like a high-stakes military infiltration behind enemy lines.

Toby held a massive brown paper bag tightly against his chest, his knuckles practically white as he stared intensely at the crisp, unblemished head of cabbage resting at the top. To his left, Marcus pushed his glasses up his nose, his eyes darting wildly toward every alleyway and rooftop, clutching two plastic bags overflowing with premium marbled beef and discounted radishes.

"Keep your intervals tight, guys," Marcus whispered, his voice trembling with a level of tactical paranoia usually reserved for Grimm ambushes.

"If we drop even a single radish, Headmistress Goodwitch is going to drop us off the CCT tower. Without our landing strategies." Chloe walked right behind him, her hands full of bulk-packaged green tea, her complexion a sickly, translucent shade of pale.

"I still can't believe this is our life now. We're running covert logistical support... for groceries."

"It's not just groceries, Chloe," Lyra hissed from the rear guard. The Leopard Faunus's spotted tail was wrapped anxiously around her own leg, her ears pinned flat against her hair.

"It's a global security cover-up. If the media finds out that the 'Hero of Vale' accidentally shipped himself to Anima because we were fighting bandits, the entire continental defense grid goes into a panic. We just have to keep doing the shopping, bring it to his dorm, and pretend he's in there doing... whatever it is a god does in his spare time." Toby let out a long, pathetic whine.

"I thought Huntsman training was going to be about fighting monsters and saving villages! Not smuggling discounted poultry past the paparazzi!" The four students turned the final corner, the towering, majestic iron gates of Beacon Academy coming into view. They let out a collective, shuddering sigh of relief. The safe zone was in sight. But their relief was entirely premature.

"Hey! You guys!" The four First-Years froze as stiff as statues. Marching toward them from the courtyard fountain was a gaggle of their own classmates, the unofficial and highly enthusiastic "Saitama Fan Club". At the front of the pack was a boy with spiky hair holding a custom-bound notebook filled entirely with theories on Saitama's workout routine, accompanied by three other students buzzing with manic energy.

"You're doing the master's grocery run again?" the spiky-haired boy asked, his eyes wide with reverence as he looked at the cabbage in Toby's arms.

"That must mean he's back from his patrol! Where is he? We've been hanging around the maintenance sheds all morning, but we haven't seen a single yellow blur!"

"Is he training in secret?" a girl beside him gasped, clutching her hands to her cheeks.

"Is he punching the air so fast he's invisible?!" Toby, Marcus, Chloe, and Lyra exchanged a look of pure, unadulterated terror. The imaginary, terrifying specter of Glynda Goodwitch standing behind them with a raised riding crop flared vividly in their minds.

"Uh... haha! No! No invisible punching today!" Toby stammered, his voice cracking three distinct times as he forced the most awkward, painful smile ever recorded in Beacon's history. Marcus stepped forward, sweating profusely, adjusting his glasses with a violently shaking hand.

"A-Actually! Master Saitama is... he is currently unavailable! Very unavailable! Completely out of sight!"

"Unavailable?" The fan club blinked in synchronized confusion.

"Is he meditating on the nature of absolute power?"

"Paid leave!" Chloe suddenly blurted out, her voice pitching into a hysterical squeak. The entire group stared at her. Chloe swallowed hard, doubling down on the lie with a frantic, desperate nod.

"Yes! Paid leave! Vacation time!" Chloe laughed, a high, completely unnatural sound.

"You know how it is! The whole 'Hero of Vale' thing... the paparazzi, the cameras, the screaming fans... it really stressed him out! The pressure of being the ultimate protector is a heavy burden! So, Headmistress Goodwitch explicitly ordered him to stay locked in his dorm room and play video games! For his mental health!"

"Oh..." The spiky-haired boy's face softened into an expression of profound, sympathetic understanding.

"Of course. Even a titan needs to rest his spirit. The mental toll of carrying a kingdom on your shoulders must be exhausting."

"Exactly!" Lyra chimed in, nodding so fast her neck popped.

"So, uh, we're just dropping these off at his door! We can't disturb him! See you in combat class!" Without waiting for another question, the four First-Years broke into a dead sprint toward the dormitories, clutching the groceries to their chests as if they were live explosives, leaving the bewildered fan club standing in the courtyard.

Thousands of miles across the churning ocean, deep within the autumn-drenched continent of Anima, the village of Shion rested in a picturesque, golden-hued valley. The afternoon sun filtered lazily through the wooden slats of Shion's central inn. The air inside smelled of roasted pine nuts and fresh tea. It was a beautiful, rustic settlement of wooden cabins and woven roofs, far removed from the political strife of the major kingdoms. At the front desk, Saitama stood perfectly still.

His yellow jumpsuit was slightly dusty from his cross-country trek from the Mistral port, and his white cape hung motionless against his calves. A profound, suffocating shadow fell over the top half of his face. His dotted eyes had expanded into hyper-detailed, hollow circles of pure, existential despair. A series of thick, vertical blue lines appeared on his forehead, pulsing with the rhythmic thud of a man facing his ultimate nemesis. Capitalism.

"I... I'm short," Saitama whispered, his voice trembling with genuine tragedy. He stared down at the small pile of physical Lien cards resting on the wooden counter. He poked one of the cards with his red-gloved finger, hoping by some miracle of physics it would magically multiply. The innkeeper, a plump, kind-faced older man with a thick apron, offered a sympathetic but firm smile.

"I'm sorry, traveler. But with the recent Grimm migrations driving up the cost of supply caravans, the nightly rate is fixed. You're about forty Lien short for a single bed."

"Forty Lien..." Saitama groaned, clutching his bald head with both hands.

"I spent my travel stipend on those hotpot ingredients at the market. I thought my Beacon card would work here, but the ATM at the port said 'Out of Network'! What kind of backward banking system doesn't have cross-continental coverage?!" Saitama slouched over the counter, his soul practically exiting his mouth in a ghostly wisp.

"If I sleep outside in the woods, my suit is gonna get covered in mud again. And the crop-lady isn't here to pay for the dry cleaning..." CRASH! The heavy, reinforced wooden doors of the inn did not just open. They were violently, explosively kicked off their iron hinges, sending splinters flying across the room. The peaceful atmosphere of the tavern shattered instantly.

The ambient chatter of the few patrons turned into screams of pure, unadulterated terror as they scrambled away from the entrance, overturning tables and spilling hot tea across the floorboards. Five burly men stormed into the inn. They were clad in mismatched, scavenged armor, heavy leather boots, and crimson bandanas tied aggressively around their arms and necks. They wielded an ugly assortment of rusted cutlasses, spiked clubs, and heavy-caliber dust-rifles. The Branwen Tribe had arrived.

"Alright, nobody move!" the lead bandit roared, firing a deafening warning shot into the ceiling that sent plaster raining down onto the floor.

"The village is ours! Shut your mouths, put your hands where I can see 'em, and throw every piece of Lien, Dust, and jewelry you have into the center of the room! Anyone tries to be a hero, they get a bullet!" Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. Outside the shattered doorway, the screams of the villagers echoed through the valley as the rest of the raiding party began kicking down doors and setting torches to the perimeter fences.

The innkeeper let out a terrified whimper, dropping entirely behind the wooden counter, his hands covering his head as he curled into a tight, trembling ball. Saitama, however, did not drop to the floor. He didn't even flinch at the gunshot. He slowly turned his torso around, leaning his elbow casually against the front desk. His expression was a perfect, flat oval of profound annoyance.

The lead bandit, a towering brute with a scarred chin and a massive spiked club, marched up to the counter, kicking an overturned chair out of his way. He glared down at the bald man in the bright yellow spandex. Unlike Raven Branwen and her elite scouts, who had been briefed on the terrifying "anomaly" residing in Vale. These lowly, grunting foot soldiers of the tribe had absolutely no idea who they were looking at. To them, it was just a weirdly dressed civilian in a ridiculous costume.

"Hey! Are you deaf, cue-ball?!" the bandit leader snarled, stepping into Saitama's personal space, his breath smelling of stale alcohol and chewing tobacco.

"I said empty your pockets! Hand over the Lien!" Saitama blinked. His dotted eyes shifted from the bandit's scarred face, down to the spiked club, and then back up.

"You guys have Lien?" Saitama asked, his voice entirely deadpan. The bandit paused, thrown completely off guard by the bizarre, conversational tone.

"What?"

"Lien," Saitama repeated, taking a step closer, a sudden, desperate hope lighting up his blank face.

"Do you guys have forty Lien on you? Because I'm trying to book a room here, and my bank card is out of network. If you guys could spot me the cash, that'd be super helpful. I'll even give you a couple of discount radishes in exchange." The innkeeper, peeking over the edge of the counter, stared at Saitama in absolute, breathless horror. The bandit leader's face contorted into a mask of pure, insulted fury.

The sheer audacity of this bald freak asking him for a loan in the middle of a violent raid was a profound disrespect to his criminal profession.

"You think this is a joke?!" the bandit roared, spit flying from his lips as he raised his heavy, steel-spiked club high into the air with both hands.

"I'll smash your skull into paste!" With a brutal, downward swing fueled by raw, murderous intent, the club descended directly toward the top of Saitama's bald head. SMACK. The sound wasn't the sickening crunch of bone. It was a sharp, casual, high-speed impact of rubber against leather. Before the club could even travel halfway down, Saitama had simply raised his left hand and delivered a lazy, open-handed backhand slap across the bandit's face. The concussive force of the slap defied every law of biomechanics.

The bandit leader's face distorted, the air around him compressing into a visible white shockwave. He was instantly lifted off his feet, his body spinning horizontally like a discarded frisbee. He tore through the air, crashing completely through the solid wooden wall of the inn, splintering the timber into toothpicks before flying another fifty yards and embedding himself head-first into a large oak tree outside. He was out cold before the wood had even finished splintering.

The remaining four bandits in the tavern froze. Their weapons hung uselessly in the air. Their jaws dropped open, their eyes bulging out of their skulls as they stared at the massive, jagged hole in the wall, and then back at the bald man who hadn't even shifted his stance.

"Wow. You guys are really rude," Saitama sighed, cracking his neck with a dull pop.

"I just asked a simple question."

"K-Kill him!" one of the bandits shrieked, his voice cracking in terror as he raised his dust-rifle. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. It took exactly 0. 8 seconds. Saitama blurred into four distinct afterimages. A sequence of casual, effortless chops to the back of their necks sent the four heavily armed raiders crumpling instantly to the floorboards, their eyes rolling back into their heads as they hit the ground like sacks of wet cement.

Saitama stood in the center of the quieted inn, dusting his red gloves off against each other. Outside, the screams of the villagers continued, accompanied by the revving of heavy bandit motorcycles and the chaotic sounds of looting. Saitama let out a long, heavy groan, rubbing the back of his bald head.

"Ah, man. It's so noisy out there. How is anyone supposed to sleep in this village?" Saitama complained, picking up his grocery bag from the counter. He looked down at the cowering innkeeper.

"Hey, watch my radishes for a second. I'll be right back." Saitama turned and casually strolled out through the shattered front doors of the inn, stepping into the chaotic, fire-lit center of Shion village. Around the main square, a dozen more Branwen Tribe raiders were terrorizing the locals, swinging torches and corraling terrified families toward the center of the dirt road.

"Burn the outer fences!" a raider on a customized dirt bike yelled, waving a machete.

"Let the Grimm smell the panic!"

"Hey. You guys." The flat, thoroughly bored voice cut through the revving engines. The bandits turned their heads. Standing in the middle of the dirt road, his hands tucked lazily into the pockets of his yellow jumpsuit, was Saitama.

"You guys are being incredibly loud," Saitama stated, his face an unreadable oval.

"I've had a really long day. I accidentally got on a boat, I found out my ATM card doesn't work, and I'm forty Lien short for a bed. So, if you could all just go be noisy somewhere else, that'd be great." The raiders stared at him for a second, then burst into cruel, mocking laughter.

"Look at this clown!" the biker sneered, revving his engine violently as he pointed his machete at Saitama.

"Run him down! Flatten him!" Three bandits on dirt bikes throttled their engines, popping their clutches as they surged forward, charging directly at Saitama with the intent to crush him beneath their heavy, spiked tires. Saitama didn't move. He didn't even take his hands out of his pockets. As the lead bike came within three feet of him, Saitama simply raised his right leg and delivered a lazy, perfectly timed front kick to the front tire. BOOM. The kinetic transfer was apocalyptic.

The entire front half of the motorcycle crumpled like a tin can. The rear tire lifted off the ground, the bike flipping vertically into the air. The rider was launched skyward with a comical scream, sailing directly over the rooftops of the village before splashing cleanly into a distant river. The other two bikers hit the brakes in sheer panic, their tires locking and skidding through the dirt. Saitama didn't give them a chance to turn around. He vanished.

A streak of yellow and red blurred through the village square. It wasn't a fight. It was an aggressive, high-speed chore. Smack. Thud. Wham. Bandits were literally swatted out of the air. A man holding a torch was lightly tapped on the forehead, spinning three times before collapsing.

A brute trying to swing a war hammer found his weapon caught between Saitama's thumb and forefinger, the steel instantly shattering like glass before Saitama delivered a mild flick to the man's nose, sending him rocketing backward into a hay bale.

In less than twenty seconds, the entire raiding party, a fearsome, lethal detachment of the Branwen Tribe that had plagued the continent for years, was scattered across the dirt road, completely unconscious, groaning in a tangled heap of broken weapons and dented motorcycles. Saitama stood at the end of the road, blowing a stray speck of dust off his glove.

"Finally. Some peace and quiet," he muttered. Suddenly, the heavy, rhythmic thud of armored boots pounding against the dirt path echoed from the entrance of the village.

"Hold the line! Stand your ground!" A seasoned, weary Huntsman sprinted into the village square. He wore heavily scarred chest armor, a tattered red scarf, and wielded a massive, complex halberd. He charged into the square with a fierce battle cry, his weapon raised high, entirely prepared to sacrifice his life against the dreaded Branwen Tribe. He skidded to a violent halt, his boots kicking up a cloud of dust. His eyes widened beneath his armored brow. His jaw slowly dropped. There was no fire.

There was no slaughter. There was only a massive pile of unconscious, bruised bandits stacked neatly in the center of the road, and a bald man in a yellow jumpsuit casually picking a piece of dirt out of his ear.

"What... by the Gods, what happened here?!" the Huntsman gasped, lowering his halberd in sheer, unadulterated bewilderment. He looked at the defeated raiders, recognizing the crimson bandanas.

"These... these are Raven Branwen's men! They're a nightmare! Who took them down?!" Before the Huntsman could even process the scene, the hiding villagers began to emerge from their homes. A slow, murmuring whisper rippled through the crowd, quickly swelling into a roaring, ecstatic cheer.

"He saved us!" a woman cried, rushing forward to clasp her hands in prayer.

"It was the bald man! He took them all out in the blink of an eye!" an old man cheered, pointing his cane at Saitama.

"He's like... he's like a wandering sheriff!" a little boy yelled, his eyes shining with absolute awe.

"A sheriff with a cape!" The Huntsman stared at Saitama, utterly baffled by the man's unathletic posture and bright, ridiculous attire.

"You... you defeated a Branwen raiding party by yourself? Without even drawing a weapon?"

"Uh, yeah, I guess," Saitama said, scratching his cheek as the crowd began to swarm him, showering him with praises and cheers.

"They were just being really loud. Are you the police guy around here? You can take these guys away, right? I think a few of them are stuck in the trees." The Huntsman blinked, slowly holstering his halberd.

"I... yes. I'll secure them for the Mistral authorities. I can't thank you enough, stranger. You saved this entire village." As the Huntsman pulled out a set of heavy restraints and began dragging the unconscious bandits into a secure line, the crowd parted, making way for the innkeeper. The plump man jogged forward, tears of pure, overwhelming gratitude streaming down his cheeks. He threw himself forward, grabbing Saitama's red-gloved hands and shaking them vigorously.

"Thank you! Oh, thank you, brave Huntsman!" the innkeeper wept.

"You saved my livelihood! You saved my home!"

"I told you, I'm just a hero for fun," Saitama mumbled, feeling incredibly awkward under the intense praise.

"But seriously, about that room..."

"Room?! My boy, your money is no good here!" the innkeeper declared, throwing his arms wide open.

"For what you've done today, you are a guest of honor! You can have the best suite in the house! Three hot meals a day, fresh linens, and unlimited access to our hot springs! You can stay here for free, for as long as you need!" The blank, dotted ovals of Saitama's eyes instantly vanished. His pupils expanded into massive, hyper-detailed, glittering circles of pure, unadulterated joy.

A brilliant, heavenly light seemed to shine down directly upon his bald head as a smile of absolute, transcendent bliss stretched across his face. Free rent. Free food.

"Are you serious?!" Saitama gasped, his voice trembling with a level of emotion he hadn't felt since he discovered the weekend meat sale.

"I don't have to pay a single Lien?!"

"Not a single coin!" the innkeeper laughed, patting him heartily on the back.

"Come! Let us feast!" As the villagers cheered his name, lifting him up as the legendary "Sheriff of Shion," Saitama's heart soared. The crushing dread of Headmistress Glynda Goodwitch's impending wrath completely evaporated from his mind, replaced by the warm, comforting embrace of an all-expenses-paid vacation.

"Man," Saitama whispered to himself, a dopey, satisfied grin plastered across his face as he looked at the beautiful, peaceful Mistralian valley.

"Getting on that boat was the best mistake I've ever made."