The rain had not ceased by dawn. It fell in a gray, relentless drizzle that blurred stone and torchlight alike. Cobblestones were slick, and puddles mirrored distorted reflections of towers and banners overhead. Orario awakened sluggishly, muffled by the wet, as if the city itself were hesitating before the new day.
The MC emerged from the overhang, cloak soaked through, boots slapping against the wet pavement. Each step left prints in water and mud. The smell of rain mingled with iron, refuse, and the faint, ever-present Dungeon stench. His hands still tingled from the previous day's miracle—not healed, not empowered, but marked. Palms raw, faintly bleeding, like a warning: power carries cost.
He walked toward the plaza, alert. The city's heartbeat was uneven. Adventurers poured toward the Guild, families gathered at familiar stalls, and merchants shouted over the clash of commerce. Nothing extraordinary—but he felt it beneath the surface. The subtle shift. The presence.
The gods were aware.
Not alarmed yet, but sensing. Curious. Irritated. Predictive instincts of their canon selves stretching tentacles toward the anomaly he represented. They did not yet know what he could do.
A group of adventurers collided with him around the corner. Leather armor, Falna faintly glowing, weapons strapped haphazardly.
"Watch it!" one shouted.
"I'm fine," he said, voice low, carrying weight, cadence sharpened by Latin syntax in thought. His eyes—green, narrow, unafraid—reflected a calm the city wasn't used to.
They froze. The first one glanced at the second.
"No Falna?"
He ignored the question. "I do not require permission to move."
The words carried authority without entitlement. Not arrogance—discipline. They shuffled past, eyes wide. Something had unsettled them. The gods would notice soon enough.
He moved toward the Dungeon's edge. The massive stone maw yawned in the distance, black against the gray sky. Adventurers clustered at the entrance in canon patterns: organized chaos, each familia moving to assign their members, securing contracts, and performing rituals to ensure the gods' favor. He observed quietly, senses alert.
A young woman stumbled near the stairs. Bronze hair tangled, cloak mud-splattered, a dagger nearly dropped from her belt. She hissed in pain. Without thinking, he stepped forward.
"Careful," he said, hands ready.
The words were Greek this time, not for clarity but instinct, fingers brushing the air as though conducting an invisible prayer. Pain bloomed in her leg—scraped and torn on the wet stone. Her eyes widened as he placed his palms on her wound. Heat surged, raw and holy. She gasped, not from fear but shock.
The flesh knit imperfectly. Bruised, red, bleeding slightly. Pain remained but was muted, manageable.
She stared. "Who… are you?"
"Servant of the Word," he said, voice measured. "No Falna required."
Her eyes flicked toward the massive tower of Hestia's familia and then the open square above. The rain fell heavier, masking whispers of the crowd.
"You… healed me? Without Falna?"
"Yes," he said. "Pain is not the absence of mercy."
Confusion mixed with awe. She staggered back, muttering prayers to the gods above—canon prayers, canon words, but her intent wavered. She had felt something foreign. Not magical. Not divine by her standard—but true.
The MC moved onward. Hunger and exhaustion gnawed at him. His body remembered yesterday's exertion. Each step carried weight—muscle sore, back stiff, palms throbbing. Yet, he felt alive in a way the city could not comprehend.
A vendor's cart caught his attention: fresh bread, smoked meat, roasted fish. He approached, hands empty.
"I work," he said.
The woman running the cart sized him up. Falna glowing faintly on her neck. A canon citizen. "Work?" she asked, skeptical. "Bread doesn't come free."
"Bread is sustenance. I provide labor."
He did not bargain. She hesitated. Observation etched into her features—raw, human, canonical. Finally, she nodded, motioning toward a pile of crates and sacks.
Labor was punishing: he lifted, stacked, and rearranged. Grain dust coated his hands and arms; the aroma of flour mixed with the smoke of cooking oil. Pain and sweat grounded him. Hunger gnawed but discipline overruled.
By midday, the loaf was his. He broke it, inhaled the warm scent. Crust crackled between his fingers. Moist, slightly sweet interior filled his mouth, relief grounding him in reality.
A child approached—eyes wide, emaciated, clothes ragged. Hunger was raw in her gaze. He tore off a portion of his bread.
She froze, suspicion warring with necessity.
He said nothing. She devoured it.
Her gaze lingered afterward. "Who do you pray to?"
"God," he said, voice steady.
"Which one?"
"The one who listens," he answered.
She frowned. Skepticism etched her features. She turned away, disappearing into the crowd. The act was small. Insignificant to the city—but meaningful. Witness, not spectacle.
Evening approached. The Dungeon's pulse echoed faintly through stone and air. Canon adventurers prepared. Bell and crew moved in their usual patterns. Gods watched from above, canon reactions intact: curiosity, impatience, assessment, but no intervention yet.
The MC observed. Learned. Planned.
A man staggered into the plaza, bleeding heavily, screams tearing through the evening. Canon rules: a familia nearby rushed to restrain him. Panic and fear followed exact canon patterns.
The MC approached. Heat flared in his palms, fingers tingling. Deacon stirred. Laying on of Hands, carefully, deliberately.
Bone twisted, muscle shredded, skin cut. Healing flowed, imperfectly. The man screamed once, then collapsed, breathing, alive.
Crowds froze. Whispers. Fear. Canon adventurers murmured to themselves. Falna shimmered faintly on skin—checking. No effect. The MC did not have Falna. He had faith.
Someone shouted: "A godless healer?!"
The MC met their gaze. "I answer to the One True God," he said.
Fear rippled. Not awe. Not gratitude. Fear.
He did not wait for approval.
He moved through the city. Rain had stopped. Mist hung over cobblestones. Torches flickered. The smell of wet stone and iron mingled with the faint scent of the Dungeon.
The child from earlier appeared again. She had followed him silently, curiosity stronger than fear.
"Will… will He forgive me?" she asked.
The MC knelt. Rain dripping from his hair, cloak soaked, hands raw. He spoke in Hebrew this time. "He forgives those who repent. But you must choose the truth, not the comfort of falsehood."
Her eyes widened. She did not understand the language fully—but the weight in his voice, the gravity, seeped in. She nodded, comprehension beyond words.
A bell rang from the Guild tower. Canon schedule: the first waves of adventurers would descend into the Dungeon soon. Chaos, danger, glory—all according to canon.
The MC rose. Pain in his arms and back flared. He welcomed it. Discipline sharpened. Hunger gnawed. Hunger always gnawed. But he had bread. And he had purpose.
The streets of Orario carried him forward. Every glance from a citizen, every whisper of the gods above, every echo of the Dungeon below—all canon. All observation.
And he moved, unconstrained. Not Bell. Not anyone. Himself. Zeal, faith, and the burden of the Word marking each step.
Somewhere deep below, stone shifted. Monsters stirred. Canon Dungeons followed their rules. He did not enter yet. Observation first. Preparation second. Faith always.
And far above, the gods turned eyes toward the anomaly moving among their city, whispers of unease rippling through canon channels.
The MC smiled faintly—not triumphantly. Not arrogantly. Just knowingly.
They had yet to understand.
And the first conversions would not be easy.
The war of witness had begun.