Danmachi: Exception

The familiar two-story house materialized through the evening haze. Golden light spilled from its windows, and the scent of simmering spices danced on the cooling air. Cyrus paused at the gate, savoring the domestic feel. 

Home. 

His fingers barely grazed the door when it flew open. Quetzalcoatl filled the frame, her golden hair catching the last rays of sunset. Her emerald eyes sparkled with their usual warmth - until they registered his state.

"¡Mi pequeño sol! You're-" The sparkle vanished. "¡Mierda! What did you do?"

"Evening, goddess." Cyrus leaned against the doorframe, ignoring how his muscles screamed in protest. "Something smells good-"

She seized his wrist, yanking him inside with divine strength. The door slammed behind them hard enough to rattle the windows.

"Don't you 'goddess' me." Her finger jabbed his chest, finding an especially tender spot. "You look like death."

"Really?" He caught her hand before she could poke him again. "And here I thought blood was my color."

"Sit." The command crackled with divine authority.

"I should clean up first-"

"¡Siéntate antes de que te siente yo!"

Cyrus dropped into the indicated chair. The wood creaked beneath him as Quet circled like a predator assessing wounded prey. Each precise click of her heels marked another injury cataloged. The usual playful warmth in her eyes had crystallized into something dangerous.

"Off."

"The shirt or my pants?" He stretched, then immediately regretted it as his ribs protested. "Because if you're offering-"

"Cyrus." The air shimmered with heat. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple. "Don't test me right now."

"Tch. So serious." His fingers found the hem of his ruined shirt. "Usually you're more fun about undressing me."

The fabric had fused to his skin in places, dried blood acting as organic glue. Each careful pull reopened wounds, adding fresh crimson streams to the flaking brown. 

"Slower." Her hands covered his, their heat sinking into his cold fingers. "Let me."

She worked the cloth free, muttering Spanish curses that would have made a sailor blush. When the last piece came away, her sharp intake of breath cut through the room.

"Ay, mi amor..."

Three parallel gashes carved across his chest, deep enough to reveal glimpses of white beneath the red. Dark bruises painted his ribs in violent watercolors - purple fading to black, green bleeding into yellow at the edges.

"It's not that bad." He captured her trembling fingers, pressing them against his chest. Her palm radiated divine warmth. "Should see the other guy."

"What was it?" Her voice scraped raw. "What did this?"

"Promise not to laugh?"

"Do I look like I'm laughing?" The temperature spiked again. A picture frame rattled on the wall.

"A goblin."

She jerked back as if he'd slapped her. "What?"

"You promised not to laugh."

"A goblin did this to you?" The room's temperature climbed another few degrees. The air grew thick enough to chew. "You expect me to believe-"

"It knew how to fight."

"It... what?"

"I'm not great with specific styles." He shifted in the chair, biting back a groan. "But it had better form than most adventurers I've seen. Real technical stuff - none of that mindless charging you usually get from monsters."

"Stop joking."

"I'm serious. Ask the Guild - they're investigating. Rose nearly had an aneurysm when I reported it."

"The Guild." She pressed both hands against his chest now. "And you came home like this because...?"

"Rules are rules."

"Rules." The word dripped acid. Her fingers curled against his skin. "Rules matter more than-" She pulled back suddenly, eyes narrowing. "Where's your potion?"

"Upstairs. But you know, your hands are pretty magical on their own-"

She vanished up the stairs before he could finish. Bottles clinked and drawers slammed overhead, punctuated by creative Spanish profanity.

"Second shelf!" He called up, wincing at how the movement pulled at his wounds. "Blue vial!"

More crashes followed. Then rapid footsteps as she descended, golden hair flying behind her like a banner.

She thrust the uncorked vial at him. "Drink."

"Yes, dear." 

The potion tasted like mint and copper pennies. Warmth spread through his chest as magic knit flesh and bone back together. He watched Quet's face as she traced each healing wound. 

"Your ribs..."

"They'll heal."

"That's not-" She pressed against his sternum, right where the first claw had struck. "You should have run."

"And miss this nursing session? Never."

"I'm serious."

"Hi Serious, I'm-"

"Cyrus."

He caught her hand before she could pull away. "What was I supposed to do?"

"Let someone stronger handle it!"

"There wasn't anyone else." He threaded their fingers together, squeezing gently. "Just me."

The fire in her eyes guttered. Something else replaced it - an old pain he recognized but couldn't name, barely scabbed over.

"You're going to get yourself killed." Her voice cracked. "Just like-"

She stopped, yanking her hand free. The room's temperature plummeted so fast frost formed on the windows.

"Like who?"

Quet spun away, returning to the stove where something aromatic bubbled. She stirred with sharp, angry movements that made the wooden spoon crack against the pot's sides.

"Go clean up. You smell like dungeon."

Cyrus studied her rigid spine, the tension in her shoulders. Something lurked beneath her anger - fear maybe, or old grief. Both? He filed the reaction away for later consideration.

"What, you don't find eau de goblin entrancing?"

"Fuera." She brandished the wooden spoon without turning. "Upstairs. Now."

"Fine, fine." He pushed to his feet. "But only because you asked so nicely."

He took the stairs slowly, each step a negotiation with gravity. The bathroom mirror revealed the full extent of the damage - dried blood painted abstract patterns across his skin, and the newly healed wounds stood out pink against his tan. The bruises had faded from violent purple to sickly yellow-green.

The goblin's face flashed through his mind. Not the mindless aggression he'd come to expect, but calculated fury. Technical skill honed by practice. Intelligence. 

He'd seen that kind of focused rage before, in another life. The kind that came from pain, from loss, from-

Cyrus unclenched his fist, watching blood well from where his nails had cut into his palm. One more mystery to solve, one more piece that didn't fit. But later. For now...

"¿Necesitas ayuda allá arriba?" Quet's voice carried up the stairs, concern wrapped in irritation.

"I'm fine!" He called back. "Unless you want to help scrub my back?"

"¡Cállate y báñate!"

He grinned at his reflection in the cracked glass. "Your loss!"

Steam filled the bathroom as he turned the shower on full blast. Hot water sluiced away blood and dirt, carrying evidence of the day's mysteries down the drain. The goblin had been faster than expected. Sloppy. He knew better than to underestimate even low-level monsters.

A crash echoed from downstairs.

"¡Mierda!"

Cyrus yanked on clean pants and took the stairs three at a time, bare feet silent against polished wood. "Oi, everything good down there?"

"Perfecto." Quet knelt amid scattered vegetables, broken ceramic at her feet. Her golden hair fell forward, obscuring her face, but her hands betrayed her - trembling as she gathered jagged shards.

"Here, let me-" He stepped into the kitchen, reaching for a particularly sharp piece.

Her head snapped up. Those emerald eyes locked onto his chest. "You're not wearing a shirt."

"And?" He crouched beside her, palm open.

"Upstairs. Shirt. Ahora." Each word carried more heat than the last.

"You usually don't complain about the view." His fingers closed around a ceramic shard.

A carrot sailed past his ear with deadly accuracy. "¡Vete!"

He retreated upstairs, laughter echoing behind him. The mirth died as he pulled a clean shirt over his head. Her hands shouldn't shake like that. Quet moved with natural grace - every gesture precise, controlled. Clumsiness didn't suit her.

Back in the kitchen, he found her at the counter. The knife in her hand rose and fell in sharp staccato, reducing fresh vegetables to precise, uniform pieces. Her shoulders formed rigid lines beneath her shirt.

"The soup needs stirring," she said to the cutting board. Steam rose from the pot in lazy spirals, carrying rich spices through the air.

He took position at the stove, wooden spoon moving in slow circles. "Made some decent money today." The stack of valis notes landed on the counter between them.

She snatched them up, thumb rifling through paper. "Fifty-seven thousand? Upper floors shouldn't-" The knife stilled mid-chop. "What aren't you telling me?"

"Got lucky with some drops." He kept his eyes on the soup.

"¿Me crees estúpida?" The knife resumed its rhythm, each impact against wood sharper than before. "You don't get these numbers from standard drops."

"You'd be surprised what goblins carry these days."

"Salt."

He passed her the ceramic jar. Her fingers burned against his skin - several degrees hotter than usual. Definitely pissed then.

They settled into their routine - him laying out bowls and spoons while she put final touches on dinner. But tonight she'd pulled out the good wine, the bottle they'd been saving for special occasions.

"Something worth celebrating?"

"You could say that." The cork popped like a gunshot in the quiet kitchen. "Tell me something, mi sol. Do all your 'lucky drops' involve nearly getting gutted?"

"Only the really lucky ones." He traced the rim of his empty wine glass.

The bottle slammed against the table. Red liquid sloshed dangerously close to the rim.

"Idiota." The heat had drained from her voice, leaving something rawer behind. She nudged his bowl closer. "Eat before it gets cold."

The first spoonful hit his tongue - complex spices layered with heat and that indefinable something that made her cooking unique. No matter what else happened, her food never disappointed.

"Good?"

"Always is." His hand found the wine glass. "Though I notice you made it extra spicy tonight."

"You deserve it." Her spoon dipped into her own bowl.

"Cruel woman."

A smile tugged at one corner of her mouth. "Alguien has to keep you in line."

They ate in comfortable silence, earlier tension bleeding away into familiar rhythms. But questions still hung in the air between them, unasked and unanswered.

"The Guild's investigating the goblin incident?" She broke first, voice carefully neutral.

"Rose took my report personally." He swirled wine in his glass, watching light catch the liquid. "Even cancelled her afternoon meetings."

"Hm. She's sweet on you."

"Jealous?"

"Of a lobita?" Her spoon scraped against ceramic. "Please. But they need to investigate this properly. If monsters are evolving..."

"They seemed concerned. Especially after the minotaur showed up."

Metal clattered against porcelain. "What minotaur?"

"Fifth floor. Some rookie ran into one today."

"Dios mío." She pushed her bowl away, appetite gone. "They're getting bolder."

"Or something's driving them up." His fingers tapped against the wine glass.

Their eyes met across the table - amber against emerald. Understanding passed between them without words.

"Tomorrow." Steel crept into her voice. "No heroics."

"When am I ever heroic?" He leaned back, chair creaking.

"¿Quieres la lista?" She held up her fingers, ticking off points. "Let's start with today's 'lucky drops'?"

"You're still mad about that?"

"Mad? No." The wine bottle tilted again, filling their glasses. Ruby liquid caught lamplight like fresh blood. "Furious? Sí."

The wine disappeared too quickly. Cyrus tracked Quet's fingers as they tapped against her glass - three quick beats followed by a pause, a rhythm he'd learned preceded something interesting. Her emerald eyes fixed on a point past his shoulder, lost in memory.

"You know what this reminds me of?" The corner of her mouth quirked up. "That time Demeter tried gardening in Tenkai."

"Should I be concerned about where this is going?" Cyrus pushed his empty plate aside, settling deeper into his chair. His ribs protested the movement, but the wine had dulled most of the pain.

"No escape for you." She gestured at his plate with her glass. "Unless you'd prefer dish duty?"

"Suddenly, Tenkai gardening sounds fascinating." He propped his chin on his hand, watching golden strands of her hair catch lamplight. "Do enlighten me."

"Smart choice." The wine bottle tilted, ruby liquid splashing into his glass. A drop escaped, marking the white tablecloth like spilled blood. "Picture this - Demeter gets bored. Decides regular soil lacks... divine inspiration."

"The goddess of harvest. Too good for dirt." His fingers traced idle patterns through the spilled wine. "No commentary on the irony there?"

"Cállate." But her eyes sparked with amusement. "My story, my rules. She gets this idea about cloud gardens. Don't ask why - gods and boredom make terrible companions."

"Speaking from experience?"

"You want to hear this or not?" She plucked a grape from the bowl between them, weighing it in her palm.

"Please, continue your tale of divine agriculture." He leaned back, arms crossed, lips pulled into what he knew drove her crazy - that half-smile that said he found everything amusing.

The grape struck his chest with deadly accuracy. "Keep interrupting and I'll find something harder than fruit."

He raised his hands in mock surrender, but kept the smile. Her eyes narrowed at his expression.

"Better." She settled back, wine glass cradled between elegant fingers. "Now, she's finally got this cloud trained. Special seeds ready. Everything's perfect. Then..." Her nail tapped against the glass, building tension. "Zeus shows up."

"Because of course he does." Cyrus reached for his own glass, hiding his grin behind the rim.

"Takes one look at her perfectly cultivated cloud and thinks: ideal nap spot."

"He didn't."

"Face-plants right in the middle. Starts snoring." Her impression of divine snores sent wine sloshing dangerously close to the glass's rim. Each exaggerated rumble carried perfect pitch, as if she'd studied the sound personally. Knowing the gods, she probably had.

"Please tell me Demeter reacted appropriately." He set his glass down before her performance could make him spill it.

"Oh, she did." That wicked grin returned - the one that reminded him she wasn't just a beautiful woman, but an ancient power. "Pushed him right off."

"She pushed Zeus." The words came out flat with disbelief. "The king of gods. Off a cloud."

"Exactamente." Quet leaned forward, elbows on the table, closing their space until he caught the scent of sun-warmed flowers that always clung to her skin. "Best part? He didn't wake up. Just kept snoring. All the way down into Hephaestus's forge."

The mental image hit harder than the wine. His laugh bounced off the kitchen walls, deep and genuine. Her grin widened at the sound.

"Oh, it gets better." She shifted closer, voice dropping to a stage whisper. "All those special seeds? Got stuck in his beard. For weeks, Zeus walked around with tiny floating flowers growing out of his face. Nothing worked - divine water, holy fire, special clippers. They just kept growing back."

"How'd they finally fix it?"

"That's the thing - they didn't! Well, the flowers eventually vanished. But for months after? Every time Zeus sneezed - poof." Her hands painted an explosion in the air between them. "Flower petals everywhere. Demeter called it her most successful garden ever. Offered to do his eyebrows next."

Their laughter tangled together, rising into the night air that drifted through the open window. When it faded, she wrinkled her nose, studying him across the rim of her glass.

"You still smell like dungeon."

"I washed-" He tugged at his shirt collar, suddenly aware of the lingering copper-earth scent that clung to his skin.

"Barely." She gathered their plates, movements precise despite the wine. "Go to the bathhouse. Properly. Come back smelling less like goblin remnants."

"Ordering me around now?" His eyebrow arched as he watched her stack dishes with military precision.

"Soy tu diosa." Water flicked from her fingers, droplets catching light like tiny stars before spattering his shirt. "Move before I make it an official command."

He paused in the doorway, shoulder pressed against the frame. "Quet?"

"Mm?" She didn't turn from the sink, but her head tilted slightly - listening.

"The story. Thanks."

Her hands stilled under the running water. For a moment, only the sound of splashing filled the kitchen. Then she looked over her shoulder, emerald eyes soft in the lamplight.

"Someone has to keep you distracted from your own stupidity, mi sol. Now go. Before you make my whole kitchen smell like monster."

The bathhouse materialized through wisps of steam, its windows glowing like amber beacons in the deepening twilight. A few streets over from home, tucked away where the district's noise faded to murmurs. Cyrus paused at the entrance, noting how other adventurers quickened their pace as they passed. Their eyes slid away when he caught them looking.

Interesting.

Heat and humidity embraced him as he entered. His muscles remembered that goblin's claws, phantom pain ghosting across newly healed skin. The changing area stood empty - unusual for this hour. A single towel hung on its hook, crisp and precise, military corners speaking of its owner's nature.

The bath itself stretched before him, steam dancing across the surface. No splashing. No conversation. Just the gentle lap of water against stone.

First time here, he realized as he sank into the heat. The thought nagged at something - a memory half-formed. But before he could chase it, heavy footsteps approached. Each step landed with measured precision, a soldier's cadence against wet stone.

"Good evening," Cyrus said without opening his eyes. Water displaced, the surface rising against his chest.

One eye cracked open. A mountain of a Boaz occupied the opposite corner, rust-colored hair darkened by steam. Those eyes - same unusual shade as his hair - fixed on Cyrus with the weight of glaciers.

"You're in my spot." The words rolled like distant thunder.

"Funny." Cyrus traced a lazy pattern through the water. "Don't see your name carved anywhere."

The Boaz's brow furrowed. "They don't assign seats."

"Yet here we are, having this fascinating territory dispute."

"I always sit here."

"Well, looks like you're expanding your social circle tonight." His hand swept across the empty bath. "Plenty of room for both of us."

The Boaz's nostrils flared. He settled back, his massive frame sending ripples across the water's surface.

"I'm Cyrus." He let the silence stretch. "This is where you tell me your name."

"Ottar."

Ah. The pieces clicked. That guild photo. Level 7. Freya Familia's captain. The strongest adventurer in Orario. 

"Not much for conversation, are you?"

"No."

Cyrus studied him through half-lidded eyes. Battle scars traced patterns across Ottar's exposed skin - a roadmap of survival written in flesh. Each mark told its own story of violence survived, lessons learned in blood.

"You're new," Ottar stated.

"What gave me away?"

"You're here."

"Ah. Usually have the place to yourself?"

"Yes."

"Lucky me then." Cyrus sank deeper into the water. "Though I'm starting to understand why."

Ottar's expression remained unchanged. "You talk too much."

"Someone has to carry the conversation. Otherwise we'd just be two guys staring at each other in a bath. Bit awkward, don't you think?"

A low sound escaped Ottar - maybe a grunt, maybe the ghost of a laugh.

"Heard some interesting things today." Cyrus drew circles in the water, watching ripples spread. "Monsters acting strange in the upper floors. Had a goblin pull martial arts moves on me."

Something shifted in Ottar's eyes - a predator's focus snapping into place. "The dungeon tests all who enter."

"Sure, but this was different. Thing moved like it had proper training."

"Impossible."

"That's what everyone keeps saying." His shoulder rolled, testing the newly healed muscle. "Didn't stop it from nearly taking my head off."

Steam curled between them. Silence stretched like a drawn bow.

"Tell me something," Cyrus said. "How does one become Orario's strongest?"

"By not asking foolish questions."

"See, now I can't tell if that's wisdom or deflection."

"You seek shortcuts."

"I seek knowledge. There's a difference."

"Is there?"

"Well, I survived today's impossibility. That's worth something."

"Luck," Ottar said, "runs out."

"Hence why I'm asking questions instead of rushing back down there."

Another grunt - this one carrying a hint of approval. The massive Boaz shifted, sending small waves against the bath's edge.

"The basics," he said after a long moment. "Master them. Then master them again."

"That's it? No secret techniques? No hidden wisdom passed down through the ages?"

"There are no secrets. Only what works and what gets you killed."

"And the basics work?"

"I'm here."

Cyrus laughed. "Can't argue with that logic."

Silence fell again, almost comfortable this time. The water lapped at stone walls, carrying away the last traces of dungeon grime.

Ottar stood, water cascading off his frame. "Just don't die stupidly. It would be... wasteful."

"High praise from the king of the castle."

Ottar wrapped a towel around his waist. "This is my time. My spot."

"Same time tomorrow then?"

The Boaz paused at the door. "Goodnight, Cyrus of the Quetzalcoatl Familia."

"I'll take that as a maybe."

After Ottar left, Cyrus closed his eyes again. His muscles still protested from the goblin fight, but the pain felt distant now. Like an echo of someone else's memory.

The bathhouse door creaked. Multiple footsteps approached, then quickly retreated.

Guess Ottar's reputation extends to bath time.

When he finally emerged into the night air, the streets had emptied save for a few hurrying adventurers. Their eyes tracked him with poorly concealed curiosity. Probably wondering who dared share the king's bath time.

His mind drifted back to that goblin's movements. To Ottar's words about basics and survival.

Master them. Then master them again.

Maybe there was wisdom there after all.