Which Familia Should I Join? (Part 2: The Even Worse Options)
I drifted toward the Entertainment District, keeping to the outer edges where the lanterns glowed red and music thrummed. Belit Babili rose in the distance—several grand buildings forming the "Godly Brothel of the Mistress," Ishtar's domain.
Beautiful Amazonesses moved with predatory grace, silk and perfume thick in the air even from afar. Curves for days. Silk sheets. A goddess sculpted to ruin men.
From here it looked like a garden. Lush. Cultivated. Women moving with the trained grace of people who knew exactly how to be looked at.
Die happy in three days, buried in thighs and bad decisions. Hell yeah… on paper.
But it wasn't.
Rafflesia, I thought. That's what this is.
A giant rotten bloom that mimicked something magnificent from a distance.
Gorgeous petals. Underneath: coercion dressed as invitation, debt structures that didn't need chains to bind, Ishtar's ego bigger than her considerable assets, and the cold war with Freya that would turn any stray piece into collateral.
My ghost falna would light up like a neon sign under Ishtar's gaze.
Tempting way to die smiling. Hard, throbbing, regret-filled pass.
I retreated before the perfumes could do permanent damage to my decision-making. Or my blood pressure.
Further north, near the outskirts, the air smelled of fresh earth and ripening grain.
Wheat Manor—Demeter's sprawling home and farmlands just beyond the city walls. Golden fields stretched out, tended by strong, healthy members. The goddess herself was a mature beauty with long wavy golden-honey hair and curves that could feed nations.
And the bread.
Whatever they were baking reached me from fifty meters away and hit something primal. Not just hunger — the smell of food made with care, the quiet argument that the meal itself was worth the effort.
Demeter was warmth and generosity in goddess form. Peaceful work. Real heavenly food every day. A life that made sense.
Fresh bread, fruits, vegetables kissed by actual divinity. Beautiful flower gardens. Good meals every day. No monsters trying to eat your face immediately.
Die happy and well-fed in a literal garden of flowers and beautiful women.
But I'd end up as farmhand #47, hauling manure while trying (and failing) not to stare.
The moment my weird growth showed, maternal instincts would flip to "what strange little sprout are you?" Too wholesome. I didn't get isekai'd to become a fantasy farmer.
Soft pass. Genuinely respectful soft pass.
With heavy side-eye envy.
I kept moving, legs tired but brain still racing.
Miach's modest workshop sat tucked away in a quieter side street. Potion bottles visible through the glassless windows. Healing. Medicine god. Tempting for obvious reasons.
Instant crippling debt the second they blessed me. Naaza had already bankrupted them once. My glitchy ghost falna would probably cost an arm and a leg—literally.
I'd be in Bell's exact shoes: broke, owing money, one bad trip from selling organs.
Hard pass. Kidneys stay where they are.
Takemikazuchi's shrine area had that disciplined Far East vibe. Martial arts training. Serious atmosphere.
Thrown around daily as a spare punching bag for orphans who actually knew how to fight. Better to die in the Dungeon on day one. Instant no.
Then came the big one. I approached cautiously from a side street. The massive I am Ganesha loomed—an enormous statue of the god himself, elephant-headed, sitting cross-legged, easily over thirty meters tall. The entrance sat right at the crotch.
Whoever designed that knew exactly what they were doing.
I didn't want to know what they were doing.
Loud, flashy members moved in and out with unpleasant looking face, the whole place screaming spotlight.
Huge familia. Strong adventurers. Public festivals.
I AM GANESHA! The god who loved announcing himself and turning everything into a show. One weird status reading the entire masked circus would notice. Instant death by overwhelming attention.
"I am Ganesha… and you are dead." Hardest of hard passes. Anonymity was life.
I circled back toward the crafting districts. Valka's Crimson Chamber—Hephaestus Familia's forge-heavy home. The air rang with hammer strikes.
Warrior-smiths moved with purpose, forges glowing. Best equipment in Orario. Weapons and armor that might actually survive my glitchy existence for more than five minutes. Hephaestus herself: strict, fair, red hair, eyepatch, serious craftsman energy. Solid professional choice.
But her familia was respected city-wide and constantly under the radar of other gods. Too many eyes. The second my growth looked wrong, every deity with half a brain would start asking questions.
Good choice on paper… still no. I'd rather not paint a massive target on my back. And I'm not a smith.
Last on the expanded tour: Kali's influence. Word was her familia operated out of Telskyura, but representatives sometimes appeared in Orario. All Amazonesses. Brutal training. Colosseum deathmatches from a young age.
Strong fighters. Intense.
Exclusively Amazonesses. No other races. Automatic rejection. Even if they bent the rules, it'd be arena hell until I leveled or died. I liked my spine intact, thanks. Hard pass.
I stopped in the middle of a lantern-lit street as night settled, rubbing my temples like I could massage the stupidity out of my brain.
"Fantastic. My survival options boil down to: broke emotional support goddess with a rabbit boy in a ruined church, murder-happy trickster, soul-stalking beauty, fate-erasing information broker, die-horny-in-three-days rotten pleasure flower, heavenly-food-and-boobs farm life, instant debt pharmacy, daily beatings at the shrine, loud elephant crotch-statue spotlight death, respected-but-too-visible smiths under godly radar, or 'sorry, wrong gender, get murdered in the arena.' Truly the full spectrum of Orario's hospitality."
A passing adventurer gave me the side-eye. I forced a weak grin and kept walking, muttering under my breath.
"You know, when I wished to be in Bell's shoes, I didn't mean the part where every major god is either a potential executioner, a debt trap, a beautiful way to get myself spiritually and/or physically ruined, or just plain incompatible with my existence."
The ghost falna hummed warmly against my back—almost like it was chuckling at my suffering.
Helpful. Truly the emotional support parasite I deserved.
"Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up. You're the reason I'm running these numbers in the first place."
I sighed, shoulders slumping.
"Alright, brain. New plan: survive tonight. Find the cheapest inn or a place that doesn't ask questions. Eat something that won't bankrupt me. Then tomorrow… maybe tail a certain small supporter out of the Dungeon and see if 'fellow survivor' energy gets me anywhere."
I glanced up at Babel Tower piercing the night sky like a middle finger to common sense.The Dungeon waited below. At this point it was starting to look like the friendliest option.
So much for the 'other world hero' fantasy.
"Welcome to Orario, idiot. Try not to join a familia that'll dissect you, bankrupt you, love you to death, enslave you, recruit you into a death arena, or scream 'I AM GANESHA!' at your corpse before breakfast.
And don't be delusional enough to think isekai means an instant OP hero life with cute women in your arms."
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