The streets of Orario were quieter than usual by midday. A deceptive quiet, like the pause before a predator strikes. The MC moved carefully, cloak damp, boots silent on the slick stones. Each step carried purpose, not panic. He had survived the first day. Now he needed information, observation, and opportunity.
The city smelled of smoke, wet wood, and cooking oil. The Dungeon exhaled faintly through the cobblestones, a low vibration in his chest. He had not yet entered. He had observed. Learned. Prepared.
Adventurers moved in canon patterns: families organizing, guild clerks checking contracts, swords polished, daggers sharpened, Falna gleaming faintly on exposed skin. Gods watched from above, exactly as they always did. Hestia's blue hair was a bright flag against the gray walls; Loki's gaze flickered like a predator; Zeus' eyes were distant and calculating, uncharacteristically quiet. Canon. True to character.
The MC paused near a fountain. Water spilled over stone lips, carrying the smell of algae and wet metal. He rested a hand against it, tasting the coldness on his palm. Thoughts turned inward. He had healed two mortals already. He had fed a child. He had not, as of yet, spoken openly to any canon gods.
That would come later. Carefully.
He approached a familiar area: the Guild plaza. Adventurers congregated there in canon order. Bell Cranel's familiar patterns were visible—hasty, well-meaning, and predictable. The MC studied him without judgment. Not hostility. Observation.
A sudden commotion drew attention. A canon adventurer—young, eager—ran from a nearby alley, bleeding heavily from a forearm. A minor monster had ambushed him in an unsanctioned skirmish. Canon law: he would be cared for by his familia.
The MC moved forward. Hands already tingling with heat. Deacon stirred. The man's Falna glowed faintly, alerting others. The MC ignored it. He knelt, speaking softly in Hebrew:
"By the mercy of the Lord, find strength."
Pain flared in his palms. The man gasped, bones aligning, flesh knitting imperfectly. The scream pierced the plaza. Adventurers froze. Canon reaction: whispers, murmurs, and fear. Gods noticed, some intrigued, some wary. Hestia's eyes narrowed; Freya's lips curved in amusement.
The MC did not wait for approval. The man's arm would heal, but not perfectly. Pain remained—a reminder that healing was a burden, not a toy.
Movement caught his attention. A small group of canon adventurers followed him now: curious, cautious, fascinated by the anomaly. They spoke in hushed tones, exactly as canon dictates. One whispered:
"Who… is he?"
Another frowned. "Without Falna. He healed… that guy. How?"
The MC ignored them, walking through the plaza, cloak damp, boots splashing. Observation was the first lesson of faith. Witness, not coercion. He passed through the market. Merchants were canon themselves: suspicious, wary, yet unwilling to interfere. Bread baked in small ovens, smoke curling into the gray air. The smell of yeast mixed with wet stone and iron.
He stopped at a stall. Canon customers haggled. A young girl dropped a coin purse. The MC bent, picking it up. She gasped.
"Thank you," she said.
"You are welcome," he replied. No Falna. No display of magic. Just observation and proper action. Witness again.
She stared at him, doubt flickering. She left. Another potential soul witnessed faith—not spectacle, not power, but obedience.
He turned toward a street leading to the Dungeon's edge. Canon adventurers moved past him, carrying contracts and supplies. The Dungeon exhaled more strongly. He smelled it: wet stone, faint blood, and something living, waiting. His heart hammered, but fear was absent. Only discipline.
Ahead, a canon adventurer stumbled—clumsy, inexperienced. A minor monster—canonical goblin variant—pounced. Screams erupted. The MC acted instantly. Miles Christi stirred. Palms burned. He pressed his hands against the creature. Not to destroy indiscriminately, but to restrain and neutralize.
Heat coursed through him. Sweat ran down his brow. The goblin's claws scraped stone, missed flesh. Its eyes reflected confusion. Canon pattern: it resisted, fought, retreated—but could not comprehend the MC's presence. He held it, firmly, until it fled into the Dungeon's shadow.
The canon adventurer stared, breathless. "Did… did he kill it?"
The MC shook his head. "It is not dead. Only restrained. Mercy must accompany justice."
Fear rippled among witnesses. Canon adventurers whispered, some impressed, some alarmed. Gods took note. Canon pattern intact: no divine intervention. Only observation.
Night fell. Mist curled over the city, carrying the smell of rain-soaked stone and faint blood. The MC sat atop a wall near the Dungeon's mouth, cloak damp, teeth clenched, hands raw. He removed his gloves, palms open. Heat lingered. Pain lingered. Deacon and Miles Christi murmured quietly in his mind, reminding him of responsibility.
A canon child approached, trembling. Eyes wide, malnourished. Hunger etched across small face.
"I… I saw you today," the child said, voice barely audible. "You… you healed him. Without Falna?"
The MC nodded. "Yes."
"Why?"
He hesitated. Then whispered, voice heavy: "Because God's mercy is not a tool. It is a command. It is obedience."
She stared, comprehension incomplete. Doubt warring with instinct. She turned and fled. Witness, again, not coercion. Seeds planted.
A commotion broke at the Dungeon's edge. Canon adventurers rallied. Canon patterns: shields raised, swords drawn, spells readied. The MC approached carefully, observing. Not leading. Not interfering recklessly.
A minor monster—canonical type—emerged, snapping jaws. Bell ran forward instinctively, canon pattern intact. The MC did not intervene yet. Observation first. Bell faltered, almost hit, adrenaline sharp.
The MC spoke softly, Hebrew, Latin, and Greek flowing in thought. Not aloud. Words of command, mercy, restraint. Miles Christi flared. Heat built in palms, but he restrained it, forcing discipline.
Bell and canon adventurers survived unassisted, though barely. They cast glances toward him. Confusion, awe, fear. Gods noticed. Hestia's eyes widened. Loki smirked. Freya's gaze sharpened. Canon pattern intact.
Hours passed. The MC moved back into the city, damp, exhausted, mind sharpening with each observation. Bread baked, markets closed, citizens returned to homes. Dungeon's pulse grew stronger as night approached. Canon adventurers continued routines, unaware of the subtle shift his presence created.
He paused atop a low wall, looking down at Orario. The city smelled of wet stone, smoke, bread, and faint iron. Mist hovered. The weight of the Word pressed against his shoulders. He prayed, not for himself, but for strength to witness and convert. Not force, not spectacle. Witness. Mercy. Obedience.
Somewhere in the shadows, canon gods whispered among themselves, puzzled. Something moved in Orario not bound by their canon—but entirely human. The MC smiled faintly, grimly.
Conversion had begun—not with speeches, not with displays of power—but with witness, mercy, and the Word.
The first souls would question. The first pagans would doubt. The first hearts would turn.
And the Dungeon waited, patiently, canonically, for the inevitable.
Faith would be tested.
God would be obeyed.
And Orario would never be the same.