Chương 62: Chapter 59: The Illusion of Identity

The lower, shaded terraces of Mistral were a chaotic labyrinth of narrow alleys, hanging red paper lanterns, and tightly packed merchant stalls that smelled of roasted spices and cheap tobacco. It was a place where the sun rarely reached, making it the perfect haven for smugglers, thieves, and people who desperately wished to remain unfound. Saitama stood before a remarkably shady street vendor, staring at a small, dusty mirror propped up against a wooden crate.

He reached up, adjusting the incredibly cheap, wildly unkempt, synthetic brown wig resting atop his head. The fake hair was terribly styled, sticking up in odd, spiky angles, and the elastic band dug uncomfortably into his scalp.

"Perfect," Saitama mumbled flatly to his reflection.

"I am completely unrecognizable." In his mind, he was a master of espionage. The trauma of the Atlesian agents descending upon Shion Village, the "noodle-cops" who he was absolutely, one-hundred-percent certain were hunting him down for accidentally committing a dine-and-dash over a fifteen-Lien bowl of pork ramen, had driven him to drastic measures.

"I can't go to jail for a bowl of noodles," Saitama mumbled, a comical drop of sweat rolling down his temple despite the cool mountain air.

"If the Glynda lady finds out I have a criminal record in a foreign kingdom, she's going to revoke my premium supermarket coupons forever." He adjusted the wig one last time. It immediately reminded him of the time he had impersonated his martial arts acquaintance, Charanko, to sneak into the Super Fight tournament back in his home world. Just don't sneeze. He reminded himself. Or move too fast. If this thing flies off, my cover is blown.

Saitama turned away from the vendor and began to trundle down the bustling market street. He kept his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his bright yellow jumpsuit, his white cape dragging slightly over the cobblestones. Several passing Faunus and Mistralian locals cast highly bewildered, weirded-out glances at the man whose cheap brown wig violently clashed with his brightly colored spandex, but Saitama completely ignored them. As long as his shiny bald head was covered, he felt entirely invisible to the law.

He wandered through the crowds until he spotted a vibrant, well-stocked fruit and vegetable stall near the edge of the market square. His stomach let out a low, rumbling groan. Saitama walked up to the wooden counter, fishing into his prime pocket. He pulled out the crumpled, slightly torn piece of paper that Sun Wukong had given him months ago at the Beacon docks.

"Excuse me," Saitama said, his voice a flat drone as he placed the paper on the counter. He pointed a red-gloved finger at the crude, hand-drawn picture of a banana.

"I was told there was a discount on these here. Specifically, three Lien for a whole bunch. I'd like to redeem this, please." The merchant, a grizzled old man with a thick beard and a heavy Mistralian accent, picked up the piece of paper. He squinted at the messy crayon drawing, then looked up at Saitama's utterly serious, blank face.

"What is this garbage?" the merchant grunted, tossing the paper back onto the counter.

"Do I look like a toddler to you, buddy? I don't accept crayon drawings for a discount. Full price or get lost." Saitama's shoulders slumped entirely, his soul practically leaving his body through his mouth in a wispy sigh of absolute defeat.

"Are you serious...?" Saitama groaned, resting his forehead against the wooden counter.

"I crossed an entire ocean for this. I wish the monkey kid was here. He said this was a sure thing. Man, I really wish I hadn't left my scroll on my nightstand..." As Saitama mourned the loss of his anticipated potassium bargain, a massive shadow fell over the fruit stall. The wooden floorboards creaked under the weight of an approaching giant. Hazel Rainart stepped up to the counter, his towering, muscular frame clad in his heavy dark coat.

His presence was naturally imposing, radiating a quiet, mountain-like strength that usually made civilians instinctively back away. Saitama didn't even flinch. He just kept his head resting on the wood, sulking. Hazel ignored the strange man in the yellow suit and terrible wig, his eyes scanning the crates of fresh produce. He reached out with a massive, calloused hand, gently picking up a pristine, deep-red Mistralian plum.

"The harvest looks good this season," Hazel rumbled, his deep, gravelly voice surprisingly soft. He glanced sideways at the despondent figure next to him.

"Are you going to buy anything? Or are you just going to occupy the counter?" Saitama turned his head, resting his cheek on the wood as he looked up at the giant man with dull, dotted eyes.

"I'm short on cash. And this guy won't accept my coupon. It's a tragedy." Hazel let out a faint, huffing chuckle, carefully placing the plum back into the crate. In a world currently consumed by shadow wars, assassinations, and the plotting of a dark goddess, there was something incredibly, strangely comforting about a man whose only grievance in life was the price of fruit.

"A tragedy indeed," Hazel murmured, leaning his back against the stall and looking out over the bustling market.

"But there are worse things to lose in this world than a few Lien." Saitama finally stood up straight, stretching his back with a quiet pop.

"Yeah, like your wallet. I left mine at an inn up the mountain when buying noodles. Don't have enough for public transportation too. Been walking ever since." Hazel's eyes softened, a distant, melancholic shadow crossing his rugged features. He looked down at the crate of plums, his massive fingers tracing the edge of the wood.

"My sister loved these," Hazel said quietly, the confession slipping out naturally into the casual, unassuming space Saitama created.

"Gretchen. Whenever the autumn markets opened, she would always hunt for the sweetest plums. She had a spirit that was just as bright." This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it"Oh. That's cool," Saitama replied simply, adjusting his itchy wig.

"Where is she now?" Hazel's jaw tightened. The grief, cold and sharp despite the years that had passed, flared in his chest. His hands curled into tight fists.

"She is dead," Hazel stated, his voice dropping into a heavy, bitter resonance.

"She wanted to be a Huntress. She thought there was glory in it. But she was just a child. The Academies... the Headmasters who sit in their high towers... they sell children a fantasy of heroism. They push them into training, they send them into the dark to face nightmares they cannot possibly comprehend, and when those children die, the system simply churns out more." Hazel looked down at his fists, the immense, crushing weight of his own guilt bearing down on his broad shoulders.

"It is a corrupt, broken machine. And I... I failed her. I should have stopped her from going. I should have held her back, no matter how much she hated me for it. Her blood is on my hands." Saitama stood quietly for a moment, listening to the ambient noise of the market around them. He looked at the giant, grieving man, his face an unreadable, flat oval.

"That's stupid," Saitama said bluntly. Hazel froze. His head snapped toward the stranger, his eyes widening in shock before a flicker of defensive anger sparked in his chest.

"Excuse me?"

"I said that's stupid," Saitama repeated, turning his body to face Hazel directly, his hands lazily stuffed into his pockets.

"Why are you taking the blame for something she decided to do?" Hazel's brow furrowed deeply.

"Because she didn't understand the risks! The system manipulated her!"

"Maybe," Saitama shrugged indifferently.

"Back where I'm from, we have a system too. A massive association that ranks heroes, gives them numbers, and pays them based on popularity and results. It's incredibly bureaucratic, totally flawed, and honestly, a lot of the guys at the top are complete jerks who only care about their own egos." Saitama looked up at the hanging red lanterns swaying in the wind.

"But you know what? The people who join... they do it because they want to. Even the weak ones. I know a guy who rides a bicycle into fights against monsters that could crush him in a second. The system didn't force him to do that. He does it because he believes in it." Saitama turned his gaze back to Hazel, his small, dotted eyes carrying a sudden, unwavering clarity.

"If your sister wanted to be a Huntress, she chose that path. You can't stop someone from wanting to be a hero, no matter how hard you try. If she decided to fight, that was her choice. Beating yourself up and blaming a garbage system doesn't change why she did it, and it definitely doesn't honor her memory." Hazel stared at the man in the ridiculous yellow suit. The words lacked any poetic grace.

They weren't dressed in the manipulative, philosophical rhetoric of Ozpin, nor were they laced with the dark, venomous logic of Salem. It was just an absolute, blunt truth delivered by a man who seemed to completely understand the simple essence of choice. For the first time in years, the suffocating, fiery hatred that constantly burned in Hazel's chest cooled, just for a fleeting second. He didn't abandon his vengeance against Ozpin. that scar ran too deep.

But a strange, heavy peace settled over the memory of his sister. Hazel let out a long, shuddering breath, the tension leaving his massive shoulders.

"You have a strange way of seeing the world, friend," Hazel murmured, a faint, genuine note of respect entering his voice. He reached into his coat, pulled out a silver Lien card, and placed it on the merchant's counter.

"Give him the bananas. And a bag of the plums," Hazel instructed the merchant.

"Wait, really?" Saitama's eyes instantly widened into massive, sparkling circles of pure joy, the deep philosophical moment entirely forgotten in the face of free groceries.

"Are you serious, dude? Thanks!"

"Thank you," Hazel replied softly, giving a slow, respectful nod.

"For the talk." Hazel turned and began to walk away, blending into the crowded market street. As he walked, a sudden, nagging thought tugged at the back of his mind. He paused, looking over his shoulder at the man happily accepting his plastic bag of fruit. A bright yellow suit... red boots... a white cape... Hazel's brow furrowed. Where have I seen that exact description before?

He thought back to the dark halls of Evernight Castle, to the blurry, static-filled video files Arthur Watts had projected on the tactical table. But the man in Watts's files had been completely bald. The man at the fruit stall had a head full of messy brown hair. Must be my imagination. Hazel dismissed the thought with a shake of his head. Just a coincidence. I have a meeting with Cinder to attend.

Ten minutes later, Saitama had wandered away from the crowded market and into the quieter, lower residential sectors of Mistral. The cobblestone streets narrowed into damp, shadowed alleyways lined with towering brick walls and flickering neon signs. Saitama hummed a quiet, tuneless melody, happily munching on a fresh Mistralian plum. Suddenly, he stopped walking. He took another bite of his plum, chewing slowly as he looked straight ahead. The alleyway was completely empty.

Then, the rhythmic, heavy clanking of military boots echoed off the brick walls. From the shadows of the intersection ahead, six figures marched into the light. They were clad in pristine, white-and-grey tactical combat armor, their faces obscured by sleek visors. Atlesian soldiers. Saitama casually turned his head to look behind him. Another six soldiers had silently moved in from the rear, completely blocking his escape route.

The lead soldier at the front raised his high-caliber dust-rifle, aiming it directly at Saitama's chest.

"Halt! You are completely surrounded!" the soldier's voice barked, amplified and synthesized through his helmet.

"Put your hands in the air and come with us peacefully! Any resistance will be met with lethal force!" Saitama stood perfectly still. He didn't drop his grocery bag, nor did he spit out his plum pit. He just stared at the soldiers, his face reverting to a flat, bored oval.

"I repeat, surrender immediately!" the soldier yelled, cocking the charging handle of his rifle with a loud, metallic clack. Saitama squinted. He tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing as he looked closer at the soldiers. He didn't sense any hostility. In fact, he didn't sense anything at all. No breathing, no heartbeat, no displacement of air. They felt as hollow as empty cardboard boxes.

"You guys are fake, right?" Saitama asked, his voice entirely devoid of concern. The soldiers didn't answer. They opened fire simultaneously. A hail of holographic gunfire erupted in the narrow alley. Saitama didn't dodge. He simply shifted his weight forward and took a single, incredibly fast step. CRASH! The instant his shoulder brushed against the incoming bullets and the physical bodies of the Atlesian soldiers, the entire world seemed to fracture. The soldiers didn't fall back.

They literally shattered like panes of stained glass. The air filled with the sharp, tinkling sound of breaking mirrors as the entire illusion collapsed into a thousand glittering, dissipating shards. Saitama continued his single step, blurring through the empty space where the soldiers had stood. His hand shot out into the seemingly empty shadows of the alleyway wall. His red glove clamped firmly onto something solid, soft, and distinctly surprised.

"Gotcha," Saitama said flatly. With a casual, effortless tug, he pulled the hidden culprit out of thin air and lightly tossed them forward onto the cobblestones. The figure landed with feline agility, sliding to a graceful halt a few feet away. Saitama took another bite of his plum, chewing thoughtfully as he looked at the stalker.

"I knew someone was following me. You've been trailing me ever since I passed through that destroyed, creepy village with the big flower symbol on the ground in the center of town." The figure slowly stood up, dusting off her immaculate clothes. She was petite, standing barely above Saitama's chest. She wore a tailored white, pink, and brown tailcoat, with a stylish bowler hat resting perfectly atop her head. In her hands, she held a closed, pink-and-white parasol.

But it was her eyes that caught the dim light of the alleyway, one pale pink, the other a striking, deep brown. She tilted her head, her heterochromia eyes locking onto Saitama. She didn't speak. She didn't make a sound. She simply offered him a chilling, razor-sharp smirk, twirling her umbrella with a practiced, lethal elegance.