Danmachi: The World's Anomaly

Mat stepped out of the elevator, his shoulders sagging slightly as he scanned his surroundings. The layout looked nearly identical to the previous floors he had visited—rows of shops, open stalls, and blacksmiths hammering away at their craft. The only noticeable difference was the sheer concentration of blacksmiths here. The sound of clanging metal echoed loudly, and the air smelled faintly of molten steel.

"Figures," Mat muttered, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "More blacksmiths... and still no luck."

Without lingering, he pressed the elevator button once more and waited as the doors slid shut.

When the elevator doors opened again, Mat blinked in surprise. This floor was different. Instead of the bustling open layout of the previous floors, he was greeted by a proper hall, brightly lit by magic lamps hanging from the ceiling. The shops here were far more polished, each with large glass displays showcasing meticulously crafted armor and weapons.

"Finally, something worth looking at," Mat muttered as he stepped out. His eyes darted to the gleaming suits of armor in one window and the rack of swords in another. "Still not what I need, but at least it looks nice."

Mat wandered down the hall, passing fewer adventurers compared to the crowded floors below. The ones he did see were engrossed in examining equipment or quietly chatting in small groups.

Stopping in front of a display featuring a massive two-handed sword, Mat let out a low whistle. The blade shimmered faintly, as though imbued with magic, and the intricate detailing on the hilt spoke volumes about the skill of its creator.

"Not bad," he murmured, leaning closer to the glass. "Too bad I'm not lugging that thing around."

As he continued down the hall, he overheard a group of adventurers near one of the shops.

"Did you see the enchantment on this?" one of them said excitedly, holding up a small dagger. "Perfect for close-quarters combat. Can't wait to test it out in the dungeon tomorrow!"

"Yeah, yeah," another replied with a grin. "Just don't lose it on your first fight, or you'll be crying about wasted valis again."

The group chuckled, and Mat couldn't help but smirk as he passed them. "Nice to see someone having a good time," he thought.

As Mat strolled along the quieter floor, the murmurs of adventurers echoed faintly around him. One voice, sharper than the rest, caught his attention.

"I can't believe I spent that much on a sword," a woman muttered irritably from a nearby shop. "It's barely better than the one I had! These prices are a scam!"

Mat glanced in her direction, smirking slightly as she stormed off, still grumbling. Her words lingered in his mind, though, and his thoughts drifted to his own upcoming venture as an adventurer.

"What kind of weapon should I use?" Mat mused to himself as he continued walking, his left hand stuffed in his pocket. The idea of stepping into the dungeon, of facing monsters like the adventurers he'd been observing, felt both thrilling and daunting.

Images of different weapons flashed through his mind: the gleaming swords in the shops, the powerful hammers wielded by blacksmiths, and the nimble daggers he'd seen others buy.

"Maybe a sword," he thought aloud, recalling countless scenes from the anime he used to watch. "Versatile, good for both offense and defense… but do I even know how to use one properly?"

He stopped in front of a shop with an extravagant display of armor. The polished steel gleamed under the magic lights, and intricate engravings adorned the chest plates and pauldrons.

Mat stood there, gazing at the craftsmanship, but his mind wandered elsewhere. He imagined himself donning such armor, sword in hand, charging into the dungeon. Would he be a swordsman? A front-liner slashing through enemies with skill and precision?

Or perhaps something else entirely?

He recalled the fighting techniques he had seen in anime—swift, agile movements with daggers, or the calculated strength behind a greatsword. His knowledge wasn't first-hand, but he hoped it would be enough to start.

With a small shake of his head, Mat smiled faintly. "Guess I'll figure it out when I get there. No use deciding now when I don't even know what I'm capable of yet."

He let out a sigh and continued his walk.

As Mat stood in front of the shop window, the glint of the displayed armors and weapons held his attention, though his mind wandered to the type of adventurer he could become.

"Maybe an archer?" he thought, imagining himself nocking an arrow and taking precise shots from a distance. He reasoned it out in his head.

"An archer keeps their distance, avoids close combat, and has great mobility. Sounds good in theory..." Mat's brow furrowed. "But what happens if the bow breaks? Or if I run out of arrows? And it's not like I have any practice with aiming."

He sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. The thought of relying solely on a fragile weapon for survival didn't sit well with him. "Nah, it might work short-term, but in the long run? Too many risks."

His thoughts shifted again. "What about a mage?" The idea of wielding magic, casting powerful spells, and having a mystical edge in combat intrigued him.

"Magic users are versatile," he muttered. "They don't have to get too close, and they can adapt to different situations. But…" His enthusiasm faded.

Mat sighed deeply, his breath fogging the glass in front of him. "I don't even know if I have magic yet. I've never felt anything like it. And if I do have magic, what if it's something useless? Or worse, what if I can't figure it out at all?"

The uncertainty gnawed at him. "Guess I'll find out when I check my falna. Hopefully…" He paused, staring at his reflection in the glass. "Hopefully, I'll be able to make sense of it. And if I don't?" He trailed off, unwilling to finish the thought.

With another long sigh, Mat shook his head, trying to clear his doubts. He continued to stare at the armors and weapons on display, their gleaming surfaces reflecting both his curiosity and hesitation.

"Well," he muttered to himself, stepping back from the glass, "whatever happens, I'll figure it out. One way or another."

Mat stood frozen before the store glass, his eyes locked on the shimmering armors and weapons displayed behind it. His thoughts swirled endlessly, a storm of possibilities about his future as an adventurer, and he paid no mind to the bustling world around him.

Behind him, the floor was alive with motion. Adventurers milled about, their conversations filling the air like a steady hum. Some laughed heartily, recounting their exploits in the dungeon, while others spoke in hushed tones, strategizing for their next dive.

"Perhaps they were simply taking a well-deserved rest day, or maybe just avoiding another grueling challenge in the dungeon. Even adventurers need moments to breathe."

Nearby, inside one of the blacksmith shops, the rhythmic clang of a hammer echoed faintly, cutting through the chatter. The sound had a certain consistency to it, as if the craftsman wielding the hammer was pouring their soul into shaping the perfect blade. Mat, however, remained oblivious, lost in his own musings.

A couple of adventurers passed close by, their voices raised in argument about the merits of one weapon over another.

"I'm telling you, a greatsword is too heavy for you! Stick to your daggers," one said, exasperation lacing his tone.

The other, clearly defensive, shot back, "But what if we run into a troll again? Daggers won't cut it!"

Mat didn't even flinch, their words slipping past him unnoticed.

A sharp laugh erupted from another corner as a group of adventurers teased a comrade for spending all his earnings on a single gaudy accessory. "Well, at least you'll look good running from goblins!" one of them jeered, prompting a fresh wave of laughter.

Again, Mat stood unmoving, as if the noise was part of a different reality.

"While Mat lingered in his bubble of contemplation, life continued around him—an orchestra of sounds and movements that played on regardless of his awareness. The adventurers and blacksmiths each carried on with their routines, a quiet reminder of the city's unending rhythm."

Somewhere behind him, the clanging of the blacksmith's hammer paused briefly, only to resume with renewed vigor. Mat's gaze stayed fixed on the glass, his thoughts too entangled to notice the intricate dance of life unfolding around him.

Amidst the vibrant sights and bustling sounds of Orario, Mat's thoughts darkened, a shadow cast over the bright perspective the city offered. As he stood before the glass, staring blankly at the polished armors and deadly weapons displayed within, an unshakable fear gripped him—the fear of taking a life.

His mind replayed the inevitability of his situation. If he truly committed to the path of an adventurer, he would have to face the dungeon's monsters. But what lingered like a heavy fog was the deeper fear—what if it wasn't a monster next time?

Mat swallowed hard, trying to push the thought aside, but the idea gnawed at him. He clenched his fists, his reflection staring back at him through the glass. His heart weighed heavy as he whispered softly to himself, "No matter how I try to prepare, it doesn't make it easier, does it?"

He wanted to forget the thought, bury it beneath his excitement for the adventure ahead. But deep down, he knew the truth—this fear would remain, lurking in the back of his mind until he was forced to face it.

As his thoughts spiraled, memories of his past life emerged unbidden. The faces of patients he had tried to save, the moments where hope had slipped through his fingers, came flooding back.

Four years of being a doctor had taught him the harsh realities of life and death. He had seen too many lives end in his hands, too many failures weighing down on his soul. And yet, he had never been the one to take a life, to decide its end.

"It's different now," he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible amidst the hum of the floor around him. "Monsters... are they any different from the diseases I fought against? Or the people I couldn't save?"

The thought lingered, sour and unrelenting.

Mat's fear wasn't simply the act of killing—it was the moral line he feared crossing. For all his strength and knowledge, for all his preparation and courage, this was a battle he wasn't sure he could win

Yet, as he stood there, staring blankly at the weapons that would soon be tools of survival, a small ember of resolve flickered within him. He didn't have all the answers yet, and perhaps he never would. But he understood one thing:

He couldn't run from this fear. It was as much a part of his journey as the path he walked upon.

Mat's mind drifted further into the memories that haunted him. He remembered his first week as a doctor, thrust into a pressure-cooker situation that would scar his psyche.

It was an ordinary day at the hospital, and Mat, still fresh-faced and eager to prove himself, had been chatting with a nurse about his next task. His break was short-lived, though, as the sound of shouting reached his ears.

Turning toward the entrance, he saw an ambulance speeding in. The doors burst open, and paramedics carried out a patient drenched in blood. Chaos erupted as panic and shouting filled the air. Mat froze for a brief moment, but instinct quickly kicked in.

"Get them to Room 3! Prepare the IV and stabilize their vitals!" he barked at the nurses, his voice steady despite his inner turmoil.

The operation began. Mat worked meticulously, his hands moving with precision as he did everything he could to stabilize the patient. Things seemed to be going smoothly, a brief flicker of hope lighting his heart.

Then, it happened. The unforeseen—a sudden hemorrhage they hadn't anticipated. Blood gushed, alarms blared, and the tension in the room escalated.

"Clamp it! Now!" Mat yelled, trying to keep the situation under control. The nurses rushed to assist him, but the situation spiraled further. Despite their best efforts, the patient flatlined.

Mat stared at the monitor, the flat, unyielding line seeming to stretch into eternity. He looked down at the patient's lifeless eyes, and for the first time, he felt the weight of failure like a physical blow.

Shaking, Mat had walked out of the operating room in a daze. He didn't respond to the nurses' comforting words or their attempts to reassure him. Hours later, when his senior colleagues returned from their own assignments, they found him sitting in the breakroom, staring at nothing.

They didn't berate him. Instead, they guided him, reminding him that even the best doctors lose patients. That no matter how skilled or prepared, not every life could be saved.

It had taken him weeks to process it, but the trauma of seeing a person's life slip away under his care never truly left him.

Now, in Orario, Mat found himself staring at the short dagger displayed behind the glass. The memory of that day lingered in his mind, its emotional weight adding to the fear he felt about taking a life.

He couldn't help but wonder if his hands, which had once tried to save lives, could now take one—even if it was a monster.

But before he could sink deeper into his thoughts, he felt a sharp, stinging pain in his left arm.