Danmachi - Depthless Hunger

The labyrinth city, Orario. A sprawling metropolis built atop the monstrous maw of the Dungeon, a subterranean labyrinth that drew adventurers and fortune-seekers from across the world. 

The city itself throbbed with a chaotic energy, a melting pot of races and cultures all vying for their slice of the pie. Humans rubbed shoulders with elves, dwarves haggled with beastmen, and all under the watchful, if somewhat lax, eye of the Ganesha Familia.

They were Orario's self-proclaimed guardians, the city's "military police," as they liked to call themselves. In reality, they were glorified traffic cops with oversized spears, more concerned with keeping the peace than actually preventing any real crime.

Sure, the Hephaestus Familia crafted legendary weapons and the Freya Familia boasted the strongest adventurers, but Ganesha… well, Ganesha was Ganesha. They were loud, flamboyant, and utterly unique. They threw the best parties, that much couldn't be denied. Just look at the Monster Feria happening today—a riot of noise and color spilling through the streets of Orario.

The air was thick with the mingled scents of roasting meat, spilled ale, and the faint metallic tang of caged beasts. Merchants hawked their wares from brightly adorned stalls, their cries rising above the cheerful din of the crowd. Children darted between adventurers and townsfolk alike, clutching wooden swords and cheap trinkets in sticky hands. Jugglers performed daring feats, their antics drawing applause and laughter. 

And at the center of it all, under the watchful eye of Ganesha's golden elephant mask, a parade of monsters—chained, muzzled, and bristling with barely contained fury despite being "tamed"—marched in procession, each one a spectacle unto itself.

For Gareth, a Level 2 guard with a neck perpetually stiff and dreams long since buried, today was just another drab smear in the tapestry of his life. While others reveled in the festivities, he stood at his post near the gate.

He'd joined the Familia with visions of fame—delving into the Dungeon, cleaving through hordes of monsters, and etching his name into the annals of history. Instead, he found himself shackled to gate duty, a task as mind-numbing as it was humiliating. He'd once dared to suggest improvements for their post—streamlined checks, perhaps even enchanted seals. His captain had laughed so hard he spilled his ale and barked, "If yer brain's so sharp, lad, go invent a better life for yerself!"

So here he was, stuck policing merchants with suspiciously full carts, waving through would-be heroes, and pocketing the occasional bribe to stave off madness.

Gareth scratched his forearm absently, his fingers tracing scars earned in a lifetime that felt like someone else's. There was a time when his blade had sung against the Dungeon's denizens, each strike a desperate gamble with death. Now, his greatest challenge was enduring the stink of sun-baked armor and sour ale.

Today was no different.

The sun hung high, a molten orb baking the city below. Gareth's breastplate had turned into an iron furnace, and sweat streamed down his brow, stinging his eyes. He twirled his spear with practiced boredom, the polished steel glinting mockingly in the harsh light. A boisterous troupe of dwarves staggered by, slurring songs that would make a sailor blush. Gareth waved them through with a grunt, too weary to care if they started a brawl.

He was halfway through humming a tune—a fragment of some drinking ballad he couldn't place—when a shadow swallowed the sunlight.

"What in the name of Demeter's teats…?" Gareth muttered, squinting upward.

Before him loomed a titan of a man, towering like a fortress given flesh. Seven feet tall, his body was a mountain of muscle, with thick layers piled on top of each other. Veins ran like roots across his massive arms, which looked as if they could snap a tree in half.

His shoulders were broad like a blacksmith's anvil, every slight movement making the muscles shift and ripple like living stone. Even his hands, enormous and rough, seemed big enough to crush a man's skull with ease.

His skin was grey, neither iron nor flesh, but something strange—like hardened leather shaped by years of wear. Streaks of silver hair ran across his bare torso, catching the sunlight like threads of metal. His mane of silver framed a face sharp and fierce, as if carved by a god's angry hand. 

"Gods save me," Gareth breathed, his voice cracking slightly. "What'd they feed you, mate? Boulders and hydra eggs?"

The behemoth's lips twitched, a ghost of a grin softening his stony face.

"Orcs and silverbacks," he rumbled, his voice so deep it seemed to shake the very earth beneath Gareth's boots.

For a moment, Gareth blinked, caught off guard by the jest. He cleared his throat, trying to regain some semblance of authority.

"Are ye an adventurer, then?"

"No."

The curt reply made Gareth's brow furrow. Few non-adventurers dared approach Orario's gates, let alone ones who looked like they could wrestle a wyvern barehanded.

"Then what business brings ye here?" Gareth pressed, his tone firmer.

The giant's grin widened, revealing teeth sharp and white against his grey skin. 

"The brothels," he said simply, amusement dancing in his eyes.

Gareth's lips parted, but no words came out. His mind scrambled for a response, but his hands moved faster, catching the weighty pouch the man had slipped to him. The heavy jingle of coins snapped him out of his stupor.

"Well… welcome to Orario," Gareth said, slipping the bribe into his pouch with practiced ease. His tone warmed, as it always did when valis spoke louder than words. "Name's Gareth. What shall I call ye, good sir?"

The giant paused, as though weighing the question. "You may call me… Fenrir," he said at last, the name rolling off his tongue like distant thunder.

With that, Fenrir turned, his titanic form moving with a grace that belied his size. The crowd parted before him, awestruck and wary, like mice before a prowling lion. Gareth watched him go, an inexplicable unease prickling at his senses.

The man looked like he devoured whores whole instead of bedding them, Gareth mused darkly. 

And yet, what business was it of his? Another bribe, another stranger stepping into the labyrinth city's gaping maw. He leaned against his spear, shaking his head.

"Not my circus, not my problem," he muttered, though the words felt hollow. Still, a part of him wondered what kind of chaos a man like Fenrir might unleash in Orario.