The sun had shifted westward, painting the city's white stone walls in soft gold as the line to Orario's gates crept forward at a snail's pace.
Dust hung in the air from wagon wheels and trampling boots. The clang of metal, the murmur of voices, the braying of beasts—all blended into a constant, grinding drone.
Garron's family stood just a few spots from the checkpoint.
A remained a short distance behind them, silent and unmoving as a statue, the long folds of his white toga fluttering faintly with each breeze.
He watched as the guards—clad in functional iron gear, helmets tucked under their arms—checked documents, poked through wagons, and questioned travelers before waving them through or sending them back.
When Garron's turn came, he approached with a respectful nod, handing over their papers. One of the guards took them with a grunt, flipping through the worn parchment.
"Purpose of visit?" the guard asked, eyeing Garron and his son, then Selene, then the sleepy children clinging to their parents.
"Returning home," Garron replied. "We've been away for a long while. No contraband, no magical items, *beep* Familia."
The guard squinted at them, then at their modest packs. "Travelers, huh? Fine. Welcome back to Orario. Move along."
With a grateful nod, the family passed through the gate. Selene gave A a brief look over her shoulder, a silent farewell. Lily waved, but A didn't return it. He simply watched them go, the last connection to his brief companionship fading into the crowd beyond the archway.
Now it was his turn.
The moment he stepped forward, the atmosphere shifted.
The two guards looked up—and stopped. One blinked. The other squinted, then stood a little straighter. The surrounding line paused as murmurs rippled outward.
A child stood before them, or so they thought at first glance. But the longer they looked, the less certain they became.
His skin held a pale green hue, subtle but unmistakable. His hair, long and white, fell past his shoulders like silk, untouched by dust or grime. His eyes glowed faintly beneath the canopy of his hair, grey and piercing, seeming to see through steel and sinew alike. The toga he wore gleamed like moonlight, unstained and without seam or stitch.
He looked like he didn't belong.
He looked divine.
"Uh…" one of the guards started, faltering. "State your business?"
A tilted his head. "I seek entry into Orario."
The other guard took a hesitant step forward, eyes narrowed in wary awe. "What… are you? Are you… one of the gods?"
A pause.
"I am…" then thought, Glinds are considered gods, right?
And the name "A" was mostly a placeholder. It was a placeholder. The initial of his middle name from his last life.
But now?
Now he stood at the threshold of a city of gods and monsters. The pretense of anonymity would not serve him here.
"…Zamasu," he said finally, the name tasting strange on his tongue. "I am Zamasu."
The guard's posture stiffened. "Zamasu… is that your Familia's name?"
"I belong to none."
The two guards exchanged glances. One whispered something to the other.
Then: "Wait here."
The taller guard disappeared through the gate.
A—now identified as "Zamasu," remained still, eyes forward, ignoring the whispered speculation behind him. Words like divine child and New god floated in the air. Some onlookers backed away; others leaned in.
A few even bowed.
The remaining guard looked uncomfortable. He swallowed. "Look, uh… Lord Zamasu. Or… whatever your title is. We're going to escort you to the Guild. Standard procedure. Anyone… like you 'needs' to be documented."
Zamasu merely nodded.
Moments later, the tall guard returned with another—a younger man in half-plate armor, a sword on his hip and a scroll in his hand.
"I'll take him," the man said, glancing at Zamasu with an unreadable expression.
The first guard saluted. "Be respectful."
"I always am," the escort replied dryly, then turned to Zamasu. "Follow me."
As they walked through the gates.
The city hit Zamasu like a storm.
Noise. Color. Motion.
The streets were choked with life—market stalls spilling with fruit and fabrics, children darting between armored adventurers, the rhythmic clang of smithing, the chatter of gossip, the squawk of birds and beasts.
Everything was loud. Loud and bright. His ears picked up a thousand overlapping sounds, his eyes flooded with detail: the flicker of magic runes on signs, the soft glow of enchanted items, the subtle signatures of energy in certain passersby.
It was too much.
He felt everything.
His heightened senses, once manageable in the quiet of the forest, now bombarded him. His sight caught every twitch, every shimmer. His hearing filtered voices from blocks away. Even the air tasted dense—with dust, spice, smoke, and sweat.
Yet he showed no outward reaction. His face remained calm, unreadable.
People turned to stare as they passed. His appearance drew gazes like a flame draws moths. Some whispered.
A few pointed. A pair of children gawked openly before their mother pulled them away.
He ignored them.
The escort occasionally glanced back, trying to judge the strange boy behind him. Whatever he thought, he kept to himself.
Finally, they arrived.
The Guild.
A large, polished building at the heart of a busy square, shaped like a fortress but maintained like a palace. Guild banners fluttered above the doors, and adventurers milled in and out with paperwork, coin pouches, and gear in tow.
As they approached the doors, the escort muttered, "You're on your own from here. The Guild handles everything else."
Zamasu nodded once. The man left, visibly relieved.
—
He stepped inside.
The Guild's interior was bustling. Adventurers sat in waiting areas, staff ran between desks, and notice boards were crowded with quest sheets and job requests.
But all movement paused—if only for a second—when Zamasu entered.
It was as though an invisible current had passed through the room.
Eyes turned. Conversations died.
A receptionist behind a wide counter froze mid-sentence. Her gaze locked on him. Her mouth opened slightly.
She put down her pen.
She stood abruptly. "Sir—! I mean—! Welcome!" she stammered, quickly coming around the counter.
"Are… are you a new descended god? I don't recognize your divinity… you're not registered, are you? Please, come with me. We'll get everything sorted."
She didn't wait for his response, simply motioned for him to follow.
He did.
The receptionist led him down a short hallway to a side room—quiet, clean, with a desk, two chairs, and a mural of Babel Tower painted on the far wall. She shut the door behind them, her posture straightening.
"I apologize for the lack of ceremony," she said quickly.
"But Orario has strict rules. All gods must be registered with the Guild before they act in any capacity—whether founding a Familia or walking among mortals."
Zamasu remained standing. "I am not a god."
She blinked. "You… aren't?"
"I am Zamasu."
"…Right." She smiled awkwardly. "Well, Lord Zamasu, you still must be recorded. Though deities aren't monitored, their actions do have consequences, whether positive or negative on the city. Safety reasons."
She clearly didn't believe he wasn't a god—His whole appearance screams divine.
She handed him a blank form and a quill.
"Please, if you could—name, species, divine origin if any, and intentions within Orario."
He looked at the form. Useless. He had no "origin" to list. Only a past life as a human, and a present life in a body that he is currently adjusting to.
He wrote simply:
Name: Zamasu
Race: Saioshin(Saiyen+ kaioshin)
Divine Origin: None
Purpose: To learn
The woman read the form, her brows knitting.
"Well… we've seen stranger." She smiled weakly. "Still, if you intend to stay in Orario, you'll need a place to sleep. You're free to walk the city. But without money or a Familia, you won't get far."
He gave a curt nod.
"Thank you."
She blinked. "That's it?"
"I will return when I have something to offer."
And with that, he left.
—
The sun had begun to dip below the rooftops by the time he stepped back onto the main street.
Shadows lengthened. Lanterns were lit. The city grew louder, more vibrant as the evening rush began. Food vendors opened stalls. Musicians played on corners. Magic-lit signs danced above taverns and inns.
He wandered.
Drawn by nothing. Guided by instinct.
People still stared, but he ignored them. His mind was elsewhere—calculating, cross-referencing, observing.
He watched adventurers laugh and boast, weapons slung across their backs. He watched mages conjure sparks to impress children. He watched pickpockets fail to evade guards.
He reached into the folds of his toga. No coin. No identification. No weapon. No connection.
'If I am to familiarize myself into this world,' he thought, 'I must start where it all converges.'
He turned his gaze toward the distant tower that pierced the sky—Babel.
'The Dungeon.'
He had heard of it from Garron. A labyrinth beneath the city. Endless monsters. Eternal danger. And riches for those strong enough to take them.
He had no money. No equipment. No guidance.
But he had something else.
A body not bound by mortal weakness.
A quiet power, untapped, untrained but waiting.
He walked toward the tower, the crowds parting around him like waves around a stone.
And with each step, a quiet certainty settled over him.
He would enter the Dungeon, earn money and get a roof over his head.
And so begins his first ever dive.
End of Chapter 6