Morning in Orario did not arrive gently.
It came with the clang of iron shutters, the barked curses of merchants arguing over stall space, the wet slap of boots against stone still slick from the night's condensation. The city exhaled as one great living thing, breath heavy with bread-yeast, sweat, oil, and the faint rot that always drifted up from the Dungeon like a reminder of hunger that never slept.
The MC woke against a wall that sweated cold.
Stone pressed through his cloak—thin, borrowed, rough-spun wool that scratched his skin and smelled faintly of mildew and another man's fear. His neck ached. His mouth tasted like old copper and dust. For a long moment he did not move, listening.
Footsteps. Close. Careless.
He kept his eyes shut.
"—swear I saw him drop right here."
A male voice. Young. Adventurer by the sound of the gear shifting as he walked.
"Probably another drunk," a second voice replied, bored. "If he's alive, he'll crawl off."
A pause. The faint scrape of leather. A breath drawn too deep.
"Oi… he's breathing."
The MC opened his eyes.
Two faces hovered above him—boys, really. Teenagers. Leather armor patched and scuffed, Falna faintly visible at their necks. One smelled of sweat and fear. The other of oil and dried blood. Their expressions were exactly what he expected in Orario: curiosity edged with calculation.
Not kindness. Not cruelty.
Utility.
"He's awake," the first said.
The MC pushed himself upright slowly, palms flat against the stone. Cold bit through his skin. His balance wavered, then steadied. The world tilted, then snapped into clarity with a sharpness that made his temples throb.
Languages stirred. Awareness followed.
Falsehood hummed faintly from the boys—not deliberate lies, just the dull background noise of a city that worshipped power as easily as it worshipped gods.
"I'm fine," the MC said.
His voice came out hoarse but steady. Greek syllables wanted to shape the words. He forced Common instead.
The second boy snorted. "You don't look fine."
"I didn't ask how I look."
That earned him a blink.
The first boy scratched his head. "You got a familia?"
"No."
That, finally, drew interest.
"No Falna?" the second asked, leaning closer. "You sure? You don't feel… empty?"
The MC almost laughed. Instead, a weight pressed behind his eyes as his calling stirred, warning him not to mock ignorance.
"I feel full," he said quietly.
They exchanged a look. The second boy's hand drifted, not threateningly, but toward his weapon anyway. Habit. Survival.
"Look," the first said, tone softening, "if you're new, you should head to the Guild. Or a goddess will pick you up eventually."
A goddess will pick you up.
The phrase tasted wrong. Sour. He felt it physically—his stomach tightening, his teeth clenching.
"I'll manage," he replied.
The second boy shrugged. "Suit yourself. Try not to die."
They walked away, conversation already drifting to Dungeon yields and repair costs. The city swallowed them whole.
The MC exhaled slowly.
He stood.
Orario rose around him in layered stone and wood, banners fluttering overhead—familia symbols bright with identity and ownership. The Babel Tower loomed in the distance, impossibly tall, its shadow cutting the city like a sundial marking the hours until death.
He felt it again.
Pressure.
Not the Dungeon this time.
Eyes.
The gods were awake.
Not focused. Not searching. But aware in the way predators were aware of weather. Something had entered their territory that did not smell right.
He pulled the cloak tighter and moved.
Hunger found him three streets later.
Not the dull ache of missed meals, but a sharp, hollow pull that twisted his gut and made the smell of bread unbearable. He followed it through alleys narrowing into slums, where stone gave way to warped wood and refuse gathered in corners like forgotten sins.
A bakery squatted at the end of a lane, shutters half-open. Warm air rolled out carrying yeast, smoke, and fat. His mouth watered painfully.
Inside, a woman worked the oven, arms dusted white, hair tied back with string. She looked up as he entered, eyes sharp.
"You buying or begging?"
"Buying," he said.
Truthfully.
She raised a brow. "With what?"
He checked his pockets. Empty. Of course.
"I'll work."
That got a snort. "For bread?"
"For bread."
She studied him. His hands—calloused oddly, like someone used to a keyboard and weights both. His posture—straight, disciplined. His eyes—too awake.
"Stack those," she said, jerking her chin at sacks of grain.
He did not hesitate.
The work was simple. Heavy. The grain sacks scratched his arms, dust clogging his nose and throat. Sweat broke quickly across his back. Each lift burned. Each breath carried the thick, comforting smell of wheat.
Pain grounded him.
He worked in silence, stacking, hauling, cleaning. When his hands shook, he steadied them. When his back screamed, he adjusted and continued. The baker watched without comment.
At last, she slid a loaf across the counter.
Fresh. Warm. Crust crackling softly as it cooled.
"Eat," she said.
He broke it.
Steam rose. The smell hit him like mercy.
He chewed slowly, savoring the taste—the slight bitterness of the crust, the soft sweetness inside. It filled his mouth, his chest, his mind.
He bowed his head.
"Thank you," he said—not to her, not only.
The baker frowned. "You're welcome?"
He met her eyes. "For the work."
She waved him off, uncomfortable. "Go. Before I change my mind."
He left with the bread wrapped in cloth, the warmth seeping into his palms.
Outside, he sat on a low wall and ate in silence.
A child watched him from across the street.
Thin. Dirty. Eyes too old.
She edged closer, gaze fixed on the bread.
He tore the loaf in half and held it out.
She froze.
Suspicion warred with hunger. Hunger won.
She snatched it and retreated, devouring it with desperate bites.
"Who do you pray to?" she asked suddenly, mouth full.
The question hit him harder than a blade.
"God," he said.
She frowned. "Which one?"
He swallowed.
"The one who listens."
She stared at him, then laughed—a sharp, humorless sound. "They don't."
She ran.
The words stayed.
By midday, the Dungeon made itself known.
Not directly—he was not foolish enough to enter unprepared—but through the city's pulse. Adventurers flowed toward Babel like blood toward a wound. Armor clinked. Weapons caught the sun. Excitement hummed, edged with fear.
He stood near the plaza when a commotion broke out.
Shouting. A body carried on a door ripped from its hinges. Blood soaked through cloth, dark and sticky, the metallic smell cutting through the crowd.
"Out of the way!"
A group of adventurers shoved past. One stumbled, nearly dropping the wounded man. The MC caught the edge instinctively, muscles straining as weight slammed into him.
The injured man screamed.
The sound was raw. Animal. His leg was mangled—bone visible, flesh torn by claws.
The MC felt it.
Pain not his own clawed at his chest.
Deacon stirred.
He swallowed hard.
They laid the man down. Panic set in. Someone shouted for a healer.
None came.
Time stretched.
The wounded man's eyes found the MC's.
"Help," he gasped.
The MC knelt.
Hands hovered, trembling.
I am not worthy.
The words rose unbidden.
He pressed his palms gently to the man's shoulders.
"Lord," he whispered, voice cracking, "have mercy."
The language shifted—Latin this time, heavy and formal, each syllable a weight.
Heat surged.
Not light. Not spectacle.
Heat.
It burned his palms, sank into his bones. Pain flared—white-hot—up his arms, into his chest. He bit down hard, tasting blood.
The wound knit slowly. Not perfectly. Scar tissue formed ugly and real.
The man screamed once more, then sagged, breathing hard.
Silence fell.
The MC reeled back, collapsing onto his heels, arms shaking uncontrollably. Blood dripped from his palms—not the man's.
"What—" someone started.
"Who did that?" another whispered.
The MC forced himself upright.
"I did," he said.
Fear rippled.
Not awe. Not gratitude.
Fear.
"Get a god," someone hissed. "Now."
He did not wait.
He staggered away, heart pounding, arms burning as if flayed. Each step sent pain shooting through his shoulders. He welcomed it. Accepted it.
Behind him, a goddess watched from a balcony—Hestia, eyes wide, hand pressed to her chest.
She did not understand what she had seen.
Only that it had not come from her.
Night fell heavy.
He found shelter beneath an overhang near the city's edge. Rain began to fall, cold and steady, washing blood and dust from the streets. It soaked through his cloak, chilled his skin.
He prayed.
Not for safety.
For strength.
Voices drifted nearby—two adventurers arguing softly.
"That healer—no Falna, I swear."
"Impossible."
"I saw it."
Silence.
Then, quieter: "The gods won't like that."
The MC closed his eyes.
He felt it too.
Tension tightening like a drawn bowstring.
He was not hidden.
Not anymore.
Somewhere deep below, the Dungeon shifted, stone grinding against stone as if in irritation—or anticipation.
And far above, gods began to pay attention.
Not because a man had healed another.
But because he had done it without asking permission.
The Word weighed heavy on his shoulders.
And dawn would bring consequence.