Danmachi: Exception

Purpose.

The word echoed through Cyrus's mind as blood soaked into his designer suit. Clarity struck him as he lay bleeding out on the warehouse floor. All those years chasing dreams, building companies, trying to make the world a better place - what pretentious nonsense it seemed now.

"You going to monologue?" His killer adjusted his grip on the sword. "Most do."

"Not really my style." Cyrus pressed his hand against the wound, more reflex than actual hope of survival. "Though I admit, sword's an interesting choice. Bit theatrical."

The assassin shrugged. "Client's request. Something about poetic justice."

"Ah." He coughed, tasting copper. "The Matsuda deal."

"You ruined a lot of lives with that merger."

"Saved more than I ruined." The words came out weaker than he intended. "Their company hemorrhaged money. Would've collapsed within six months. At least this way most kept their jobs."

"Tell that to Mr. Matsuda's widow."

Right. The old man's heart attack. Not technically his fault, but... "Fair point."

The assassin studied him, head tilted. "You actually believe that. The whole 'greater good' thing."

"Used to." Cyrus laughed, immediately regretting it as pain lanced through his chest. "Turns out idealism's a luxury. Dreams, ambitions, making the world better - none of it matters if you're too weak to protect it."

"Philosophical victim. That's a new one."

"Professional courtesy." Another cough. "Since you're being chatty."

Silence fell between them. The warehouse's industrial lighting cast everything in harsh relief, turning blood into black pools and throwing shadows like ink across concrete. His vision started to blur around the edges.

So this is what dying feels like.

The human mind proved funny in these moments. Here he lay, bleeding out, and all he could think about was how ordinary it felt. No profound revelations. No life flashing before his eyes. Just the slow fade of consciousness and the growing certainty that he'd wasted his time chasing the wrong things.

Strength. That's what he should have pursued. Not wealth or influence or changing the world. Just pure, simple strength. Everything else was meaningless without the power to back it up.

"Any last words?" The assassin raised his sword. "Most want that too."

"Yeah." Cyrus met his eyes. "If I had another shot... I wouldn't waste it on dreams."

The blade descended.

Shit.

This is such bullshit.

If I had... one more chance...

Metal kissed flesh. And everything stopped.

The world froze mid-frame like a paused video. The pain vanished. The blood beneath him neither warm nor cold. Even the dust motes hung motionless in the air.

A blue screen materialized before him, its glow casting impossible shadows in the frozen scene. White text floated on its surface:

[Congratulations! You have been chosen!]

[Would you like to become an Adventurer?]

[You have 60 seconds to decide.]

"The fuck?" His voice echoed strangely, as if the air itself had changed properties.

He reached out, expecting his hand to pass through the ethereal display. Instead, his fingers met something cool and solid, like touching a sheet of glass suspended in nothing.

I'm hallucinating. Blood loss. Has to be.

But...

If it wasn't...

The counter ticked down. 45 seconds. 44. 43.

What did he have to lose? He was already dead. Or dying. Whatever this was - last neurons firing, divine intervention, cosmic joke - it beat bleeding out on a warehouse floor.

"Yes." The word came out stronger than anything he'd managed in the last ten minutes. "Yes, I'll become an Adventurer."

The screen shifted, text reforming:

[Welcome, Champion of H̷̢̩͓̊̂̿̀̽͂̑̓̂̾͝͝e̸̙̦̒̋̅͆͒̏̽̋͛̉͊l̶̛̮̭̩͍̰͛͗̽̓͑̒͆̿̽̈͐̌̕͜͠į̸͙̟͈͔̩̫͍̎͛̋͋̍͝͝ȏ̵̭͖̻͚̰͉̪͙̭͍̘̐̊͛̃́͑̔̒̓̿͜͝͠s̴͙͕̬͙̬̳̏̇̑̑̈́̅̽̑̽̚͝͝, Cyrus Valentine. Initiating Transmigration.]

Something touched his head. Not the assassin's blade - this was gentle, warm. Like a mother's caress. He tried to turn, to see, but his body wouldn't respond.

Heat bloomed where the phantom hand rested, spreading through him like brandy on a cold night. His vision whited out, reality dissolving into pure light.

Then nothing.

The void took him, and his last thought was simple:

This time, I'll be strong enough.

==========

Cyrus opened his eyes and immediately regretted it. A spike of pain shot through his skull, intense enough to make him curl into himself. He pressed his forehead against something cool and damp - grass, he realized. The earthy scent filled his nostrils.

Well. Not dead then.

Unless the afterlife came with hangovers.

He kept his eyes closed, focusing on his other senses. A breeze rustled leaves overhead. Birds called to each other. Something skittered through undergrowth nearby.

"Forest," he muttered. His voice came out rough, unfamiliar. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Definitely a forest."

The pain in his head began to recede, dropping from 'nuclear migraine' to 'merely awful.' Cyrus risked opening his eyes again, slower this time.

Sunlight filtered through a canopy of leaves, creating patches of gold on the forest floor. The trees themselves were massive - old growth, perhaps centuries old. Their trunks rose like pillars into the sky.

He pushed himself to his knees, then stopped. These weren't his hands.

The skin was darker, sun-kissed rather than his usual pale. The fingers longer, more elegant. He turned them over, examining unfamiliar calluses.

"Right. New body." He remembered the blue screen, the offer. Champion of... someone. The name escaped him, slipping away like water through fingers.

Standing took two attempts. The first ended with him back on his knees, balance shot. The second succeeded, though he had to lean against a tree.

This body was taller than his old one. Younger too, based on how it moved. The muscles felt different - not stronger necessarily, but more... integrated? Like they knew what they were doing even if his brain hadn't caught up.

He looked down at himself.

"Huh."

No shirt. Just loose white pants with some kind of wraparound overlay, secured by an ornate belt. The fabric moved like silk but felt sturdier. Golden patterns traced the edges, catching light.

"Not exactly standard isekai gear." He took an experimental step, then another. "Though I suppose appearing naked would've been worse."

Walking got easier as his brain adjusted to the new proportions. Soon he could manage without support, though he still felt like he was piloting someone else's body.

A glimpse of water through the trees drew him forward. A stream cut through the forest, clear enough to see the rocky bottom. He knelt beside it.

The face in the reflection wasn't his. Or rather, it wasn't his old face.

Amber eyes stared back at him, framed by waves of midnight black hair. The features were almost aristocratic - high cheekbones, straight nose, strong jaw. Young, probably late teens, but with an underlying maturity that suggested more.

"Well." He sat back. "At least I'm pretty."

The sound of metal on metal rang through the forest. Distant, but clear enough to make out the rhythm of combat.

Cyrus tilted his head, listening. Multiple combatants, based on the variety of sounds. At least one person in trouble, judging by the increasingly desperate tempo.

He should probably avoid it. He had no weapons, no armor, and no idea how to fight in this body. The smart play would be to gather information first. Figure out where - and when - he was.

Dreams are meaningless without the strength to protect them.

His own words, spoken as he bled out on that warehouse floor.

"Fuck it." He rose, orienting on the sounds. "Time to test the new hardware."

The forest passed in a blur as he ran. This body moved, responding to his intentions faster than thought. Each step landed exactly where it needed to, regardless of terrain. He barely had to think about it.

The sounds led him to a small clearing. Three figures in leather armor had a fourth backed against a tree. The lone fighter - a young woman with pointed ears - held a broken sword in one hand and clutched her side with the other.

One of the attackers laughed. "End of the line. Maybe if you beg pretty enough-"

Cyrus didn't wait to hear the rest. He burst from the treeline at full sprint, body moving on pure instinct.

The first attacker never saw him coming. Cyrus's palm struck between shoulder blades, sending the man face-first into a tree. He dropped and didn't get up.

"What the-"

The second attacker managed to half-turn before Cyrus's leg swept his feet. The man's head cracked against a root on the way down.

The third proved smarter than his friends. He backed away, sword raised in a proper guard. "Who the fuck are you supposed to be?"

Cyrus answered with a rush that should have gotten him stabbed. Instead, his body flowed around the blade like water. One hand trapped the sword arm while the other drove into the man's solar plexus.

The fight ended in seconds.

Muscle memory, Cyrus realized. This body knows how to fight.

He turned to the elf woman, keeping his movements slow and obvious. "Are you alright?"

She stared at him, turquoise eyes wide. Blood seeped between the fingers pressed to her side.

"I..." She swayed. "I think I need a healer."

Cyrus caught her before she hit the ground. Her skin burned with fever - infection, possibly poison. The wound looked bad, edges tinged with something dark.

"Stay with me." He gathered her up, careful of the injury. "What's your name?"

"Tessia." Her voice came out weak. "Are you... are you real?"

"Real as it gets." He oriented himself, trying to remember which direction had signs of civilization. "Any idea where the nearest town is?"

"Orario." Her head lolled against his shoulder. "Northwest."

"Orario." The name sparked something in his memory. A city. The city. Built on top of... "Right. Good. That's good. Stay awake, Tessia. Talk to me."

"About what?"

"Anything. Tell me about yourself. What brought you out here?"

"Gathering... herbs." Each word seemed to cost her. "For the shop. Didn't see them coming. Stupid... should've been more careful."

"Hey, three on one isn't exactly fair odds." He picked up his pace, following what looked like a game trail. "Though I notice they came off worse."

A weak laugh. "Because of you. Never seen... Are you an adventurer?"

"Something like that." The trail widened into a proper path. Wheel ruts scored the dirt. "Almost there. Keep talking."

"Can't." Her eyes fluttered. "Tired."

"No sleeping." He jostled her slightly. "That's an order."

"Not... my commander..."

"Tessia?" No response. "Tessia?"

Her pulse still beat against his fingers, but weaker now. The dark tinge had spread, veins standing out black against pale skin.

Cyrus broke into a run.

The path eventually led to a road. Real one, with stone paving and actual traffic. A merchant's cart passed, the driver giving them a suspicious look.

"Hey!" Cyrus called out. "Which way to Orario?"

The merchant pointed without slowing.

Cyrus ran. The body responded beautifully, eating up distance without tiring. Other travelers appeared on the road, more frequently as they neared the city.

He caught glimpses through the trees - white stone walls rising into the sky. A massive tower dominated the center, its top lost in clouds.

Babel, his memory supplied. Built over the dungeon.

The gates stood open, guards watching traffic with bored expressions. They straightened as Cyrus approached.

"Halt! What's your business in-"

"She needs a healer." Cyrus didn't slow. "Now."

The guards exchanged looks. One started to step forward, then stopped as he got a better look at Cyrus.

Something in his expression must have convinced them. They waved him through without further questions.

"Where's the nearest healing center?" Cyrus demanded of the first person he saw.

The man pointed down a side street. "Blue Pharmacy. Third building on the right. Blue door."

Cyrus found it easily enough - a small shop with herbs hanging in the windows. He kicked the door instead of knocking.

A blue-haired man in robes opened it, frowning. The expression vanished as he saw Tessia.

"Bring her inside." His voice carried authority despite its softness. "Quickly."

Cyrus followed him through the shop into a back room lined with beds. Most stood empty, though a few held sleeping figures.

"Here." The man - Miach presumably - gestured to a bed. "Lay her down. Gently."

Cyrus complied, careful not to jostle the wound. Tessia didn't stir.

Miach's hands moved over her, checking pulse and pupils. His frown deepened as he examined the injury.

"Poison," he said. "Uncommon variant. You found her like this?"

"Bandits. Three of them." Cyrus stepped back to give him room to work. "She said she was gathering herbs."

"Ah." Miach began pulling bottles from a nearby cabinet. "She's one of ours. Thank you for bringing her home."

"Will she survive?"

"Yes." The certainty in his voice brooked no argument. "Though she'll need rest. And you'll need payment."

"I didn't do it for money."

Miach paused in his work to give Cyrus a long look. "No," he said finally. "I don't believe you did. But good deeds should be rewarded regardless. Come back soon - I'll have something suitable prepared."

A girl poked her head in. "My lord? Lady Demeter is asking for- Tessia!"

"Naaza, perfect timing. I need the blue vial from the locked cabinet. And bring my kit."

Cyrus recognized a dismissal when he heard one. He slipped out as the girl rushed in, leaving them to their work.

The sun had begun to set, painting Orario's streets in gold and shadow. People hurried past on evening errands, a mix of races that would have seemed impossible in his old world.

He had no money. No place to stay. No idea how this world really worked beyond vague memories that felt more like dreams.

But he had strength now. Real strength, in a body built for combat. And he had purpose - that nebulous role of Champion he'd been given.

"Right then." He stretched, feeling muscle respond. "Time to figure out how to be an adventurer."