Chương 57: Chapter 54: The Bill of Justice

The rustic tavern situated just a few miles down the mountain path from Shion Village was a lively, raucous establishment. The air inside was thick with the savory, mouth-watering aroma of roasted boar, spiced broth, and spilling ale. Woodsmoke drifted lazily from a massive stone hearth in the corner, casting a warm, flickering orange glow over the weary travelers, merchants, and local farmers seeking refuge from the autumn chill.

Sitting entirely alone at a small, heavily scratched wooden table in the back corner was Saitama. He was slouched in his seat, his bright yellow jumpsuit contrasting sharply with the dim, earthy tones of the tavern. A steaming, oversized ceramic bowl of pork-bone ramen rested in front of him. He held a pair of wooden chopsticks, methodically and lazily lifting noodles to his mouth with a loud, rhythmic slurp. Ugh... how did I even end up here?

Saitama thought, his dotted eyes staring blankly at a slice of marinated pork floating in the broth. I just wanted some cheap bananas. Then I got on a boat, and suddenly I'm in a whole different kingdom. Mistral, right? It's pretty, but the logistics are a nightmare. I don't even have my scroll. I left it on my nightstand back at Beacon because I thought I'd be gone for twenty minutes. He took another long slurp, his shoulders dropping a few inches as a wave of mild, mundane homesickness washed over him.

He thought about the sprawling, fortified campus of Beacon Academy. He thought about the red-hooded girl who talked too fast, the blonde brawler, the rich girl with the fencing sword, and the quiet girl with the cat ears. He thought about the banana-haired kid who had actually taken his terrible workout advice to heart. He thought about the first year students. I wonder if the kids are doing okay. Saitama mused, chewing thoughtfully. And what about the teachers?

The mustache guy is probably still yelling stories at a wall. The fast coffee guy is probably vibrating out of his shoes. And then there's... A sudden, phantom chill ran down Saitama's spine. The image of Headmistress Glynda Goodwitch flashed in his mind's eye. Her riding crop tapping against her palm. Her glasses glaring with the intensity of a dying sun. She is definitely going to kill me. She's going to make me scrub the entire underside of the floating arena with a cotton swab.

His internal dread was suddenly interrupted by a chime from the large, boxy television monitor mounted above the tavern's wooden bar. The ambient chatter of the patrons died down as the screen shifted to a familiar, polished news graphic." Good afternoon, this is Lisa Lavender reporting live for the Vale News Network," the anchor's crisp, professional voice cut through the tavern. Saitama paused, his chopsticks halfway to his mouth. Vale news? They broadcast that all the way out here?"

We bring you an exclusive update regarding the kingdom's beloved 'Hero of Vale,'" Lisa Lavender continued, her posture immaculate. The screen behind her displayed a blurry, stylized graphic of a yellow-suited figure standing victoriously in front of a supermarket." Following an outpouring of public concern regarding his recent absence from the commercial districts, Beacon Academy has issued a formal statement. It appears our tireless defender is currently taking a well-deserved, extended paid vacation."

The screen cut to a shaky, zoomed-in piece of footage showing four familiar First-Year students: Toby, Marcus, Chloe, and Lyra. They frantically nodding to a reporter outside Beacon's gates.

"Yes! Paid leave! Vacation time!" Chloe's voice squeaked hysterically through the television speakers.

"The pressure of being the ultimate protector is a heavy burden! He's resting his spirit!" Saitama sat perfectly frozen. A massive, comical bead of sweat rolled slowly down the side of his bald head.

"Damn..." Saitama's soul practically left his body.

"The kids are covering for me. Glynda actually mobilized the students to lie to the entire kingdom so the public wouldn't find out I accidentally exported myself." A wave of profound, crushing guilt washed over him. He could vividly picture Glynda sitting behind her mahogany desk, drafting fake press releases while snapping dozens of high-grade pens in half out of sheer, unadulterated stress. If she was mad before... she is going to absolutely obliterate me when I get back.

I need to get out of here before this news channel shows a clear picture of my face and someone in this tavern puts two and two together. Determined to escape before he became a local spectacle, Saitama practically inhaled the rest of his ramen, swallowing the broth in one massive gulp. He slammed the ceramic bowl down onto the table, wiping his mouth with the back of his red glove. He stood up, reaching his hand into the pocket of his yellow jumpsuit to grab his wallet. His fingers brushed against the fabric.

Nothing. Saitama blinked. He patted his left pocket. Then his right. He patted his chest, his legs, and even checked under his white cape. Empty. Oh, crap... The color completely drained from Saitama's face, leaving him in a stark, heavily shaded monochrome of pure horror. Thick, vertical blue lines of existential dread pulsed on his forehead. I left my wallet at the village inn. Saitama's breath hitched.

He stood frozen in the center of the tavern, the sounds of clinking mugs and boisterous laughter fading into a muted, terrifying silence. His mind violently hurled him backward in time, dragging up a deeply repressed, traumatic memory from his home world. He remembered sitting in a family restaurant in Z-City. He remembered eating a plate of french fries.

He remembered a spiky-haired guy named Garou sitting across from him, who casually stood up, walked out the door, and left Saitama holding the bill without a single Yen in his pocket. The sheer, humiliating panic of almost being arrested for dine-and-dashing echoed in his bones. Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original. Am I... am I the monster now? Saitama thought, his jaw trembling. Do I tell the manager? Do I offer to wash the dishes?

How many dishes equals a bowl of premium Mistralian pork ramen?!

"HEY! A DINE-AND-DASHER!!!" The sudden, ear-piercing shriek of a tavern waitress shattered the room. Saitama violently flinched, his arms flying up defensively, his voice cracking into a high-pitched, panicked whine.

"I HAVEN'T DONE IT YET--" But the waitress wasn't looking at him. She was pointing frantically toward the front entrance. A burly, unkempt bandit with a half-eaten roasted turkey leg jammed in his mouth had just kicked the tavern doors open, sprinting out into the dirt road with a manic, thieving cackle.

"Stop him! He didn't pay for the turkey!" the manager roared from behind the bar. Several patrons and employees surged forward, knocking over chairs as they rushed out the door to give chase. Saitama stood in the middle of the chaos, his oval eyes blinking rapidly as the realization hit him. This is it. This is my out.

"DON'T WORRY, CITIZENS! I'LL CATCH HIM!" Saitama bellowed with sudden, exaggerated heroic passion. Without waiting for permission, Saitama bolted out the front door, his red boots leaving a scorch mark on the floorboards as he joined the angry mob. In doing so, he effortlessly, seamlessly, and completely accidentally committed a dine-and-dash of his own, leaving his unpaid ramen bowl forgotten on the table. Outside, the turkey-thief was sprinting desperately down the dirt path, laughing through a mouthful of meat.

He didn't even make it fifty yards. A yellow blur bypassed the angry tavern employees as if they were standing still. Saitama appeared directly in front of the sprinting thief. He didn't even throw a punch. He just stuck his foot out. WHAM. The thief tripped over Saitama's red boot, launching horizontally through the air before face-planting spectacularly into a wooden water trough. He groaned, entirely incapacitated, the turkey leg slipping tragically from his grasp into the mud.

The tavern employees and local patrons caught up seconds later, panting heavily. They looked at the unconscious thief, then up at the bald man in the yellow suit.

"By the Gods, you caught him!" the manager cheered, clapping Saitama on the back.

"That was incredible speed, stranger! Thank you!"

"Ha... haha. Yeah. Just doing what heroes do," Saitama laughed awkwardly, a heavy, nervous sweat coating his bald head as he slowly began to edge away from the group.

"Justice never sleeps. Anyway, I really gotta go use the restroom, bye!" Before the manager could even offer him a free meal as a reward, Saitama ducked into a nearby alleyway, slipping into a rundown, wooden public washroom. He leaned back against the rickety door, letting out a long, shuddering sigh of relief.

"That was too close," Saitama said, wiping his forehead.

"I just became a criminal for a bowl of noodles. I have to get my wallet from the inn, get out of this sector, and find my way down the mountain before my karma catches up to me." He waited in the dingy stall for two minutes to let the coast clear. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the wooden door open and peeked his head around the corner of the alleyway. What he saw made his heart stop completely.

Standing right outside the tavern, interrogating the manager, were six individuals clad in stark, pristine white-and-grey tactical combat armor. They carried an aura of absolute, uncompromising military authority. They were not local Mistralian police. They were Atlesian Specialists.

"I'm telling you, we need to secure a perimeter of five miles," a tall man with a lucky clover pin on his lapel commanded. He held a customized fishing-pole weapon, his expression dead serious.

"He couldn't have gone far."

"My tail is getting cramped in this climate, Clover," grumbled a young Faunus operative with dog ears and a tail, crossing his arms over his chest plate.

"Do we even have a solid read on what this guy's Semblance actually is? The General's brief made him sound like a god."

"The General's orders are absolute, Marrow," a short-haired, incredibly athletic woman snapped, adjusting the specialized mechanical bracers on her arms.

"We find the anomaly before Salem's forces do. We secure him, we put him in a stealth transport, and we haul him back to Vale. No stops. No detours." Clover Ebi held up a holographic scroll, projecting a blurry image of Saitama's face. He turned to the tavern manager.

"I'll ask you again, sir. Have you seen a completely bald man, wearing a bright yellow jumpsuit and a white cape, in this vicinity?" In the alleyway, Saitama's face melted into a portrait of sheer, incomprehensible terror. THEY CALLED THE SPECIAL FORCES FOR A FIFTEEN-LIEN NOODLE BOWL?! Saitama's mind spiraled into a vortex of panic. He imagined Atlas military tribunals, maximum-security prisons, and Glynda Goodwitch testifying against him for his heinous crimes against the culinary industry.

I'm not going to jail for pork broth! The tavern manager squinted at the hologram.

"Bald guy? Yellow suit? Yeah! He was just here! He chased down a thief for us!"

"Where did he go?" Harriet Bree demanded, stepping forward aggressively.

"He went right into that alleyway!" the manager pointed. Clover, Harriet, and Marrow drew their weapons, turning sharply toward the dark gap between the buildings.

"Ace-Ops! Move in!" They charged into the alleyway, ready to confront the most powerful, dangerous anomaly on the face of Remnant. The alley was completely empty. A single, discarded candy wrapper blew across the dirt. There was no sound, no displaced air, and no sign of life. Harriet blinked, her eyes darting around.

"Where the hell did he go? My sensors didn't even pick up a thermal shift!"

"Keep looking," Clover ordered, his brow furrowing as he activated his comm-link.

"He's fast. Spread out. We don't leave this mountain until we have him in custody."

Three miles up the mountain, a violent gust of wind suddenly blew the doors of the Shion Village Inn wide open. Saitama stood in the threshold, panting heavily, his eyes darting back and forth like a hunted animal. He blurred across the room, leaving yellow afterimages as he dashed up the stairs, burst into the luxury suite the innkeeper had given him, grabbed his wallet from the bedside table, and blurred back down to the lobby in exactly 1. 2 seconds.

The plump innkeeper, who was wiping down a table, jumped in surprise.

"Sheriff! You're back so soon? The kitchen is just preparing a feast in your honor!" Saitama adjusted the collar of his jumpsuit, forcing his face into a mask of stoic, dramatic intensity to hide the fact that his knees were shaking from the sheer terror of the noodle-cops.

"I cannot stay, my friend," Saitama said, his voice dropping an octave, carrying the artificial, weighty gravitas of a lone, tragic hero.

"The wind is calling my name."

"Leaving?!" The innkeeper gasped, tears instantly welling in his eyes.

"But Sheriff... you saved our village! You protected our homes from the Branwen Tribe! We haven't even erected the statue yet!"

"A true hero does not fight for statues, nor does he linger in luxury," Saitama proclaimed, turning his body slightly so his white cape caught a dramatic draft from the open door. He looked off into the middle distance, narrowing his eyes as if perceiving a great, invisible burden. A true hero needs to cross the county line before the military dogs trace my scent. Saitama thought frantically, practically sweating bullets. Word of his departure spread in seconds.

As Saitama stepped out of the inn, the entire population of Shion village had gathered in the dirt road. Men, women, and children stood with tears streaming down their faces.

"Thank you, Sheriff!" a woman wept, holding her child up to see him.

"May the Gods protect your journey!" an elder cried, bowing deeply. Saitama offered them a slow, solemn nod. He adjusted his red gloves, pulling his cape tight around his shoulders.

"The world is vast," he recited, channeling every late-night anime trope he had ever consumed.

"And my journey... is never over. Stay safe, citizens of Shion." With a final, dramatic flourish, Saitama turned his back on the weeping village and began a slow, heroic walk down the southern mountain path. He maintained the majestic, imposing stride until he was completely out of sight behind a rocky ridge. The moment the village disappeared from view, his posture instantly collapsed.

He hunched over, breaking into a frantic, incredibly fast power-walk down the slopes, glancing over his shoulder every five seconds to make sure the white-armored Atlas agents weren't hiding in the bushes.

"Note to self," Saitama mumbled, picking up his pace as he descended deeper into the lush, autumnal valleys of Anima.

"Never eat before checking my pockets again. I am a wanted man." As the afternoon sun cast long shadows over the continent, the invincible hero trudged ever closer to the lower terraces of Mistral, entirely oblivious to the fact that his panicked escape was leading him directly into the path of Ruby, Jaune, and the rest of his students.