Dawn crept over Orario in hues of warm gold and soft lavender, brushing the city's spires and winding alleys with gentle light.
Inside a modest inn tucked between a bakery and a pawn shop near South Main, silence reigned.
Zamasu sat cross-legged in the center of his small room, the wood beneath him humming faintly as the air rippled with latent energy.
His eyes were closed, his breath steady, and his focus absolute.
The storm of ki that resided within him was coiled, restrained, not through brute force, but through patience.
He exhaled slowly. The energy dimmed, obeying.
….Tap. Tap….
A hesitant knock shattered the fragile equilibrium.
Not the heavy thud of the innkeeper, nor the boisterous greeting of a fellow guest. This was light, precise, almost apologetic.
Zamasu's eyes snapped open. He rose fluidly, his simple white toga wiping against the floorboards. He opened the door.
An elf maid stood in the corridor, her slender frame practically vibrating with nervous energy.
Her large, leaf-green eyes, wide with a mixture of awe and trepidation, darted from Zamasu's face to the floor and back again.
Her fingers knotted in the fabric of her simple grey smock. She was young, perhaps barely into her second century, her pointed ears twitching minutely.
'Must be a maid working in this inn.' He thought.
"M-master Zamasu?" she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper.
She held out a folded piece of expensive, cream-colored parchment sealed with a blob of dark red wax impressed with a familiar emblem: the stylized tower of the Guild.
"A… a message for you, sir. Delivered just moments ago. Urgent, they said." She handed the parchment and left promptly.
Zamasu took the parchment. The paper felt thick, expensive, cold against his fingers. The Guild seal seemed to pulse with institutional authority.
He broke the wax without ceremony. The script within was formal, precise:
'To Zamasu,
The Guild of Orario formally requests the pleasure of your presence at the Administrative Headquarters at the eighth bell this morning.
Director Royman mardeel seeks to discuss your recent activities and clarify certain administrative matters pertaining to adventurer registration and Dungeon protocols.
Your prompt attendance would be greatly appreciated.
Signed,
Office of the Director of Operations.'
Zamasu closed the door gently and exhaled.
'Pleasure.' 'Requests.' 'Appreciated.' The language was courteous, almost deferential.
Yet, the timing – interrupting the quiet hours, the designation 'Master' rather than any divine honorific, the pointed mention of 'recent activities' and 'Dungeon protocols' – all spoke of an underlying command, a summons disguised as an invitation.
Of course, he thought. It was only a matter of time.
He donned his toga with calm deliberation, cinching the fabric at his waist with a white sash. His earrings shimmered faintly in the morning light. He paused before the small mirror hung on the wall.
He stepped out into the hall.
The city was awake and alive when Zamasu walked through its streets. The morning crowds were bustling—vendors setting up stalls, adventurers returning from the early hours of Dungeon crawling, carriages rumbling along cobbled roads.
But every few steps, the flow of the crowd seemed to pause.
Eyes followed him. Whispers trailed in his wake.
"There he is…!"
"That's him, right? The god?"
"He doesn't look like any god I know. But damn…"
"Did you see his eyes? That glow—he's not normal."
"Why would a god go that deep into the Dungeon?"
"Better yet— why go at all?…"
Zamasu walked with composure, his steps smooth and regal despite the simplicity of his garb. He did not glance around, but he heard every word. They rolled off him like rain off marble.
A child tugged at his mother's sleeve. "Mama, is that the god everyone's talking about?"
The woman stared, mouth slightly open. "…I think so, dear."
He reached the Guild's marble steps without incident. Standing before the grand double doors, he paused.
They want answers.
He pushed the doors open.
The Guild was quieter than usual. It was early still, and the usual rush of adventurers hadn't yet descended on the main hall.
Behind the front desk stood an elf—brown haired, green eyes, her face carefully composed—but the stiffness in her shoulders and the flicker of concern in her eyes betrayed her.
She smiled when she saw him, but it was tight at the corners.
"Mister Zamasu," she greeted, stepping around the desk. "My name is Eina Tulle, Thank you for coming."
"I was asked. I complied," he said simply.
"If you'll follow me," she said, gesturing to the left corridor. "Guildmaster Royman wishes to speak with you. Along with one of our senior liaisons."
Zamasu tilted his head. "Is this to be an interrogation, Miss Tulle?"
Her pace didn't falter, but her fingers twitched slightly at her sides.
"A conversation," she replied carefully. "But… yes. There are many questions. About who you are. About how you could do what you did."
"Because gods should not descend the Dungeon," Zamasu said, almost amused.
Her silence confirmed it.
They reached a large chamber typically reserved for high-ranking deliberations. It was paneled in polished wood and bronze accents, with a wide central table.
At its head sat a large man—broad-shouldered and dressed in a long coat of dark blue. His silver beard caught the light like steel filaments.
Royman Mardeel.
The Guildmaster of Orario.
To his right sat another figure, cloaked and hooded in nondescript traveler's garb, a mask covering their face beneath the cowl. Their hands, gloved and long-fingered, were folded neatly atop the table.
The air shifted as Zamasu stepped into the room.
The cloaked one straightened slightly. Even Royman's expression tightened—not with anger, but scrutiny.
"Zamasu," Royman said in a voice like gravel and thunder. "Take a seat."
Zamasu did so without a word. Eina stood behind him, arms clasped in front of her.
Roygun leaned forward slightly, steepling his fingers. "Your arrival in Orario, and particularly your actions yesterday, have generated significant… administrative inquiry, Zamasu." His tone was measured, businesslike.
"The Guild's primary function is to maintain order and safety regarding the Dungeon and those who interact with it."
"Your registration as a mortal adventurer, followed by a solo delve to the reported Fifteenth Floor on your first day, resulting in the acquisition of cores from that depth…"
"These events fall significantly outside established norms. They raise questions about procedure, safety protocols, and… classification."
The ki within him stirred. Not violently—but like a dragon opening one eye in its lair.
"I adhered to the registration process," Zamasu replied, his voice calm and level. "I entered the Dungeon through the designated gate. I retrieved materials as permitted."
Royman tapped a finger against the table. "If you are not divine, then how did you survive? You have just registered and you have no affiliation, which indicates that you have not received a falna to get the required strength to explore floor 15."
"I am not that weak to require a god's blessing to do the bare minimum," he said quietly.
The cloaked one raised a hand. "You misunderstand. The question is not about your strength. It is about your nature. The Dungeon knows gods. It knows mortals. You don't seem like either."
"I am not a deity," Zamasu stated, the words clear, deliberate, carrying the weight of absolute conviction.
Zamasu didn't flinch. "Then let it learn."
Royman let out a slow breath. "You speak in riddles, Zamasu. I don't like riddles. Not when the city's balance might be at stake."
"Then ask plainly," Zamasu said.
Royman's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. He looked at the ramble in between them . "Your nature, Zamasu, is precisely the core of our inquiry. Guild Advisor Tulle," he gestured to Eina.
"We have reviewed your registration details. They are… sparse. Origin: unspecified. Although the race you placed is peculiar… Our divine registry, one of the most comprehensive archives in the world, shows no record of a deity named Zamasu descending in recorded history. No known pantheon claims you."
Zamasu didn't answer. But the tension in the air thickened.
The cloaked figure leaned in. "You deny divinity, yet carry its scent. You do not claim divinity, yet defy mortal limits. So tell us, Zamasu—why are you here?"
Zamasu held their gaze. His voice was steady. Cold.
"I remembered I wrote 'to learn.'"
The silence that followed was sharp and absolute.
Then the cloaked one sat back.
"You are no god," the figure said at last. "But you are no ordinary mortal either."
"I never claimed to be."
Roygun grunted. "That doesn't help us."
The cloaked one tilted their head. "Perhaps it does. The truth often lies between titles."
Then, from beneath their robes, the figure produced a small scroll, bound in dark red ribbon.
"This," they said, placing it on the table, "is a formal summons from Ouranos himself. He wishes to meet with you. Today. At the Tower of Babel."
Zamasu's eyes narrowed. The room cooled by several degrees.
"Does he now?"
"It is not a request," the cloaked one said. "Though it is framed as one."
Royman added, "Refusing it would not be wise. The Guild may protect adventurers, but it bows to the gods who built this city."
Zamasu stood.
He did not touch the scroll.
"Then I will go," he said. "I have nothing to fear."
The cloaked one watched him carefully. "You should. Not from Ouranos, perhaps. But from what your presence might bring."
Zamasu turned, his toga fluttering as he made for the door.
"Tell him I'm coming," he said.
He left the room.
As the door closed behind him, Eina let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
Royman rubbed his temples. "He's not lying."
"No," the cloaked figure murmured. "But he is… unsettling."
"You felt it too, Fels?" Royman asked quietly.
The hood dipped in affirmation.
They sat in silence for a moment.
Then Royman muttered, "Let's hope that's enough."
Outside, Zamasu walked once more through the streets.
But now, the whispers were louder. The stares bolder.
And somewhere, in the bowels of the Dungeon, something stirred again.
As if listening.
End of Chapter 10.
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