Traveling as zamasu

The afternoon sun filtered through the open-air training courtyard of the Takemikazuchi Familia hall, landing on Zamasu as he executed one final practice of balance and stance. 

His posture was still, yet alive with latent energy—the grounded-foot, firm-knee, aligned-hip discipline that Ouka drilled into him daily. 

Breeze lifted grains of dust around his sweat-slicked sandals, but he remained motionless, arms extended in silent concentration.

"Step, pivot, anchor—steady. Transition with intent. Hold." The god's words, spoken only seconds earlier, still resonated in his mind. 

He shifted his weight—heel to toe—tested the balance from his core, and paused again, body rigid yet flexible, a living paradox.

A respectful cough broke the silence. Ouka, towel draped over his shoulders, approached, a nearly amused smirk crossing his sun-weathered face.

You learn surprisingly fast," he said, voice low and impressed. "You must be pretty damn talented."

Zamasu nodded his head slightly—a gesture of respect before ease. He relaxed his stance, allowing his arms to fall by his sides. "Thank you, Captain Ouka."

Ouka studied him for a moment, then inclined his head. "Training's done for today. But—" he hesitated, glancing toward the dungeon entrance, where adventurers were gathering. 

"We're heading down. Want to come with us?"

Zamasu's eyes flicked toward the guild-supplied path, angled sunlight highlighting the worn stone leading down toward Floor 1. 

His expression remained composed, but inside, a flash of aversion struck. He shook his head.

"No," he replied softly, respectfully but firmly. "Thanks for the invitation—but I have an appointment today."

Ouka's brow knit briefly in curiosity, but he nodded once. "Understood. If you change your mind, come find me." 

He stepped back, turning to rejoin his squad.

Alone again, Zamasu allowed himself the tiniest breath of relief. He waited until the echo of his familia-mates' boots faded before pulling an inner sigh that didn't reach his voice. 

Beneath the calm exterior, his thoughts churned.

Three days ago—After his morning training session, he had departed the Familia grounds and made his way across the bustling cityscape of Orario. 

His destination had been the Artisan District, tucked between the roaring forges of the Hephaestus Familia and the more subtle workshops of independent craftsmen.

Navigating the Artisan District had proved more complicated than he'd anticipated. 

The streets branched in irregular patterns, workshops stacked side by side, their signs adorned with swirling scripts and fantastical emblems. 

Metals clanged, saws hummed, and the rich scent of wood shavings and heated oils lingered in the air.

His first priority had been finding a blacksmith.

Fortunately, locating one with the skill to handle mythril hadn't taken long. 

Dwarves were as common as humans in the Artisan District, and their craftsmanship, especially with precious metals, was renowned.

The forge he'd chosen was modest compared to the towering facilities of the Hephaestus Familia, but its interior gleamed with polished weapon racks and an array of intricate armor pieces. 

The owner, a stout, broad-shouldered dwarf with a bristling gray beard, had appraised Zamasu the moment he entered.

The conversation had been short after that. The crafting process, the dwarf explained, required refining the mythril, tempering the material to make it properly shapeable—hence a two-day waiting period.

The quoted price wasn't unreasonable, at least by Orario standards. Zamasu brought most of the raw materials himself, keeping the labor costs down.

The real blow to his coin pouch came later that day.

The tailor.

Her name was Sylinne, an elf seamstress whose workshop nestled between two busy cobblestone lanes lined with fabric merchants and enchanted accessory stalls. 

Her reputation preceded her—renowned for weaving combat-ready attire that balanced aesthetic appeal with practical mobility.

She measured twice. Mumbled under her breath in Elvish about muscle symmetry and fabric resilience. 

Her brow furrowed slightly as she considered the dimensions, muttering about reinforced seams and magical thread treatments.

When the quote came, Zamasu's composure remained intact—but inwardly, his mind paused.

It was more than he expected. But contributing no material of monster cores and raw Dungeon materials factored in, he had to pay full price.

But he accepted the price without argument. He couldn't half ass it. Couldn't try to go cheap. The quality mattered. 

The appearance—the aura.(don't know wtf I was writing)

The transaction drained nearly ninety-five percent of his savings.

Even with the mythril components costing significantly less—since he had supplied the rare metal—the custom tailoring alone devastated his coin reserves.

Today, the orders were ready for collection.

He sighed softly, shoulders lifting and falling in his trademark calm as he adjusted the folds of his simple white robe, the fabric rustling faintly.

"Thank the gods I don't need to eat," Zamasu muttered under his breath, silver eyes narrowing faintly as he considered his current financial situation.

If sustenance were a biological requirement, he would have been destitute, possibly collapsed in some alley from hunger. 

His unique physiology—the immortal nature he got—spared him that inconvenience.

His gaze shifted toward the sun overhead, gauging the hour.

Late morning now. 

By the time he navigated the Artisan District, the pieces should be ready. 

The tailor had given a strict timeframe, and the dwarf blacksmith promised his work would be done today.

The mythril bands, bicep braces, and reinforced shoes—light, resilient, durable enough for his anticipated combat applications.

The Zeno Goku outfit, along with the broly outfit—tailored to his precise specifications, offering freedom of movement without sacrificing the aesthetic of strength.

His funds were gone, but the result would be worth it.

His current simple attire—the borrowed robes, minimal and plain—felt inadequate, a temporary placeholder. 

The new outfits would redefine his presence within Orario.

With his priorities clear, Zamasu stepped toward the courtyard's edge, adjusting his posture as he prepared to leave the Familia hall.

Inwardly, his mind quieted, cataloging the tasks ahead: Retrieve the orders, inspect their craftsmanship, and resume his personal training. 

Zamasu left the courtyard behind, his sandals scuffing lightly against the packed dirt as he moved through the familiar alleyways leading away from the Takemikazuchi Familia grounds. 

His mind remained focused, cataloging priorities with mechanical efficiency.

First, the orders. Then, preparations for the Dungeon.

He didn't need to glance inside his coin pouch to know its weight—or lack thereof. Nearly emptied. 

But still… his savings were gone.

Dungeon diving was inevitable.

Zamasu turned onto a main street, blending into the steady flow of merchants, adventurers, and craftspeople moving through the Artisan District. 

The clanging of forges, the hiss of cooling steel, the hum of magical implements being tested—all of it filled the air like a constant, rhythmic heartbeat.

He slipped through the crowd, mind ticking off his next steps.

He crossed a small plaza lined with enchanted armor displays, weaving around a group of adventurers loudly boasting about some mid-floor exploit. 

And that's when someone flashed in his path. 

'Hmm?'

"You may call me Hermes," the stranger introduced smoothly, voice carrying just enough to be heard over the distant hammers. 

"God of Travelers, Messengers, and the Crossroads where all paths meet."

Zamasu's silver gaze sharpened subtly, taking in the man's flamboyant attire—the feathered hat, the vivid colors, the practiced, easy confidence in his posture. 

His introduction was delivered with such casual familiarity, but the name…

Hermes.

The god's name... Zamasu is familiar with it.

From the myths and tales—the deceptions of mortals across worlds, shaping gods into stories, into symbols. 

In his former world, Hermes was no obscure figure. The Messenger of the Olympians, the Trickster, the Patron of Travelers, Commerce, Thieves… and sometimes, chaos.

Clever, ambitious, mischievous.

That reputation preceded this man now standing before him, eyes sharp, smile disarming.

But this world… it wasn't the same as his old one. 

Loki was proof of that. 

Zamasu's expression didn't change, but his mind ticked through the possibilities.

If he was truly that Hermes… then caution was warranted. 

Trickster gods were never predictable. They practically wear politeness like clothes, hiding sharp edges behind charm, and rarely act without layers of ulterior motive.

Zamasu let the silence stretch. 

The sounds of hammers and merchant chatter filled the space between them as the god's expectant grin lingered, waiting for a response.

None came.

Without a word, Zamasu nodded before continuing on.

He walked away, his steps steady, the faint rustle of his simple white robe trailing behind him.

Hermes remained where he stood, the curve of his smile never faltering, eyes glinting with quiet amusement as Zamasu disappeared into the crowd.

Troublesome indeed.

But irrelevant—for now.

Chapter 27 end.