Chương 43: Chapter 40: The Currency of Hope

The atmosphere inside the Beacon Academy combat amphitheater was suffocatingly tense, heavy with the sharp, metallic tang of cooling hard-light projectors and the pervasive scent of ozone. High above the arena floor, the massive brass clockwork gears hummed a low, mechanical bassline that vibrated through the soles of everyone present.

Sunlight lanced downward through the grand, stained-glass clerestory windows, cutting wide, geometric swaths of deep amber and violet across the circular stone stage, but it offered absolutely no warmth to the exhausted teenagers gathered below. Dead center in the middle of the fighting arena stood Saitama. His posture was completely devoid of martial readiness, his shoulders slouched so low that the fabric of his standard yellow jumpsuit hung in loose, unappealing folds around his torso.

His hands were stuffed deeply and lazily into his pockets, his bright red boots planted flatly against the cold masonry. Resting precariously on top of his smooth, bald head was a brittle, crudely fashioned wooden training helmet, tied beneath his chin with a cheap piece of white twine.

He stood entirely motionless, a perfect circle of deadpan simplicity, staring into space with small, dotted eyes that suggested his mind was currently preoccupied with the upcoming dinner menu rather than the small army arrayed against him. Directly across the stone floor, a massive contingent of students stood in a wide, tense semicircle.

Team RWBY, Team JNPR, Team CRDL, and a vast crowd of first-year students were all braced in various states of tactical readiness, their knuckles white where they gripped their respective weapons. This marked the fifth consecutive day of Headmistress Glynda Goodwitch's specialized combat speed training, a brutal curriculum designed to force the students to adapt to a reality-breaking standard.

The objective was agonizingly simple yet seemingly impossible: manage to deliver at least a single, microscopic scratch to Saitama's brittle wooden helmet to secure a passing grade, or somehow force even a single inch of his body completely out of the arena bounds.

When combined with the previous five days of the durability phase, where they had spent hours throwing their ultimate destructive attacks at a completely stationary, unyielding Saitama just to make him budge an inch, it was the tenth day of absolute, soul-crushing futility.

"My arms feel like they're made of lead," Toby groaned, his voice cracking slightly as he leaned heavily against the shaft of his standard-issue halberd. Lyra's forehead was slick with sweat. Her eyes fixed on the blank, unblinking face of the janitor-hero.

"We've been at this for a week straight. My reaction times against the Beowolves in the Emerald Forest have literally tripled, and I can parry an Ursa major without even blinking now. But this? This isn't training. It's a structural prison sentence."

"He's not even looking at us," Marcus muttered, his knuckles tightening around the grip of his dust-rifle as his chest heaved with preemptive exhaustion.

"We've thrown every flank strategy, every ambush pattern, and every high-caliber ammunition array we have. It doesn't matter how much our skills have increased. You can't hit a ghost." Standing at the absolute vanguard of the formation, Ruby Rose shifted her weight, the heavy high-caliber sniper-scythe Crescent Rose resting tightly against her shoulder. Her silver eyes flashed with a fierce, unwavering determination, even as a stray bead of sweat trickled down her cheek.

She turned her head slightly, her red cloak fluttering as she looked back at the discouraged faces of the first-years.

"Hey! Don't talk like that!" Ruby cheered, her voice ringing clearly across the stone arena, carrying that signature, defiant optimism that refused to break. She slammed the butt of her scythe against the masonry, creating a sharp, echoing clack.

"We didn't survive the Breach and rebuild this entire academy just to throw in the towel because a training exercise is hard! Saitama isn't a mindless disaster. He's our target! If we work together, coordinate our strikes, and push past our limits, we can do this! We will do this, together!" At the edge of the circular combat floor, standing beside the glowing tactical display consoles, Headmistress Glynda Goodwitch observed the formation with sharp, calculating green eyes.

Her posture was rigidly military, her riding crop held tightly at her side, though her gaze lingered for a split second on the pristine, completely undamaged surface of the wooden helmet atop Saitama's head.

"Prepare yourselves," Glynda's icy, authoritative voice echoed through the amphitheater's audio arrays. She raised her crop, the tip glowing with a faint, purple telekinetic aura.

"Combat speed training... begin." The word had barely left her lips before the arena exploded into a violent, chaotic tempest of motion. BOOM! Ruby Rose vanished instantly in a massive, explosive burst of crimson rose petals, her Semblance propelling her forward like a high-speed sniper round. Simultaneously, Yang Xiao Long lunged out of the smoke, the gauntlets of Ember Celica roaring as shotgun-propelled kinetic blasts drove her forward.

From the opposite flank, Cardin Winchester led Team CRDL in a heavy, synchronized charge, their mace and broadswords swinging in wide, sweeping arcs designed to completely lock down Saitama's potential escape routes. What followed was a display of combat geometry pushed to its absolute limits. Blake Belladonna glided through the crossfire, leaving behind solid dust clones of ice and fire that detonated in cascading waves of elemental energy.

Weiss Schnee's glyphs manifested in rapid succession beneath the students' feet, casting layers of haste and gravity magic to propel Pyrrha Nikos and Lie Ren into the fray. Pyrrha's javelin cut through the air like a streak of bronze lightning, while Nora Valkyrie descended from the sky like a falling meteor, bringing Magnhild down in a massive, earth-shattering overhead smash. Yet, amidst the absolute, blinding fury of the onslaught, Saitama simply existed. He didn't take his hands out of his pockets.

He didn't bend his knees into a defensive stance. To the eyes of the onlookers, his upper torso merely vibrated, a fluid, effortless sequence of millimeter-perfect sways and lazy tilts. When Nora's hammer crashed down with enough force to shatter reinforced concrete, Saitama simply took a half-step backward, the wind of the impact ruffling his collar as the weapon struck empty air.

When Ruby's scythe swept horizontally in a blinding, silver arc meant to decapitate the target, his head simply bobbed downward, the razor-sharp edge passing exactly one millimeter above the brittle wooden helmet. The students couldn't handle his superspeed. It wasn't a fight. It was a demonstration of a complete architectural disconnect from the laws of physics. Cardin's mace swung wildly, cutting through nothing but residual afterimages.

Toby and Marcus lunged in a perfectly rehearsed pincer movement, their blades crossing exactly where Saitama's chest had been a microsecond prior, only for the bald hero to be found standing two feet to the left, lazily scratching his cheek with a red-gloved thumb before quickly stuffing it back into his pocket. The relentless onslaught continued for several agonizing minutes, a continuous loop of explosive kinetic force colliding with absolute vacuum.

Every single coordinated trap, every high-speed ambush, and every multi-directional elemental crossfire failed to yield even the slightest whisper of contact. Eventually, the tempest died down. The dust cleared slowly, revealing a scene of utter physical devastation. Not to the target, but to the attackers. Thud. Thud. Cardin Winchester dropped to his knees, his heavy mace clattering against the stone as he panted violently, sweat pouring down his face in steady streams.

Yang's hair ceased its fiery glow, her gauntlets hissing with escaping steam as she slumped against a stone pillar, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. The first-years were scattered across the floor like discarded laundry, their bodies trembling from the sheer, unadulterated physical toll of maintaining their Auras at peak output. The wooden helmet sitting on Saitama's head remained completely pristine, entirely untouched, without a single smudge, dent, or scratch on its surface.

"It's... it's no use," Chloe wheezed from the floor, her face pressed against the cool masonry as her weapon rolled away.

"It's definitely impossible to pass. He's not even a wall... he's just... nothing is there."

"We can't do it," another first-year choked out, the exhaustion cracking his voice as his Aura flickered weakly.

"This is the tenth times... and we haven't even made him blink. We're just breaking ourselves for nothing." A heavy, suffocating blanket of despair threatened to settle over the arena. The silence was absolute, broken only by the ragged, desperate sound of dozens of teenagers gasping for air. Then, the scraping sound of metal against stone cut through the quiet. Ruby Rose pushed herself up.

Her knees trembled violently, her small hands shaking as she used the shaft of Crescent Rose as a crutch to force her body back onto its feet. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps, her vision blurring slightly from the sheer physical drain, but she forced her chin up, her silver eyes burning with a fierce, stubborn light. Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. Right beside her, Jaune Arc was doing the same.

His blue cotton tracksuit was stained with dirt and sweat, his muscles screaming with a localized ache that he had learned to endure through days of grueling discipline. He unlocked his jaw, wiping a smear of grime from his forehead with the back of his forearm as he stood tall shoulder-to-shoulder with Ruby.

"Listen to me!" Ruby cried out, her voice raspy from exertion but carrying an immense, emotional weight that arrested the attention of every student on the floor. She gripped her scythe, her knuckles turning white.

"I know it hurts! I know it feels like we're running into a mountain! But look at where we were ten days ago! We used to think the Grimm were an unstoppable nightmare that would eventually tear down our walls. We used to get scared when a giant horde marched out of the woods!" Jaune stepped forward, his deep voice dropping into a sincere, commanding cadence that resonated through the cavernous room.

"Ruby's right! Look at yourselves! We aren't the same students who stood here on day one. Saitama didn't come to this academy to make us look weak. He's showing us how big the world actually is! If we stop here, if we accept that this is our limit, then we're failing every single person who relies on us to protect them. Aura isn't a shortcut, and strength isn't a handout! It's a forge! And you don't build a weapon without enduring the heat!"

Jaune took a deep, centering breath, his fists clenching at his sides as his blue eyes locked onto the distant, slouched figure of the bald hero.

"I don't care if he's indestructible. I don't care if he can shatter a planet with a sneeze. We are Huntsmen and Huntresses of Beacon Academy! We push through the dark, we refine our souls, and we stand back up until the job is done! So get up! Stand up and show him what we're made of!" A collective wave of awe swept through the scattered ranks. The first-years looked up, their trembling hands pressing against the floorboards as the raw, unvarnished emotion of the speech pierced through their physical fatigue.

Weiss, Blake, and Yang exchanged a long, profound glance, a subtle, fiercely proud smile touching Yang's lips as her violet eyes reignited with a faint, gold ember. Saitama stood completely still in the center of the arena. His face remained a flat, featureless circle, his tiny eyes fixed on the two young leaders. He didn't speak, he didn't shift his stance, but his slouched shoulders squared just a fraction of an inch, his gaze lingering on the trembling, re-ignited Auras of the kids before him.

Motivated by the sheer, unyielding spirit of their leaders, the students began to rise. One by one, the sound of boots finding their footing and weapons being hoisted back into guard positions echoed through the amphitheater. The despair that had threatened to suffocate the room was entirely dissolved, replaced by a dense, palpable wall of collective resolve.

"Alright, everyone!" Ruby shouted, her voice rising to a passionate crescendo as she deployed the mechanical frame of her scythe with a loud, metallic clack.

"This is our last shot! Use every coordination pattern we've practiced! Every single combination attack! Don't hold back anything! Let's do this together! Charge!" The arena erupted once more, but this time, the movement possessed a terrifying, hyper-coordinated precision. BOOM! They threw themselves into the meat grinder of Saitama's speed, their bodies moving purely on muscle memory and sheer force of will. Team JNPR led the vanguard.

Jaune lunged forward, his shield held high, utilizing his awakened Aura amplification to project a dense, shimmering barrier of white energy that briefly crowded Saitama's left flank. Seizing the microsecond of obstruction, Ren glided beneath the shield, his green blades cutting a rapid cross-pattern near the janitor's knees, while Nora channeled the electrical feedback directly into the masonry, creating a localized web of currents designed to ground the target.

Saitama, maintaining his casual demeanor, began his standard sequence of effortless evasions, his torso shifting smoothly within the narrowing confines of their net. Suddenly, Team RWBY executed a flawless, high-speed combination. Weiss slammed Myrtenaster into the floor, manifesting a massive, black gravity glyph directly above Saitama's head while simultaneously laying down a sheet of solid ice beneath his red boots.

Blake launched herself forward, using her shadow clones as physical stepping stones to swing Gambol Shroud in a continuous, whistling spiral that occupied every available inch of air space. For a fraction of a second, the entire student body converged. A localized pocket of multi-directional strikes, blades, spears, dust rounds, and fists, tightened around the bald hero like a collapsing star. The sheer mass of the incoming attacks forced Saitama to step back further than usual.

His heel drifted backward, traveling across the stone until it hovered exactly over the painted outer boundary line of the combat arena. To the frantic, hyper-focused eyes of the students, it looked as though a small part of his body was almost out of the arena. A sudden surge of hope flared in their chests. But it was a fleeting illusion.

Saitama was merely being intentional, his movements completely devoid of seriousness as his torso fluidly tilted at an absurd, ninety-degree angle to let Ruby's passing scythe blade miss his nose by a hair, his weight shifting effortlessly to maintain his balance entirely within the ring without his red boot ever actually touching the floor outside the line. Eventually, the absolute limit of human endurance was reached. The frantic, hyper-charged movement fractured.

One by one, the students dropped, their Auras completely spent, their muscles refusing to respond to any further commands. The weapons slipped from their fingers, clattering uselessly against the stones as the entire formation collapsed into a final, absolute heap of physical exhaustion. This time, there were no motivational speeches left to give. They were completely, utterly spent, unable to move even a finger.

Saitama stood dead center in the arena, his face a perfect, unreadable circle of deadpan simplicity, staring at the fallen teenagers in absolute silence. BEEP-BEEP-BEEP! The loud, mechanical chime of the arena timer echoed through the amphitheater, signaling the official end of the class. Saitama stood dead center in the ring, his hands still in his pockets, staring down at them silently with a completely blank expression.

"Time is up," Cardin wheezed from the dirt, his voice hollow.

"We failed... we didn't even push him an inch out of the circle." The students slumped further into the stone, their hearts sinking into a profound, quiet disappointment. The wooden helmet was still up there, and the invincible janitor hadn't moved an inch out of bounds. The sound of measured, clicking footsteps echoed across the stone floor as Headmistress Glynda Goodwitch walked down the arena ramp. Her expression was unreadable as she stepped up to Saitama.

Without saying a word, she reached up, her manicured fingers untying the white twine beneath his chin, and slowly removed the brittle wooden training helmet from his bald head. She brought the object close to her face, her sharp green eyes conducting a meticulous, highly detailed inspection of its surface. The students watched from the floor, their breathing shallow as they braced for the inevitable administrative dismissal.

Glynda slowly lowered the helmet, her gaze shifting across the sea of exhausted, sweat-slicked faces looking up at her. A subtle, nearly imperceptible softening touched the corners of her eyes.

"Team RWBY, Team JNPR, Team CRDL... and first-year elements," Glynda announced, her voice perfectly steady, carrying clearly across the cavernous room.

"You pass." A sudden, violent shockwave of absolute surprise rippled through the ranks.

"Wait... what?!" Jaune blinked comically, his jaw dropping as he pushed his torso up by an inch.

"We... we pass? But how? We didn't make him move, and he's still..." Glynda turned the wooden helmet around, extending her arm to display the side of the structure to the entire class. There, etched deeply into the grain near the temple area, was a singular, rough, and unmistakable linear indentation. It wasn't a structural fracture or a massive dent, but it was a definitive, clear scratch, a physical testament to a microsecond where a weapon had successfully made contact with the target.

Ruby's silver eyes widened to the size of saucers. A brilliant, radiant grin exploded across her face as she looked from the scratch over to Jaune.

"We did it... Jaune, look! We actually did it!"

"Holy cow!" Nora cheered weakly from the floor, her arms flailing in a celebratory wiggle.

"We scratched the invincible bald guy! We're legendary!" The entire amphitheater instantly erupted into a chorus of cheerful chatter, tired laughter, and relieved sighs. The heavy, suffocating fatigue that had weighed down their limbs seemed to evaporate, replaced by a profound sense of shared triumph as they slowly helped one another up from the floor.

A short while later, the heavy double doors of the combat room had closed, the cheerful voices of the departing students fading down the polished mahogany hallways until the amphitheater was left in absolute, peaceful quiet. The large holotables had powered down, leaving only the natural golden light of the late afternoon sun to stream through the stained glass, casting long, peaceful shadows across the circular arena.

Saitama stood near the center console, holding his industrial push broom, lazily dragging it across a patch of loose dirt left behind by the battle. His face had returned to its usual, deflated thumb aesthetic, his dotted eyes tracked the movement of the straw bristles. Glynda Goodwitch stood a few feet away, her riding crop tucked tightly beneath her arm, the brittle wooden training helmet resting quietly in her hand. Her sharp green eyes analyzed his relaxed posture with a deep, quiet scrutiny.

"The trajectory of Miss Rose's final crescent sweep was mathematically precise, yes," Glynda started, her voice dropping into a softer, private register that lacked her usual academic edge. She stepped closer, her eyes locked on his profile.

"But it was not fast enough to bypass your reaction threshold, Mr. Saitama. I watched the holographic playback logs from the central console." She held up the wooden helmet, her thumb tracing the deep scratch in the side.

"You didn't sway to the left. You deliberately held your position for a fraction of a microsecond, allowing the edge of her blade to clip the wood before you completed the evasion. You let them hit you." Saitama didn't stop sweeping. He kept his eyes fixed on the floor, his shoulders slouched as he pushed the broom forward with a dull, rhythmic scrape.

"Yeah, well," Saitama muttered flatly, his voice a low, indifferent drone that echoed softly in the quiet room.

"Those kids were looking pretty miserable down there. They were talking about how things are impossible and all that depressing stuff." He paused, resting his hands flatly on the top of the broom handle, his small, dotted eyes looking out toward the grand windows where the sky was turning a soft, gradient shade of twilight orange.

"Back in my old world, I saw plenty of guys give up because the monsters were too big or the heroes were too popular. Once you let yourself believe that you can't win, you just stop growing. It's annoying to watch." Saitama shrugged his shoulders, his face maintaining its usual unreadable simplicity as he turned back to his broom.

"Those kids have a lot of heavy stuff coming their way, right? With all those dark monsters and whatever else you guys are hiding from me. If they don't think they can handle a challenge, they're gonna get stepped on." He delivered a final, smooth stroke with the broom, clearing away the last of the dust.

"Sometimes, the kids just need a little bit of hope to keep going. It's not that deep." Glynda stood perfectly still. Her breath caught slightly in her throat, a sudden, profound warmth blooming across her cheeks as she stared at the casual, unpretentious figure of the janitor-hero. The rigid, calculated coldness of the Inner Circle's deception felt incredibly heavy in her chest, yet looking at his simple, honest face, she felt a rare wave of emotional solemnity settle over her features.

She adjusted her glasses with a slow, quiet flick of her finger, a genuine, soft smile touching her lips as she looked down at the scratched helmet.

"I see," Glynda whispered softly, her voice rich with an uncharacteristic tenderness.

"Thank you, Mr. Saitama. For the lesson."

"Eh, whatever," Saitama grumbled, his brief moment of philosophy instantly vanishing as he checked his bare wrist.

"Just make sure you don't tell anyone, lady. If the kids find out I went easy on them, they're gonna corner me in the cafeteria for three more days, and I really want to eat my dinner in peace."