Danmachi: Evolution through nanites

Chapter 1: Work, Work, and more work

The city buzzed quietly outside, the soft hum of life pushing on as if nothing ever paused. But inside the office, John sat alone, shoulders slumped over a desk piled high with papers, his pen tapping in slow, uneven beats against the surface. Another day. Another grind.

"Work, work, and more work. It never ends…" he muttered under his breath, his voice barely above a whisper—just loud enough to break through the quiet hum of fluorescent lights overhead. He leaned back in his chair, eyes flicking across the screen, the glow washing over his face, highlighting the lines carved into his tired expression.

John had never imagined life would turn out like this. He'd always believed—like so many others—that hard work, determination, and perseverance would pave the way to something greater. He had big dreams once—dreams of landing a career that made him feel fulfilled, something that would push him beyond the daily routine and into a life of purpose. But now? Now it felt like those aspirations were just distant echoes, swallowed whole by the never-ending cycle of work.

Growing up in a small town, John had always been an ambitious kid. He wanted to break free from the small, mundane life, to find something that offered real opportunity. His parents had worked tirelessly, scrimping and saving to give him what they could—hoping he'd get an education and move ahead in life.

So John had studied hard, got through school, and finally graduated college, eager to dive into the world and make his mark. For a while, it felt like things were falling into place. He landed a decent job at a mid-sized firm—a place that promised growth, stability, and the chance to climb the ladder. That was what he wanted, wasn't it? Something secure. Something that would set him up for success.

But John quickly realized that "success" wasn't as easy as it seemed. The world of work wasn't built on merit alone—it was filled with long hours, endless competition, and invisible strings you had to tug at if you ever wanted to move forward. The excitement he once felt quickly gave way to exhaustion. The meetings, the deadlines, the endless tasks—each one felt heavier than the last, like bricks piling onto his shoulders.

He wasn't special. Not like he thought. Not anymore, at least. There were dozens—no, hundreds—just like him in the office. Other young men and women, striving for the same things, pushing just as hard. And in that crowd, John became just another name. A number on a screen.

"Is this what success looks like?" he thought bitterly, the question slipping into his mind like a hollow whisper. When he first started, it had seemed so simple—work hard, climb higher, get ahead. He believed in that for a while. But now? It all felt hollow. Empty. Every accomplishment seemed smaller, every milestone a fleeting victory that never lasted.

His apartment wasn't much to speak of—just a small, cramped space in the heart of the city. He had moved here a few years ago, chasing the promise of opportunity, but now it felt cold, lifeless. Bare walls, cheap furniture, and little sign of any real comfort. John would sit at night, alone, wondering if this was what life had in store for him—just work, bills, and more work. No dreams, no excitement—just a steady march toward something he couldn't quite see or grasp.

He had friends once. Friends from college—people who had big plans, who talked late into the night about their ambitions, about what they'd do once they made it big. But most of those friendships had drifted apart over the years. Some had found success, moving on to bigger things. Others had settled down, got married, started families. And then there was John—still stuck in the same place, waiting for something to change.

There was no one to lean on, no one to talk to, no one who really understood what he was going through. It was just him—alone in the crowded city, drowning in work, bills, and the slow realization that the life he once dreamed of was slipping further and further away.

His fingers—usually nimble and quick—felt heavier today. The words on the screen blurred together, and he blinked, rubbing his eyes, hoping it would clear up. The screen felt miles away, though it was only inches from him. His head throbbed, a dull ache growing steadily. Focus, focus… Just finish this one thing…

But no matter how hard he concentrated, the work seemed impossible to keep up with. Every number, every task, was a relentless flood, and his mind couldn't catch up. His thoughts spun in circles—projects needing his attention, promises he'd made, the unspoken expectation that he had to perform.

His back ached. His hands trembled slightly as he reached for his coffee, fingers curling around the mug. It didn't even taste good anymore—just bitter, cold, and more fuel to keep going. He didn't even notice how many cups he'd downed that day.

"I'll just take a short break… just a few minutes," he told himself, though he knew deep down he didn't have time for that. The work piled up faster than he could tackle it, and even if he skipped a break, it didn't seem to matter. There was always more.

Suddenly, his phone buzzed on the desk. John barely noticed it at first, his thoughts still spiraling, but after a moment, he glanced down and picked it up. A name appeared on the screen—Mom.

His lips curved into a small smile, despite everything. It had been a while since they'd spoken, and something in his chest loosened at the sight of her name.

"Hey, Mom. How's everything?" John's voice, though tired, carried a warmth he hadn't realized he still had in him.

The soft sound of his mother's voice came through—the familiar warmth that had always been his grounding. "Oh, sweetheart… it's been too long. How's work? Are you getting enough rest?"

John sighed, leaning back in his chair, letting the tension ease for a moment. It felt good to hear her—someone who still cared, who knew him as more than just another worker in the machine.

"I'm okay, Mom. Just… you know, the usual. Busy, tired, but I'm hanging in there."

His mom's voice softened with concern. "Busy, busy… I know how it is. But you've got to take care of yourself. Work isn't everything, John. You've got to find time to breathe."

"I'm fine, really," John lied, trying to mask the weight in his voice. "The job's good. You know, just a lot going on, but nothing I can't handle."

"That's what worries me, sweetheart. You're always working. I want to know you're happy too."

John forced a smile he didn't feel. "I am, I promise. The job's fine. I'm just… getting used to everything."

His mom still wasn't convinced. "You sure, John? It wouldn't hurt to talk to someone if you're feeling overwhelmed. You're not alone, you know."

John's chest tightened. He wanted to tell her the truth—about the long nights, the endless stress, the sheer exhaustion weighing down on him. But he couldn't. Not yet. Not when she still believed he was doing well, living a good life with a good job.

"I'm okay, really, Mom. Just working hard, that's all. I've got it under control," he said, his voice steady despite the tightness in his chest.

His mom sighed, though her worry didn't fade entirely. "Alright, if you say so. Just remember, I'm here for you, no matter what. You've got to take care of yourself."

"I know, Mom. I appreciate it."

They talked for a few more minutes—about simple things, updates on family, stories from the past. It felt familiar, comforting. But as they said their goodbyes, a strange heaviness settled over John again—the familiar weight creeping back into his chest.

"I'll call you again soon, okay? Maybe we can plan something for next weekend?"

His mother's voice softened. "Of course, dear. I'd love that. Just take care of yourself until then."

"I will, Mom. I promise."

He hung up, staring at his phone for a moment before setting it down. The warmth from their conversation lingered, but it didn't erase the nagging feeling that something was off today.

Something was different.

The clock on his screen read 11:31 p.m.

John sighed, eyes returning to his work. The emails. The reports. The endless grind. He sank back into it, fingers typing as if on autopilot, consumed by task after task. His back ached, his head pounded, but he forced himself to keep going. Just a little longer, just a little more…

Before he realized it, the clock flipped to 2 a.m. He blinked, the realization dawning on him—he'd been working for hours without even noticing. Time blurred, slipping past him like grains of sand in an hourglass. And through it all, his mind had been numb—just moving mechanically, driven by nothing more than habit.

The ache in his chest grew heavier. A hollow emptiness gnawed at him.

Suddenly, his gaze fell on the blinking cursor, the task still incomplete on the screen. His thoughts drifted—faster than before—his mind swimming in exhaustion.

He knew he should have stopped hours ago. He knew he should've taken a break, walked away, gone home.

But he didn't. He couldn't. The pressure never eased. The deadlines never slowed.

And now, as he sat there, head spinning, it hit him.

I forgot to tell Mom I love her.

The thought burned, sharp and sudden. It punched through the haze of exhaustion and slammed into him like a freight train.

He inhaled sharply, as if struck—his chest tightening, his throat clenching. For a moment, he couldn't breathe. The weight of the realization pressed down on him. And as he sat frozen, staring at the screen, the silence crept in again—cold, suffocating. Nothingness.

"Ah…" John murmured softly, his voice breaking. But no words came after that. Just the quiet stillness of the room, the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

The screen blinked.

And John… didn't move.