That time I got reincarnated into Danmachi with dishonored powers

Morning crept in through the cracks in the window, but I was already awake.

I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the mark on my hand as light slid across it. It pulsed slowly, almost as if it were breathing with me.

Yesterday, Hestia's offer had been simple. Kind.

I stood up, slinging my cloak over my shoulders. My fingers curled around my knife. The blade was chipped and worn from the last fight, but it felt comfortable in my hand — like an extension of my pulse.

Today wasn't about them. Not about Hestia. Not about Bell.

Today was for me.

I stepped into the streets before most stalls had even opened. The air was sharp and cool, and the city still half-asleep. I liked it that way — quiet enough to think, empty enough to move without eyes crawling over me.

Babel rose above me as I approached, pale and towering, its walls almost glowing in the morning haze.

I moved through the entry hall without stopping. A few rookie adventurers clustered near the counters, wide-eyed and chattering nervously. They looked at me as I passed — at my cold eyes, at my cloak still stained from the last trip — and shrank away like startled dogs.

Good.

I stepped onto the spiral stairs and descended. Each echo of my boots against the stone felt like a war drum in my chest.

When I hit the first floor, I didn't even pause. I pressed on, deeper — second, third, fourth. The green glow of the lower walls soon bled into my vision, that sickly, living color that felt like it was watching me.

Floor five.

Floor six.

I felt my pulse quicken. My lips curled into a small, hungry smile.

Floor seven.

The corridors twisted here, narrower and more uneven. The air smelled different — thicker, like wet iron and mold. I could hear them before I saw them: the scraping of claws, the wet hiss of insect limbs dragging against the ground.

I pressed forward, silent, each step controlled.

A sudden screech split the tunnel ahead, and I saw them — a swarm of Killer Ants. At least seven of them, their chitin glistening in the green glow.

Perfect.

I exhaled slowly, my mind sharpening into a single cold point.

I moved.

The first ant lunged, mandibles wide. I ducked low, felt its claw graze the top of my hair as I slipped under it. My knife drove up through its neck joint, twisting sharply.

It shrieked and burst into ash. I pivoted, whipping around to face the next one.

I moved before it could even finish turning. My hand slammed against its face, shoving it off balance as I slipped behind it and drove the blade into its abdomen.

Two down.

The others finally reacted, their screeches echoing off the walls like a chorus of madness.

I grinned — sharp and full of blood.

The third ant swung wildly, claws slicing the air where I had just been. I ducked, lunged forward, and slammed my shoulder into its side, toppling it. Before it could recover, I plunged the knife into its eye socket, black ichor splattering across my wrist.

Another burst of ash.

My heart roared in my ears now, faster than any chant, any prayer.

The fourth and fifth came together, rushing me.

I felt the mark on my hand heat up, power coiling under my skin.

Blink.

I vanished in a ripple of smoke and blue-black energy, reappearing behind them before their momentum even died.

I kicked one forward into the wall — its carapace cracked on impact. I lunged at the second, knife slicing across its exposed underbelly, opening it in one smooth motion.

Both dissolved almost instantly, crystals clinking to the ground.

Only two left.

They hesitated now, antennae flicking wildly, like they finally understood.

I tilted my head, smirking.

"Come on," I growled, voice low and electric. "You started this."

They shrieked and charged.

I dashed forward, spinning low, blade slicing one's leg off before flipping it over and plunging the knife into its skull. The final ant leapt over its fallen kin, claws extended.

I raised my free hand, fingers tightening around the mark.

At the last second, I rolled under it, twisting behind its back, and drove the blade up, cracking the shell.

Ash exploded. Silence crashed into the tunnel like a hammer.

I stood there, chest heaving, surrounded by the faint glow of fallen crystals.

I looked at my hands — steady, strong.

I wasn't just surviving down here. I was hunting.

I knelt and scooped up the crystals, slipping them into my pouch.

Then I leaned back against the cold wall, sliding down until I sat in the dirt.

I stared at the ceiling, my breath slowing.

I felt alive. More alive than I had ever been back home.

But beneath that fire, a quiet thought settled into my bones.

If I wanted to keep this edge, if I wanted to sharpen it to something unbreakable — maybe having a shield at my back wouldn't be weakness. Maybe it was strategy.

I sat there for a few minutes after the ants fell, the slow, measured rhythm of my breath echoing through the tunnel.

Every muscle burned, but my mind was sharp — crystalline.

I stood and rolled my shoulders, feeling the tension snap free.

"Deeper," I muttered to myself. "Let's see just how far this body can go."

I pushed onward, each step measured, every sense tuned to the Dungeon's heartbeat.

Floor seven twisted like a serpent, narrow corridors that opened into small, echoing chambers. Here, the air felt alive — as if the walls themselves were waiting to swallow me whole.

A few stray goblins darted across my path. They weren't worth the effort. I ignored them, moving deeper, eyes scanning every flicker of movement.

Then I heard it.

A soft, scraping sound — lighter than a goblin's shuffle, but colder. More deliberate.

I stopped dead, every hair on my neck standing up.

Slowly, I pivoted, my knife raised, my stance low.

From the darkness ahead, they emerged.

War Shadows.

Four of them.

Their featureless faces, those void-like ovals, seemed to look right through me. Their long, clawed arms glistened in the sickly light, shifting and twitching like broken puppets.

My pulse roared, but I didn't step back.

Instead, I smiled — wide and hungry.

"Finally," I breathed.

The first Shadow lunged, its claws slicing downward in a wild arc. I pivoted left, ducking under it and driving my knife into its lower back. It convulsed, then crumbled into ash before I could even yank the blade free.

I barely twisted aside in time as another slashed horizontally, the claws grazing my cloak and ripping a line through the fabric. I kicked it away, using the momentum to spin toward a third Shadow.

Blink.

I vanished in a swirl of smoke and black-blue sparks, reappearing behind the third one mid-swing. I grabbed its head with my free hand and drove my knife up into the back of its neck.

It jerked violently, then turned to ash.

The fourth Shadow lashed at me with both arms, claws screeching against stone as I leapt backward, my boots skidding across the moss-slick floor.

It charged again, shrieking with a sound like broken glass.

I met it head-on, dodging low and driving my shoulder into its gut, feeling the distorted mass buckle. My knife found its chest, sliding deep until I felt something crack beneath the force.

The Shadow let out one last choked screech before dissolving into a dark cloud.

Silence crashed over the tunnel like a wave.

I stood there, panting lightly, my knife dripping black ichor that was already evaporating into the green glow.

At my feet, crystals glimmered softly. But there was something else among the remnants — something that didn't belong.

A small, jagged shard.

It glowed faintly, like a captured moonbeam, and shifting runic lines crawled across its surface, whispering secrets I couldn't quite catch.

I crouched, picking it up carefully. The moment my fingers brushed it, a shiver danced up my spine — electric, curious, almost playful.

The mark on my hand pulsed once in recognition, but I ignored it.

I turned the shard over, studying it.

A new rune. Another power waiting to be claimed.

But not yet.

I slipped it into the inner pocket of my cloak, feeling its weight settle against my ribs.

"Later," I whispered, smirking. "When I decide you're worth it."

I stood, sheathing my knife and rolling my shoulders again.

The Dungeon felt like it was watching, waiting for me to falter.

I looked around, my eyes sharp, my stance relaxed but ready.

———

I made it back to the inn just as the last rays of sunset bled out behind the rooftops. My cloak dragged along the floor as I climbed the stairs, my boots leaving streaks of Dungeon grime on the old wooden steps.

When I reached my room, I pushed the door open and tossed my cloak onto the chair. My hand drifted to my pocket — the rune shard pressing cool and heavy against my ribs.

I moved to the small, cracked mirror above the washbasin.

I hadn't really looked at myself since arriving in this world.

I leaned in, my breath fogging the glass.

A dark olive-skinned boy stared back at me. My hair was shaggy, matted from sweat and Dungeon dust, wild curls sticking out in all directions. My jawline was sharper than I remembered, my eyes darker — deeper.

For a moment, I almost didn't recognize him.

Me.

Then it happened.

A thick, black ink-like substance began to drip down the inside of the mirror, crawling like a living thing across the surface. My reflection rippled, distorted.

I stumbled backward, but my feet felt nailed to the floor.

The ink spread, forming the shape of a figure.

When it cleared, a new image stared out at me.

A young man — plain-looking, unremarkable in every way. Short brown hair, sharp black eyes that seemed to pierce straight into me. He wore a simple brown coat over a dark shirt, blue-grey pants tucked into black boots.

His expression was almost bored, his head tilted slightly as if studying an insect pinned to a board.

My breath froze in my throat.

I didn't move. Couldn't.

The man smiled faintly.

Then, in one impossible, fluid motion, he reached out — and his hand pierced the glass as if it were water.

Before I could react, his fingers locked around my wrist.

A sharp tug.

The world around me splintered like a broken window. My vision twisted, my ribs screamed, and then I was yanked forward, swallowed into the mirror's ink-black void.

I crashed onto a flat, smooth surface that wasn't quite stone, wasn't quite water.

My head snapped up.

He stood before me now — real, solid. His black eyes glimmered with a cold amusement.

The Outsider.

I had seen him countless times on screens back home — the dark patron whispering promises of power to desperate assassins. But now, standing here, his presence pressed on my bones like the weight of the sea.

He tilted his head, a ghost of a smirk dancing across his lips.

"So… you're the curious little soul I've been watching," he drawled. His voice was soft, almost gentle — yet it coiled under my skin like a blade. "You're fun to observe. Unpredictable. Messy."

I struggled to my feet, glaring at him. "What do you want from me?"

He chuckled — a sound like glass cracking.

"What do I want? Nothing. I only ever offer. You're the one who decides if you're brave enough to take it."

He took a step closer, hands folded behind his back, his eyes glimmering with dark delight.

"Look at you," he said, almost fondly. "Clinging to that new power, clawing through the Dungeon with nothing but a half-broken knife and borrowed courage. Deliciously reckless."

My fists clenched.

"I don't need a god," I spat. "I don't need anyone watching me like a caged animal."

His grin widened slightly, eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Oh, you misunderstand. I'm no god in the way these petty divinities play house down here," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "I don't demand worship. I don't care for prayers. I simply… enjoy seeing what you do with a little nudge."

His hand appeared again, seemingly from nowhere, holding four small, pulsing shards — runes, each radiating a subtle, dangerous light.

"Four new gifts," he murmured, almost as if tempting a child with sweets. "Taken from corners of the Void, where your little Dungeon has no reach. Yours… if you accept my mark as your true bond. Let me be your god, in a way none of these other deities can."

My heart pounded so hard it rattled my teeth.

I stared at the runes, each one whispering promises of power — raw, infinite, intoxicating.

Then my eyes snapped back to his.

He looked amused, expectant — like a scholar waiting to see if his rat would run left or right in the maze.

A cold fury pooled in my gut.

"I don't kneel," I said, voice low and dangerous. "I don't bow. Not to gods. Not to you. I'll carve my own path — with or without your toys."

For a moment, the Outsider's smile froze.

Then he laughed — a quiet, delighted sound, echoing endlessly through the black void around us.

"Magnificent," he breathed. "Absolutely magnificent."

He leaned closer, his face inches from mine.

"Take the runes. Or don't. Either way, I'll be watching."

Then, with a flick of his fingers, he shoved the shards against my chest. I felt them melt into my coat pocket, the energy fizzing against my skin.

The world snapped again, splintering into a thousand shards of dark glass.

I stumbled forward, crashing back into the inn room. My hands slammed into the washbasin, my breath ragged, my eyes wild.

I looked into the mirror again.

The ink was gone. Only my face — sweat-soaked, olive-skinned, eyes burning with something sharp and feral.

I stood there, panting. Then I started to laugh.

Low at first, then rising into something bright and ragged and real.

"Watch me, then," I hissed at my own reflection, my grin sharp enough to cut. "Watch what I become without your leash."

I reached into my coat pocket, fingers brushing against the cold edges of the runes.

Later. When I decide.

I straightened up, my reflection steadying.

Ogun. Not a pawn. Not a pet.

A storm waiting to break.