Chương 17: The Exodus of the Kingdoms

By the final week of the first month, the physical silhouette of Beacon Academy had risen from its ash. Thanks to the relentless telekinetic precision of Glynda Goodwitch and the sheer, casual brute force of Saitama hauling whole foundations on his shoulders, the castle structures stood whole once more. The jagged, blackened scars on the stones had been scrubbed clean, and the grand arches of the amphitheater once again framed the emerald cliffs of the emerald forest.

As the calendar bled into the next month, the nature of the labor shifted from heavy masonry to delicate digital resurrection. General James Ironwood's specialist tech teams worked around the clock at the apex of the Cross-Continental Transmit tower, their soldering irons glowing and data slates humming in the cool altitude. While the global, world-spanning signal remained dangerously fragile and prone to heavy static, the local network for the school and the Kingdom of Vale was rapidly stabilized.

For the first time in weeks, Scroll screens across the campus flickered from error messages back to functional local feeds. But with communication restored came the harsh reality of a fractured world. The international unity of the Vytal Festival was dead. The foreign headmasters, terrified by the sudden vulnerability of the global network, wanted their children back. It was the day of the departures.

The heavy, rhythmic thrum of Atlesian flagship engines vibrated through the reinforced floorboards of the temporary command office, a constant reminder that the window for deliberation was rapidly closing. Outside the frosted windows, the massive silhouettes of the Atlas military fleet hovered like iron leviathans against the grey Vale sky, their docking bays prepended for immediate departure.

General James Ironwood stood before a floating tactical map, his cybernetic jaw clenched so tightly the synthetic skin along his cheekbone twitched in a rhythmic micro-stutter. His pristine white uniform, though freshly pressed, hung over shoulders that seemed to bear the literal mass of the kingdom.

"I cannot leave this variable completely unaccounted for, Glynda," Ironwood said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly vibration that barely carried over the engine drone. He didn't look back as he tapped a command into the console, bringing up the biometric profile of Saitama, a screen that still displayed a perfectly flat, insulting line of absolute zeroes.

"We are relocating the bulk of our defensive fleet back to Atlas to secure the domestic perimeter and prepare for global containment. But leaving a man who can displace the troposphere with a backhand wandering around a ruined academy... it defies every protocol of strategic caution." Glynda Goodwitch did not look up from her datapad. She sat rigidly in a high-backed leather chair, her riding crop resting across her knees like a physical barrier against the chaos of the world.

The dark circles beneath her green eyes had grown deeper over the weeks, yet her academic posture remained entirely unyielding.

"Your protocols were designed for Huntsmen and Grimm, James," Glynda said, her voice crisp, cold, and entirely exhausted.

"They were not designed for a civilian who treats the collapse of our global communication network as a minor housing inconvenience. If you attempt to formally requisition him, or place him under military surveillance aboard the flagship, you will not secure an asset. You will simply alienate the only entity that kept this academy from becoming a mass grave."

"She's right, Jimmy," Qrow Branwen cut in from the shadowed corner near the balcony doors. He was slumped against the wall, one boot propped against the molding, lazily turning a silver flask over and over in his calloused hand. His red eyes were bloodshot but dangerously sharp as he glanced toward the window.

"The bald guy isn't a chess piece. You can't slide him across the board, and you definitely can't threaten him into doing what you want. I heard what happened to Jacques' pristine little crystal cane. The guy literally just sighed and shattered a billionaire's ego." Ironwood turned slowly, his cybernetic eye whirring as it focused on Qrow.

"I am not looking to threaten him, Qrow. I am looking for predictability. If Salem shifts her focus to Vale specifically to eliminate or corrupt this anomaly, the current detachment of specialists left behind will not be enough to shield the civilian population from the fallout."

"If that creature decides to hunt him down, it will find out exactly what Cinder Fall did," Qrow muttered, taking a slow, measured swig from his flask before wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

"The guy doesn't have an agenda. He doesn't want power, he doesn't want lien, and he doesn't care about our ancient fairy tales. Just leave the Atlas housing vouchers active, keep the cafeteria stocked with whatever wild rice he keeps asking for, and let him walk the campus beat. He's the best security guard this kingdom could never afford." Ironwood remained silent for a long moment, the faint red glow of his bionic eye reflecting off the glass display.

Finally, he closed the holographic map with a sharp flick of his wrist.

"Very well. The temporary security contract remains valid under your jurisdiction, Glynda. But I will speak to him myself before the fleet lifts off. I need to look into his eyes without a mahogany desk between us."

Ten minutes later, the air on the lower landing pad was thick with the scent of burning aviation dust and the deafening, industrial roar of thrusters. Standard-issue Atlesian Specialists moved in disciplined, rapid formations, securing cargo netting and ushering the final security details into the belly of the massive capital ships. At the very edge of the concrete precipice, entirely divorced from the military urgency around him, Saitama sat cross-legged on an overturned wooden supply crate.

He was back wearing his standard yellow jumpsuit, his white cape draping carelessly over the dirty concrete, and he was deeply, profoundly occupied with trying to peel a small piece of sticky tape off the finger of his red rubber glove.

"Seriously..." Saitama muttered to himself, his face drawn in his most basic, dot-eyed expression of mild frustration.

"Why do they make the packing tape here so sticky? It doesn't even have glue on it, it's just... weirdly magical." The heavy, metallic thud of military boots halted a few paces behind him. Saitama didn't turn around, but his shoulders slouched slightly lower as he recognized the distinct, heavy stride of the general.

"Mr. Saitama," Ironwood said, his voice carrying the full, resonant authority of a commander-in-chief, though it was slightly strained by the roaring engines overhead. Saitama finally got the tape off his glove, flicking it away before looking back over his shoulder with a flat, vacant blink.

"Oh. Hey, robot-arm guy. You guys finally heading out? The sky's getting pretty crowded with all those big grey boats." Ironwood walked up to the edge of the crate, standing with his hands clasped firmly behind his back. He looked down at the bald man, his sharp military gaze analyzing the completely relaxed, unathletic posture that contained a physical force capable of shattering mountains.

"The main fleet is departing for Atlas immediately," Ironwood said, his expression grim and unreadable.

"Our domestic security requires my presence, and the reconstruction of the global network must be coordinated from the capital. Professor Goodwitch will remain in absolute command of the Vale defensive sector."

"Yeah, the lady with the glasses told me," Saitama said, turning back around to watch a bullhead lift off into the grey clouds.

"She said my dorm won't be affected by the military move, so that's good. The plumbing's still a little squeaky, but at least the sink stopped dripping." Ironwood took a slow, deep breath, his cybernetic eye performing one final, desperate diagnostic scan of Saitama's frame. The screen inside his vision remained completely dark. No aura, no hidden dust matrices, no kinetic heat signatures. Just an ordinary human being sitting on a box.

"Mr. Saitama," Ironwood said, his tone dropping into a solemn, heavy register that made the surrounding soldiers pause in their duties.

"I don't know what reality you originated from, or what internal philosophy dictates your actions. But you are currently the single greatest defensive variable on this continent. If this kingdom faces another assault of the magnitude we witnessed at the tower... if the darkness outside our walls tests our resolve again... can I trust that you will stand with the people of Vale?" Saitama blinked.

He stood up from the wooden crate, brushing a few specks of concrete dust off his yellow knees, his white cape rustling softly in the high-altitude wind. He looked at Ironwood's stern, battle-worn face, then up at the massive flagship hovering directly above them. His simple, dot-like eyes didn't widen with dramatic passion, nor did they narrow with tactical calculation. He just looked incredibly underwhelmed.

"I already told you guys when I signed that greasy piece of paper," Saitama said, his voice a flat, completely conversational drone.

"I'm a hero for fun. If those big black dog monsters or the giant birds show up and start breaking the school, I'll go punch them. It's basically my job now anyway since you guys are paying for the groceries." He paused, scratching the side of his bald head with a dull squeak of his rubber glove, a sudden look of genuine concern crossing his features.

"Hey, by the way... since you're the boss of that whole big city up north, do they have that premium beef up there? Because the stuff in the cafeteria here is okay, but it really doesn't marinate the same way as the stuff from Z-City." Ironwood stared at him for three full seconds, his strategic mind entirely failing to find a bridge between the survival of human civilization and the culinary properties of beef.

A faint, completely exhausted sigh escaped the general's lips as his shoulders dropped by a fraction of an inch.

"We will ensure your rations remain satisfactory, Mr. Saitama," Ironwood said stiffly, offering a single, formal nod of respect.

"Keep the peace in Vale."

"Yeah. Safe travels, robot-arm guy," Saitama said, waving a lazy red glove as he turned and began to slouch back toward the academic courtyard, completely unbothered by the immense display of military might behind him.

The northern docks of the academy were bathed in the cold, mechanical light of Atlas military transports. Huge, gray-plated vessels hovered with their thrusters humming a low, vibrating bass note that shook the loose gravel on the tarmac. General Ironwood stood at the base of the primary boarding ramp, his arms locked rigidly behind his back, his jaw set in an iron line. Beside him, Winter Schnee checked off names on a holographic ledger, her white cloak snapping in the wind from the cooling engines.

"Move it along, personnel. Form a single file line," Winter commanded, her voice cutting through the mechanical din like a rapier. She glanced toward Neon Katt, who was currently doing erratic laps around an unhacked Atlesian Knight-200 droid on her glowing roller skates.

"Maniac Katt! Board the vessel immediately. We are on a strict Atlesian military timetable." Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

"Aw, come on, Specialist! Let me say bye to the baldy!" Neon chirped, sliding to a dramatic, sparking halt right in front of Saitama. Saitama was leaning against a cargo crate, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his yellow jumpsuit, looking mildly bored by the massive military display. Neon zoomed up to him, completely unfazed by the fact that this man had shattered a mountain-sized Grimm with his bare hand. She unstrapped her glowing neon skates and thrust them toward his face.

"Hey, look! You've got great leg strength, Mr. Saitama, but your mobility is totally basic! You gotta try these out! They're dust-powered! You'd go like, shwoooosh through the hallways!" Saitama stared down at the tiny, brightly colored roller skates, his face drawing into a flat, blocky expression. He thought that, if he put his feet in those, the wheels are going to explode into dust the second he takes a step. And besides, they look really hard to balance on. He'd probably trip and smash through a wall.

"Uh, no thanks," Saitama said, waving a red-gloved hand dismissively.

"I prefer walking. If I go too fast on wheels, my socks get really hot." Flynt Coal walked up beside Neon, gently grabbing her by her collar to pull her back toward the ramp. He wore his Atlas uniform with immaculate precision, but as he looked at Saitama, his cool, jazz-hardened exterior melted into a look of absolute, profound respect. He offered a crisp, perfect military salute.

"Don't mind her, sir," Flynt said, his voice deep and steady.

"We saw what you did from the lower plazas. The Atlas academy teaches us to rely on technology and dust, but... seeing someone rely entirely on their own grit? It changed how I look at training. Thank you for keeping the sky open."

"Oh. Yeah. Sure," Saitama muttered, scratching the back of his bald head, feeling slightly awkward beneath the young man's intense gaze.

"Just, you know, do some squats or something. Don't rely too much on those little trumpets." Winter Schnee watched the exchange from afar, her eyes narrowing slightly as she locked her Scroll. An individual with no file, no Aura, and the capacity to alter the global paradigm. She thought, her internal Atlas conditioning wrestling with the sheer absurdity of Saitama's existence. But he saved my sister. He saved this school. For that alone, I will tolerate the administrative nightmare he represents.

"Vessel three is fully loaded, General," Winter reported, turning to Ironwood.

"Very well," Ironwood replied, his cybernetic chest lights humming faintly under his coat. He looked back at Beacon one last time, his face a complex mask of duty and mounting paranoia.

"Let's go home."

On the eastern dock, a heavily dented, multi-colored passenger airship from the Mistral commercial lines was letting out heavy plumes of steam. Sun Wukong was practically dragging his boots against the tarmac, his golden monkey tail wrapping tightly around his leg in frustration.

"This is garbage! Total garbage! Why do we have to leave? Vale still needs help, and Yang's arm is--""Your arm isn't broken, Sun, but your school's patience is," Arslan Altan said, stepping up from behind and delivering a firm, sisterly smack to the back of his head. The leader of Team ABRN had her duffel bag slung over her shoulder, her sharp eyes fixed on the boarding gate.

"Haven Academy called a mandatory evacuation for all registered students. Leonardo Lionheart personally signed the order. We don't have a choice." Neptune Vasilias stood nearby, checking his hair in the reflection of a cracked glass window, though his eyes kept darting nervously toward the water channels below the docks.

"Honestly, Sun, if there are more giant sea dragons lurking in the ocean because the network went down, I am perfectly happy being on a boat that flies very high away from here." Sage Ayana and Scarlet David followed close behind, carrying the rest of Team SSSN's luggage, both of them looking weary but relieved to see the campus standing. Sun broke away from his team, running over to where Team RWBY, JNPR, CFVY, and a surprisingly quiet Team CRDL were standing to say their goodbyes.

Cardin Winchester stood near the back, his massive mace resting on his shoulder. In the past, Cardin would have made a snide comment about foreign teams fleeing, but after watching the near-world-ending event, his entire worldview had been thoroughly re-ordered. He just nodded grimly to Sun, a silent sign of mutual survivalist respect.

"Blake," Sun said, stopping in front of her. His voice dropped its usual goofy tone, replaced by genuine concern.

"You sure you're gonna be okay here? If the White Fang comes back..."

"They won't," Blake said softly, her cat ears under her bow twitching with a calm confidence she hadn't possessed a month ago. She glanced back toward the main courtyard where Saitama was currently watching a bird.

"We have a very effective neighborhood watch now, Sun. Go back to Mistral. Take care of your team."

"Right," Sun sighed. Then, his face lit up as he spotted the bald man. He jogged over, digging into his back pocket and pulling out a crumpled, slightly yellowed piece of paper.

"Hey! Big guy! Saitama!" Saitama looked up.

"Huh? Oh, the monkey kid."

"Listen," Sun said, thrusting the paper into Saitama's hand. It was a crude, hand-drawn picture of a banana with the words MISTRAL FRUIT DISCOUNTS - ASK FOR SUN scrawled in black marker.

"If you ever get bored of this damp, gloomy castle, take a ride to Mistral. The markets there are huge, and because of the agricultural zones, the fruit prices are way lower than Vale. You can get a whole bunch for like, three Lien!" Saitama's eyes instantly widened into perfect, intense circles. His entire posture straightened. He looked at the crude drawing as if it were a legendary treasure map.

"Three Lien... for a whole bunch? Seriously? Back home, a single good box of bananas can run me like two hundred yen if it's out of season."

"I'm telling you, man! It's a paradise for cheap groceries!" Sun grinned, giving him a thumbs-up as he backward-walked up the airship ramp.

"Yeah... And thanks for letting me read that comic book about the psychic mob boss, kid. It was awesome," Saitama said, carefully folding the banana drawing and tucking it into his prime, six-pocket jumpsuit storage with extreme care.

"Mistral, huh? I gotta see if that lady with the crop can get me a ticket for one of those flying boats."

The final transport belonged to the western kingdom of Vacuo. It was a rugged, heavily reinforced cargo freighter designed to survive the brutal dust storms of the Sanus desert. Nebula Violette, Dew Gayl, Gwen Darcy, and Octavia cleanly marched up the loading bay of Team NDGO. They were joined by Nolan Porfirio, the only remaining members of Team BRNZ. Unlike the students from Atlas or Mistral, the Vacuans didn't look sad to leave. They looked incredibly annoyed by the local weather.

"If I stay in this forest for another week, my boots are going to grow moss," Dew grumbled, shaking a layer of damp morning dew from her golden spear.

"Give me the dry heat any day."

"Yeah, but did you see the guy?" Gwen whispered, leaning closer to Nebula as they watched Saitama walk past the cargo bay with his hands in his pockets.

"The girls from Vale are saying he didn't even use a weapon. They're saying he just looked at the Grimm dragon and it turned into dust."

"I heard he sneezed and blew the roof off the dining hall," Octavia added, her eyes wide with speculative wonder.

"Whatever he is, he's a weirdo," Nebula said, though her voice lacked any real malice, replaced instead by the classic Vacuan respect for raw survival.

"But hey, if the eastern kingdoms want to rely on a bald god in a yellow jumpsuit to fight their wars, let them. The desert doesn't need miracles. It just needs water." The dry, ash-choked wind of Vale rattled the chain-link fencing of the temporary evacuation docks, kicking up dust that swirled around the boots of the remaining students. Team NDGO stood near the boarding ramp of a commercial transport destined for Shade Academy.

Nolan Porfirio stood a few paces away, his hands buried deep in his pockets, his gaze fixed entirely on the scuffed tips of his boots. The usual spark of electric confidence that defined Team BRNZ's vanguard was completely gone, replaced by a hollow, crushing silence. He looked smaller without Brawnz, Roy, and May standing beside him.

"We're boarding in five minutes," Dew said, her voice dropping its usual sharp edge as she looked over at him. She adjusted the strap of her spear over her shoulder.

"You got your transfer papers sorted with the Vacuo liaison, Nolan?" Nolan didn't look up immediately. He just gave a slow, rigid nod.

"Yeah. It's all cleared. Headmaster Theodore's office already processed the emergency enrollment." He swallowed hard, his throat tight.

"Just... weird signing a form with only one name on it." Octavia stepped closer, her silver buckler clinking softly against her combat gear.

"Nolan... we heard about what happened near the commercial district. The Grimm swarm before that yellow-suited guy cleared the plaza. We're so sorry." A bitter, humorless laugh escaped Nolan's lips, though his eyes remained entirely vacant.

"A swarm. Yeah. That's a clean word for it. One minute Brawnz is giving orders, Roy is drawing fire, May is covering us from the roof... and the next, the line just breaks." He finally raised his head, his eyes bloodshot, staring back toward the ruined skyline of Beacon Academy.

"I was the one with the cattle prod. I was supposed to keep them back, create a perimeter. But there were too many of them. The creatures just kept coming."

"It wasn't your fault," Gwen said quietly, her fingers tracing the edge of one of her throwing knives.

"Nobody was prepared for the sheer scale of that breach. Even the Atlesian military fell apart."

"But I'm the one standing here," Nolan whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of the confession.

"Why me? I wasn't the strongest. I wasn't the leader. I'm just the guy who got knocked into a drainage ditch while the rest of my team... while that creature tore through our position. It doesn't make any sense. Why do I get to go back to Vacuo when they're still out there under the rubble?" Nebula stepped forward, placing a firm, gloved hand on Nolan's shoulder. She forced him to meet her gaze, her expression intensely serious.

"Listen to me, Nolan. Survival isn't a calculation, and it isn't a reward. It's just what's left when the dust settles. You didn't run, and you didn't betray them. You survived because a monster didn't catch you, and because a bizarre guy in a yellow jumpsuit decided to punch the sky into compliance before the rest of Vale went under." She tightened her grip on his shoulder, shaking him slightly to break his spiral.

"Team BRNZ fought to the end. If you waste your time drowning in guilt on the flight back to Shade, you're insulting what they did to keep you alive. You carry their names to Vacuo now. You're the only one who can tell people what they did here." Nolan stared at Nebula for a long moment. The heavy weight in his chest didn't vanish, but the frantic, suffocating panic in his eyes began to settle into a dull, enduring ache. He took a long, shaky breath and nodded, wiping his face quickly with the back of his sleeve.

"Yeah," Nolan muttered, his voice stabilizing slightly.

"Yeah, okay. I'll... I'll carry them."

"Good," Dew said, gesturing toward the opening transport doors as the turbines began to whine.

"Now come on. Let's get out of this graveyard before the weather gets any worse." As their airship lifted off the ground, the girls leaned against the glass windows, staring down at the shrinking figure of Saitama below. By the time their ship would cross the borders into the shifting sands of Vacuo, the stories they carried would evolve. Within weeks, tavern tales in Oasis cities would whisper of a giant, invincible entity who walked through the sky, slaying ancient beasts with a single breath.

The folklore of the desert was already rewriting itself around a man who just wanted to find a grocery store.

By evening, the roar of the engines had completely faded into the mountain valleys. The bustling, international flavor of the Vytal Festival, the vibrant colors of different kingdoms, the overlapping accents, the competitive energy, was entirely gone. The only students left on the vast Beacon campus were the native teams: RWBY, JNPR, CFVY, and CRDL. They stood together on the western balcony, watching the sunset cast a deep, amber glow over the pristine, rebuilt spires.

A skeleton crew of Atlas engineers remained behind in the CCT tower, their distant welding sparks looking like tiny stars against the darkening sky.

"It's so quiet now," Ruby murmured, her fingers tracing the edge of her crimson hood.

"It feels... different. Like the festival happened a million years ago."

"It's a different world now, little sister," Yang said, her good arm resting on the stone railing as she watched the distant lights of Vale click on one by one. Down in the courtyard below, the soft, rhythmic sound of a straw broom could be heard. Saitama was slowly sweeping a few stray leaves into a neat pile under a streetlamp. He didn't look like a god. He didn't look like an extra-dimensional savior.

He just looked like an ordinary, slightly tired guy doing his evening chores before the cafeteria stopped serving dinner. Coco Adel leaned against a pillar, her sunglasses tucked into her collar as she watched the bald man work.

"You know... at first, I thought he was just a bizarre circus act we were using to scare off the Grimm. But looking at him now?"

"He's just part of the school," Jaune Arc said, his voice stronger, his shoulders broader after weeks of raw, physical training without his Aura. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, a genuine smile on his face.

"He's just Saitama." The students of Vale didn't view him as a foreign spectacle anymore. As the stars began to fill the dark sky over the kingdom, they looked down at the yellow jumpsuit and the red rubber boots, realizing that their home had changed forever. They had a protector who defied every law of their world. And he was currently complaining to a passing Professor Oobleck about the quality of the campus tea.