The village dozed beneath the warm rays of the midday sun. The familiar, measured silence of the hinterland was broken only by the rhythmic creak of ungreased wheels and the snorting of draft lizards—a merchant caravan was slowly moving through the settlement, heading toward the capital.
A young man in worn leather armor detached himself from one of the trailing wagons. Adjusting the short sword at his belt, the escort adventurer looked around, approached a local chopping wood, and, after a brief chat with him, headed toward the outskirts of the village.
The house he needed didn't stand out in any particular way: solid, built from sturdy timber, with a well-kept front garden and a neat woodpile. The adventurer checked the crumpled parchment in his hand, stepped up onto the wooden porch, and confidently knocked three times on the door with his knuckles.
He didn't have to wait long. Light footsteps sounded behind the door, the latch clinked, and the door opened.
The guy had prepared a standard greeting, but the words caught in his throat.
On the threshold stood a woman in her thirties. Her long, raven-black hair was carelessly yet elegantly gathered at the back of her head, revealing a slender, aristocratic neck. Despite her simple, linen homewear and hands slightly dusted with flour, her posture and the soft features of her face radiated such a calm, mature beauty that the young mercenary forgot for a second why he had even come here.
"Good afternoon. Can I help you with something?" her voice sounded soft, with a light, polite questioning intonation.
The adventurer flinched, blinked, and hurriedly lowered his eyes to his delivery slip, feeling the tips of his ears begin to burn.
"G-good afternoon!" he blurted out, stumbling slightly. "Is this the home of Madam Livia and Master Arthur?"
The woman shifted her gaze to the dense parcel tied with twine in his hands. A spark of understanding flashed in her dark eyes, which so strongly resembled the eyes of a certain stubborn swordsman.
"Yes, that's correct. That's us."
"In that case, I have a package for you from Orario!" the guy rattled off, handing her the parcel and a wooden clipboard with a form attached. "Please sign right here, in the receipt column. And here is a pencil."
Livia carefully took the package. The adventurer, extending the graphite pencil, suddenly faltered. A belated thought flashed through his mind, based on his experience of living in his own remote village. The literacy rate in such settlements usually tended toward zero. Did this woman even know how to write? Maybe he needed to explain how to leave an X, or offer help?
He had already opened his mouth to delicately offer his services, but the words once again hung in the air.
Livia, pressing the clipboard right against the wooden doorframe, elegantly took the pencil and, with a quick, fluid motion, traced her signature. No hesitation, no heavy pressure on the lead. Her handwriting was even and calligraphic.
Handing the clipboard back, she bowed with gratitude and dignity.
"Thank you very much for your hard work."
The adventurer mechanically took the board. He froze in place, staring wide-eyed at this incredible woman who was breaking all his stereotypes about provincial life. The silence dragged on.
Livia, noticing that the young man was in no hurry to leave, tilted her head slightly to the side and raised an inquiring eyebrow.
This simple, slightly ironic gesture instantly brought the mercenary back down to earth. Realizing he was shamelessly staring at a married woman, the guy blushed furiously, right to the roots of his hair.
"U-uh... Y-yes! Always happy to help! Goodbye!" he blurted out awkwardly, gave a clumsy bow, and, nearly tripping over the step, hurriedly marched back toward the caravan dusting up the road.
Livia followed the flustered youth with her eyes, a light, understanding half-smile on her lips. Then her attention shifted entirely to the parcel. The smile faded, giving way to anxious, maternal anticipation.
She closed the door, went into the kitchen, and placed the package on the massive oak table. Her fingers, still bearing traces of flour, carefully hooked and untied the stiff twine. The thick paper fell apart.
Inside lay a hefty leather pouch, pulled tight with a drawstring. Next to it rested sheets of high-quality, thick parchment, folded in three.
Livia swallowed. She picked up the letter, and at that moment, two crisp bank notes bearing the Guild's crest glided silently from the folds of the parchment onto the table.
The woman froze. Her eyes widened. The denomination stood out clearly on each of the bills—10,000 valis.
Twenty thousand. Plus the pouch, which, judging by its weight, also contained no small amount of valis. For their village, this wasn't just a large sum—it was colossal wealth, enough to live comfortably for several months, or even upgrade all their tools for the winter.
With hands trembling from excitement, she unfolded the parchment.
Her gaze immediately fell upon the first lines, written in the familiar, strict, and painfully neat handwriting of her son.
«Hello, Mother. Hello, Father.
I hope this letter finds you in good health, and that the autumn cold hasn't reached our lands yet. Exactly one month has passed since Bell and I left home, and I decided it was time to send you some news.
I want to reassure you right away: the journey to the capital passed without incident. We arrived safely, no one got sick or hurt. Orario... this city truly overwhelms with its size. It's noisy, bustling, and completely different from our backwoods. The Tower of Babel can be seen from anywhere in the city, and up close, it looks even more monumental than described in the books.»
Livia smiled softly, her eyes gliding over the even lines.
***
The morning began with a feeling of absolute, insurmountable heaviness.
Rain slowly surfaced from a deep sleep, in no hurry to open his eyes. The first thing his awakening mind registered was steady, calm breathing somewhere very close by. The second was the fact that he was completely deprived of the ability to move his arms. The warrior's body instinctively tensed, ready for an immediate dash, but his brain quickly analyzed the surroundings, temperature, and scents, calling off the combat alert.
He opened one eye. Through the paper shoji partitions, the dim, grayish light of dawn filtered into the guest room of the Takemikazuchi estate.
The young man cast a glance to his left.
There, brazenly ignoring the boundaries of her own sleeping area, Hestia was peacefully sniffling. The Goddess of the Hearth hadn't just crawled onto his futon—she had literally occupied his left arm, wrapping both her arms around it and throwing a leg over him, as if he were a large, warm throw pillow. Her black hair was scattered across the tatami, and a contented, serene smile played on her lips.
Rain exhaled quietly so as not to startle the silence, and shifted his gaze to the right.
The scene on the other side differed drastically in the level of expansion, but not in essence. Liliruca, whose futon had initially been laid out at a respectful distance, had somehow also migrated closer to the center of the room overnight. The girl slept curled up in a tight, tiny ball on the very edge of her mattress, but her small hand was clutching the right sleeve of his sleeping yukata tightly, her knuckles white. Unlike the relaxed Goddess, Lili looked even in her sleep as if she feared her only lifeline might disappear.
The guy tossed his head back onto the hard rectangular pillow and stared at the wooden ceiling.
Cute, he noted to himself completely sincerely, without a drop of irony.
In his past life, he had rarely woken up in such company. It warmed his soul, but reality dictated its own terms. His left arm was already beginning to go unpleasantly numb under the weight of divine curves, and lying like a log until sunrise wasn't exactly part of his plans.
What remained was the hardest part—evacuation.
He began slowly, millimeter by millimeter, pulling his left arm out of Hestia's "trap." His movements were so smooth that they didn't create even the slightest friction against the fabric. When his hand was almost free, the Goddess frowned in her sleep in displeasure and tried to press closer. The youth froze instantly, holding his breath, and deftly slipped the crumpled edge of a thick blanket in place of his arm. Hestia, not noticing the substitution, happily buried her nose in the fabric and continued to sniffle quietly.
With Liliruca, it proved to be both simpler and more complex at the same time. Her grip was physically weak, but emotionally tense. Rain carefully, using only the fingertips of his left hand, unclenched her palm. The girl whimpered softly in her sleep, her eyebrows drawing together as if she was starting to have a nightmare. Without hesitating, the young man gently covered her small hand with his broad, warm palm and held it there for a few seconds. The Pallum's face relaxed once more, and her breathing evened out.
Freeing his hands, Rain moved on to the final phase. He couldn't use his legs. Pressing his shoulder blades and heels into the floor, he began to silently inch his way up the futon, like a giant caterpillar.
From the outside, it probably looked rather comical—a tall, broad-shouldered adventurer, capable of beating monsters with his bare hands, wriggling on the floor just to avoid disturbing the peace of two delicate maidens.
Somehow making it to the edge of the tatami, Rain sat up, silently got to his feet, and, adjusting his twisted sleeping yukata, cast a glance over the sleepers.
Satisfied that his retreat was successful, the youth soundlessly approached the exit, slipped into the corridor, and just as smoothly, without a single click, slid the latticed door shut behind him.
The cool morning air instantly enveloped his body. Rain pulled the lapels of the kimono provided by their hospitable hosts tighter, tucked his hands into the wide sleeves, and walked at a leisurely pace along the engawa—the long wooden veranda encircling the inner courtyard.
The old boards, polished to a shine, pleasantly cooled his bare feet. Orario was only just beginning to wake up. The sky in the east was pouring with a timid, translucent-yellow light, pushing out the night's darkness.
Rain stopped at the very edge of the decking, casting his gaze over the estate's inner courtyard.
It was a classic Eastern garden, as if transported here straight from his past life. A perfectly cleared area of white gravel, across which wavy lines, symbolizing flowing water, had been drawn with a rake with mathematical precision. Islands of green moss, upon which rested large, bizarrely shaped gray boulders. And finally, a tiny pond lined with smooth river stones, inhabited by koi carp, judging by the light splashes.
Somewhere to the side, a bamboo shishi-odoshi knocked monotonously, with a soothing rhythm. Water filled the tube, which overbalanced, spilling its moisture onto the stones, and returned back with a hollow clack. Clack... pause... clack...
Rain stared at this scene, allowing his thoughts to flow freely.
Amazing. Just how strongly this world resembled his own, yet at the same time was fundamentally different. But right now, looking at this garden, involuntary reflections still broke through his armor of indifference.
Language. He had fluently understood the locals from birth. And this language, for some absolutely unimaginable reason, resembled the Japanese of his old world down to the smallest nuances. The architecture of the Takemikazuchi Familia, the culture of bowing, the traditions, even such minor details as the use of chopsticks or the cooking of things like sukiyaki—all this existed here, in this world, alongside elves, magic, and gods from the ancient pantheon.
The youth raised his eyes higher.
Right behind the neat wooden fence of the estate, like scenery from a completely different play, rose the massive, stone buildings of Orario. European masonry, gothic spires of distant towers, heavy tiled roofs. The contrast between the elegant Eastern harmony of the inner courtyard and the rough, monumental Western architecture of the city was colossal.
A blending of cultures, eras, mythologies, and races.
Rain closed his eyes, offering his face to the fresh morning wind, and a light, indulgent smile appeared on his lips.
What's the point of all this? he asked himself. Trying to find logic in the structure of this world was like trying to bail out the ocean with a teaspoon. Another world? A parallel universe?
What difference does it make anyway, the youth scoffed inwardly.
To dwell on things you have no power to influence is a waste of time and resources. He had concrete tasks. He had a Goddess to protect. He had Liliruca to tear from the clutches of the Soma Familia. He had Bell, whose growth he was to oversee. The rest didn't matter.
He opened his eyes, looking at the awakening garden, and aloud, cutting off this philosophical branch of thought, uttered a single word:
"Nonsense."
At that exact second, a light, barely perceptible creak of an old floorboard sounded behind him, deep in the corridor. Rain didn't flinch. His heightened senses had long since registered the approach of a person whose steps, despite his bulk, were light and calculated.
"Did my guest really find this modest scenery so unpalatable?" a familiar, booming voice rang out from behind.
Rain turned his head slowly.
A few meters away stood Takemikazuchi. The God of Martial Arts was dressed in a simple white kimono, tied with a dark sash. A wide, good-natured smile played on his face, but he theatrically pressed a hand to his chest, portraying a deep emotional wound with his entire demeanor.
"And I tried so hard," the god continued with feigned sadness, stepping closer and standing next to Rain at the edge of the veranda. "Every morning, at dawn, I personally maintain order here. And you so mercilessly trample on my labors with a single word. My divine heart is broken."
Rain looked at Takemikazuchi's sorrowful face, then shifted his gaze to the perfectly even lines of gravel, and his lips curved into an overtly sarcastic smirk.
"Your skill as a gardener is undeniable," the youth countered calmly, not changing his posture. "The garden is indeed incredibly beautiful. You can feel the soul and intent within it."
Takemikazuchi instantly dropped the mask of the offended creator. He crossed his powerful arms over his chest and looked at the guy with interest, squinting slightly.
"Then why such harsh words, my friend?"
Rain straightened up, pulled his hands out of his sleeves, and cracked his neck with a soft pop.
"That wasn't directed at the garden," he explained, looking at the stone wall separating the estate from the city. "Rather, at my own thoughts. It's just... it's hard to get used to the fact that in such a crazy place like Orario, where life is boiling over, blood is spilling, and coins are clinking around every corner, there exist such oases of absolute tranquility."
He turned to the God of Martial Arts and, shifting his tone to a more respectful one, gave a short, manly nod.
"Good morning, Lord Takemikazuchi."
The god replied with the exact same restrained, deep nod, acknowledging him as a kindred spirit.
"Good morning, Rain."
They stood in silence for another few minutes, enjoying the moment when the sun finally peaked out from behind the rooftops, flooding the garden with warm, golden light. The morning melancholy completely dissipated, giving way to the familiar routine.
"Come on," Takemikazuchi slapped his shoulder. "Let's leave the philosophizing to the gods of wisdom. Warriors need cold water and a good warm-up in the morning."
They walked to the stone washbasin situated in the shade of a sprawling tree in the backyard. The water from the well was truly ice-cold, almost scalding. Rain splashed it generously on his face, washing away the remnants of sleep. The cold was invigorating, making the blood pump faster through his veins.
Finished washing up, Takemikazuchi gestured for the young man to follow him. They passed through a few more long corridors, moving away from the residential part of the estate, until they stopped in front of massive, sliding doors made of solid wood.
With noticeable anticipation, the god pressed his palms against the panels and, with one powerful, fluid motion, slid them apart.
"Welcome," Takemikazuchi proclaimed loudly, with unconcealed pride, taking a step inside. "My true domain. My pride and joy. The place where I forge my children into real warriors, capable of surviving and conquering the Dungeon."
Rain stepped in after him and... froze on the threshold.
The young man's breath caught. The outside world instantly ceased to exist.
Before him stretched a spacious, classic dojo. The floor was covered with perfectly fitted wooden planks, polished to a golden shine. No tatami mats—only hard, honest wood that forgave no mistakes during a fall. Long racks ran along the walls, lined with a wide variety of training weapons: bamboo shinai, heavy wooden bokken, blunted naginata, spears with wrapped shafts. At the far wall stood a small altar, strict and laconic.
Old memories, long buried beneath the strata of a new life, crashed down on Rain with deafening force.
He was no longer in Orario. For one brief, piercing moment, he found himself in his own, earthly dojo. He thought he could hear the rhythmic, sharp shouts of kiai. The clack of bamboo against bamboo. The shuffling of bare feet across the same kind of wooden floor. He saw the faces of his students—tired, red from exertion, yet full of that same unyielding resolve he had instilled in them. The faces of those he had left behind long ago.
Rain's hands, hidden in the wide sleeves of his yukata, involuntarily clenched into fists. His eyes, usually cold and calculating, now darkened with a rush of nostalgia, reflecting the deep, viscous longing of a man who had lost his home forever.
This momentary weakness did not escape the attentive gaze of the God of Martial Arts.
Takemikazuchi didn't ask any unnecessary questions. He was a warrior, and he knew how to read the eyes of other warriors. Noticing how his guest had frozen, the god softly, tactfully broke the hanging silence.
"Impressive?" he asked with a light, understanding half-smile, sweeping his hand across the spacious hall.
Takemikazuchi's voice shattered the illusion. The phantoms of his past life melted away, dissolving in the morning light.
Rain slowly, convulsively drew in the wood-scented air through his nose, and his shoulders relaxed. He unclenched his fists. The mask of impenetrable calm fell over his face once more, but a warm, genuine spark remained in his amber eyes.
He shifted his gaze to the master of the dojo and, without an ounce of pretense, replied:
"Yes. More than."
The young man took a step onto the wooden floor, feeling the familiar firmness beneath his bare feet, and added quietly, but loudly enough for the god to hear:
"You know... now I truly feel at home."
Takemikazuchi laughed broadly, from the bottom of his heart, taking those words as the highest form of compliment to his hospitality and his hall.
"Glad to hear it, my lad! It's worth keeping this place in perfect order just for words like that!" The god strode confidently toward the sliding cabinets built into the wall. "But words alone won't fill your belly. I certainly haven't forgotten our agreement from yesterday."
He sharply slid the cabinet door aside, rummaged through the shelves, and, turning around, tossed a rolled-up bundle of thick white cloth toward his guest without looking.
Rain, still lost in thought, instinctively threw his hand up and caught the flying object right in front of his face.
Unrolling the bundle, he found a classic, snow-white training keikogi in his hands—a jacket and pants made of thick, coarse cotton, designed for hard sparring.
The youth stared at the fabric. His gaze slowly, very slowly shifted to Takemikazuchi, who had already begun warming up his broad shoulders, stretching with a crackle.
"Right," Rain said aloud, weighing the uniform in his hand with a touch of doomed irony. "So that's how it is."
Before he could add anything more biting, the light rustle of footsteps sounded behind them.
Standing in the dojo doorway was Mikoto. The girl was already clad in her own training uniform. Her long hair was pulled back tightly with a ribbon, and her face bore its usual samurai focus. However, upon seeing an outsider in the holy of holies of their Familia, and with a training dogi in his hands no less, she couldn't hide her surprise. The girl froze, her eyes widening.
Catching herself, she bowed hurriedly, with perfect posture.
"Good morning, Takemikazuchi-sama. Good morning, Rain-dono," she greeted in an even voice, before shifting an inquiring gaze to the white fabric in the guest's hands. "Could it be... that Rain-dono will also be joining our morning practice?"
Takemikazuchi, smiling broadly, nodded energetically.
"Exactly, Mikoto! This morning promises to be highly interesting! Rain has graciously agreed to show us all his skills."
Mikoto straightened up. An instant, genuine interest and deep respect flared in her dark eyes.
"What an honor!" she said respectfully, looking at the young man with undisguised admiration. "I will look forward to the opportunity to learn from a master capable of working such miracles in the kitchen! I am certain your combat skills are no less flawless!"
Rain listened to this exchange in silence. An absolutely static, emotionless expression froze on his face. He looked at the God beaming with anticipation, then at the fired-up, serious Mikoto.
No, the old master noted to himself with the utmost clarity and a heavy inward sigh. This is definitely not what I agreed to.