Chapter 4: The World Watches
The air in the throne room tasted of cold stone and damp earth, undercut by the sweet, cloying scent of incense that never quite masked the deeper smell of ozone and power. It hummed, a sub-audible vibration that Saitama felt in his molars. The pulsing light in the jagged walls was slower now, a resting heartbeat.
Do-S lounged across the obsidian throne, one leg draped over an armrest, the other stretched out toward the floor where Saitama knelt. The massive screens embedded in the far wall flickered with a cacophony of global panic: news anchors with ashen faces, shaky footage of City Z’s new geography, the looping clip of the helicopter rotor folding like tin foil. The sound was muted, but the captions screamed. UNPRECEDENTED. CATASTROPHIC. MONSTER.
She wasn’t watching the screens. She was watching him.
A half-eaten plum, its skin a deep purple, rested in her hand. She took a final bite, the juice dark on her lips, then held the sticky pit between her thumb and forefinger. She wiggled her outstretched foot, the leather of her boot creaking.
“Here,” she said, her voice light, conversational. “Clean it off.”
Saitama shifted forward on his knees. He didn’t hesitate. He took her booted foot in his hands, his movements reverent, and bent his head. He used his tongue to wipe the faint dust of the ruins from the polished leather, working with a focused, diligent care. The leather tasted of salt, city ash, and her.
When the boot was clean, he remained there, his forehead resting against her instep, waiting.
Do-S smiled. She let the plum pit drop. It bounced once on the smooth floor with a tiny click and rolled to a stop near his knee.
“Now that,” she commanded softly.
His hand moved, a blur of ordinary speed, snatching the pit from the ground. He placed it in his mouth without looking up. He crushed it between his teeth, the bitter kernel dissolving into paste, and swallowed. His eyes stayed fixed on the ground before her throne.
“Good,” she breathed. The word was a physical thing, a warm reward that washed over his skin. A faint, almost imperceptible shiver of pleasure ran through his shoulders. It was the only sign he gave.
On the largest screen, a military expert was pointing at a satellite map of the devastation, his mouth moving in frantic, silent shapes. Do-S nodded toward it.
“They keep calling it an ‘event.’ Like it was a weather pattern.” She chuckled, a dry, amused sound. “They can’t process it. One man. One punch. Well,” she corrected herself, tapping his bald crown with the handle of her whip, “one man and his Goddess.”
Saitama’s head lifted a fraction at the title. His eyes, usually flat and bored, held a question.
“Yes,” she said, answering the look. “That’s what you will call me now. Not Do-S. That’s a name for my… lessers. For the terrified little things I whip into line.” She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “But you? You are something else entirely. You need a title worthy of your service. So, I am your Goddess. Say it.”
He opened his mouth. A dry croak came out. He cleared his throat, unused to speaking. “Goddess.”
The word felt strange in his mouth. Foreign. But the way her face lit up, the way her satisfaction warmed the air between them, made it feel like the most important word he’d ever uttered.
“Again.”
“Goddess.”
“Louder.”
“Goddess.” It was stronger now. A statement.
She settled back into the throne, a queen surveying her most prized possession. “From now on, that is my name in your mind. You are not my partner. You are not my equal. You are my instrument. My favorite, most powerful instrument.” She let the whip uncoil, its tip brushing his cheek. “I could control others with this. I could make heroes kneel and politicians weep with a thought. But you… you are a choice. Your submission is real. That’s what makes it delicious.”
He absorbed this. The logic was a cool, clear stream in the barren landscape of his mind. He had chosen this. He had sought a feeling, any feeling, and he had found it here, in the sharp grammar of her commands and the warm bath of her approval. The indifference that had plagued him, the crushing ennui of infinite power, was gone. In its place was a simple, radiant purpose: to obey.
“What is your purpose?” she asked, as if reading his thoughts.
“To serve you, Goddess.”
“To?”
“To obey your commands. To break what you point at. To kneel where you tell me.”
She laughed, a genuine, joyful sound that echoed in the cavern. “Perfect. You learn quickly.” She gestured to the screens with her whip. “They will come, you know. The rest of them. The so-called strong. They’ll see this as a threat to be eliminated. They won’t understand it’s a new order being born.”
Saitama followed her gaze. The news had cut to a press conference. A man in a crisp uniform, chest covered in medals, was speaking with grim determination.
“They will try to stop us,” Do-S mused, almost idly. “They’ll send armies. Maybe even those insufferable S-Class heroes. They’ll think if they can kill me, you’ll be free. They’re so quaint.”
She slid from the throne, her boots landing softly on either side of him. She crouched down, bringing her face level with his. Her breath smelled of plums and power.
“If they try to take me from you,” she whispered, her eyes locked on his, “what will you do?”
A change came over his face. Not anger. Not rage. It was a terrible, blank certainty. The same expression he wore when he had obliterated City Z.
“I will kill them all, Goddess.”
She searched his eyes for any hesitation, any flicker of the old boredom. There was none. There was only a void waiting to be filled by her will.
“And if I tell you to break the world? Not just a city. The whole, spinning world?”
He didn’t even blink. “I will break it.”
She leaned in and kissed his forehead, a chaste, possessive brand. “I know you will.” She stood up, stretching languidly. “But not today. Today, we watch them scramble. Today, you learn your new name.” She pointed to the floor beside the throne. “Sit here.”
He moved to the spot, folding his legs beneath him, a statue of patient potential.
Do-S sank back onto her throne, pulling a screen closer with a flick of her wrist. She enlarged a feed showing crowds fleeing cities, governments going into bunkers. She smiled, a contented cat with a world at her paws.
“Such a fuss,” she sighed, reaching down to absently run her fingers over Saitama’s smooth scalp. He leaned into the touch, his eyes closing. “All for us.”