The golden sunlight filtered through the open doors of the Tower of Babel as Zamasu paused at the threshold.
He turned back toward the gods and their entourage still lingering in the marble corridor.
"One more thing before I go," Zamasu said, his voice steady. "I'm searching for formal martial arts instruction. Not just fighting experience—true technique. Discipline. Refinement."
Loki immediately perked up, resting her hands behind her head with a lazy grin. "Heh, didn't take you for the traditional type, silver boy. But if that's what you're lookin' for, you're in luck. My Familia's got top-notch instructors. Finn here could turn a scarecrow into a first-class fighter, and Bete's a damn whirlwind in close combat—rough around the edges, but you'd learn quick."
Zamasu gave a slight nod of acknowledgment, but didn't reply.
Freya, not to be outdone, stepped forward with effortless grace. "If you want focused, silent instruction, Ottar could personally train you. He rose to the top without a falna for years. His technique, strength, and insight would suit someone like you perfectly." Her eyes softened. "You wouldn't be required to join. I can offer it simply as a favor."
Zamasu's eyes narrowed slightly. "You both are being generous, but you're pressing too hard."
Loki blinked. "Eh?"
"I just want to train and learn. Not to be entangled."
Being a businessman in his past life taught him how negotiations work.
Freya's expression didn't change, but a flicker of something passed through her eyes. "So cautious…"
Zamasu folded his arms. "I'm looking for teachers. Not recruiters."
Riveria, standing nearby, stepped in smoothly, cutting off the growing tension. "If you want proper martial arts instruction, there are better options." She glanced toward Finn, who nodded in agreement.
Finn spoke up. "Takemikazuchi is a god from the Far East. Martial arts is his domain. His techniques are rooted in centuries of tradition—efficient, focused, and brutal when necessary. His Familia may be small, but they train constantly."
Loki rubbed her chin. "Yeah, that guy's the real deal. Lives in the eastern quarter, near South Main. Temple-style dojo, hard to miss."
Freya added, "He's strict. But he's not the type to manipulate his students. You may find what you seek there."
Zamasu inclined his head respectfully. "That's exactly what I needed. Thank you."
Without waiting for further conversation, he turned and walked into the sunlight. His footsteps were calm, unhurried. His white toga fluttered behind him, silver earrings catching the light as he descended the wide stairs into the city.
The gods remained in the corridor, watching him go.
Loki exhaled loudly, placing her hands on her hips. "You believe that guy? Turns us down cold and still manages to be polite about it."
Freya watched Zamasu's figure grow smaller in the distance, her voice calm. "He's careful. And that makes him more dangerous than most."
Riveria looked between the two goddesses. "You're both going to keep trying, aren't you?"
Loki laughed. "Damn right I am."
Freya's voice was quiet, but firm. "So will I."
Their tones were light, but neither goddess was joking. They'd seen mortals rise before—but none quite like this one. And neither of them intended to let Zamasu slip away for long.
How they go about that… is up to both of them.
As a gentle breeze blew across Orario's open plaza, tugging faintly at the hem of his white toga.
Despite its simplicity, the garment moved with an odd grace, never catching dirt or grime despite the dusty city beneath his feet.
It was a curious thing. No matter how long he wore it or how much he fought in it, the toga remained pristine—unblemished, wrinkle-free, and immune to the messiness of the world around him.
Magic, perhaps. Or something else tied to this new form of his.
Still, as he walked through crowds of adventurers in leather armor, capes, and dyed fabrics, Zamasu began to feel conspicuous.
Not because of his aura or strength—those were things he carried naturally—but because he had nothing else to wear. Just a single, flawless, flowing toga and a pair of sandals.
"I might not get dirty," he muttered to himself, "but this isn't sustainable."
A man wearing only a toga in a city filled with knights, mages, and adventurers looked more like a wandering prophet than someone who planned to dive into the Dungeon again.
It was symbolic, almost theatrical. In another life, perhaps that would have suited him. But now, he needed practicality. Versatility. And perhaps… just a touch of his old world's style.
The thought made him stop in his tracks.
Fashion in his past life had been advanced. Form met function in every seam.
From battle gear to ceremonial attire, there was an elegance—an identity—in what one wore. He wasn't about to trade that for dull tunics or oversized armor plates.
His gaze drifted upward, as if trying to picture something beyond the sky.
"There were better outfits," he said, remembering.
The Zeno Goku outfit came to mind first—a sleek black gi with a high collar and blue sash. The dark color scheme was simple but commanding, worn by Goku in his alternate form when fused with the powers of the Omni-King.
It had a subtle regality to it. Authority, without excess.
Then there was the Grand Priest's attire—high-collared, pristine, decorated with the mark of cosmic authority.
The Grand Priest's outfit consists of a violet-to-pink gradient robe with a high collar, loose sleeves, and matching trousers, always worn with a golden halo above his head and an unnervingly calm smile.
'I should have access to my halo, right?'
There is also classic Goku gi that also crossed his mind—red and orange, or blue and deeper red, depending on the era.
Those outfits are straight, iconic and cool. Simple fabric, tight to the body, loose where needed, built entirely around combat flow. No flair. Just intent.
Zamasu even thought about Z Broly—the version from the altered reality. The outfit was badass that featured teal low-cut pants, metallic restraints on his wrists/ ankles, a thick silver collar and exposed muscles.
Then there was the outfit most fitting: his own.
The outfit of Fused Zamasu—his original form. The dark gi layered beneath his Kai robe. The long, asymmetrical sash and the dramatic shoulder pads.
With a deep teal-and-black bodysuit, divine halo, and glowing Potara earrings.
It matched his current appearance more than any other. Yet he hesitated.
"But do I really want to wear that?" he asked himself, voice low, thoughtful. "Would I be imitating a shadow of what zamasu was or claiming it?"
In the end, he didn't decide on just one. Why limit himself?
"No," he said with a quiet smile. "I'll have them all."
Even if this world lacked the technology or materials to replicate them perfectly, he could design and commission close enough approximations.
Perhaps he could even tweak them further with Dungeon materials later.
But first, he needed to start simple.
Quills. Ink. Paper.
Turning from the wide street, Zamasu began walking toward the crafting district.
He had passed it briefly on his way into the city—the smell of sawdust and molten metal, the rhythmic clang of hammers against anvils, the chattering of merchants offering cloth, dye, enchanted thread.
If there was a place in Orario to turn concepts into reality, this would be it.
The deeper he walked, the more the crowd changed. Adventurers gave way to smiths, tailors, leatherworkers, and designers.
Banners fluttered in front of shop fronts, boasting enchanted cloaks, frost-resistant boots, flame-proof gloves, and equipment meant for deep-Dungeon delving.
But Zamasu bypassed them all, his eyes searching for a merchant selling the basics.
Soon, he found a small stationary stand nestled between two large armor shops. An elderly man ran it, surrounded by books, parchment stacks, sealed ink bottles, and feathered quills.
Zamasu approached with calm confidence.
"I need fine parchment. Waterproof, if possible. A full bottle of dark ink, and a few quills with fine nibs."
The man raised a brow at the unusual request, but didn't question it. "Of course, young master. For calligraphy or diagrams?"
"Design work," Zamasu replied. "Clothing and symbols."
The old man nodded sagely and wrapped the supplies with practiced care. Zamasu paid with the valis he had gathered yesterday.
Valis earned from selling monster cores—more than enough for simple writing tools. Nearly emptying out his pockets.
He notes how expensive these things are but buying more than he needed was for assurance that he will have enough in case he made mistakes.
With his materials in hand, Zamasu walked out of the crafting district, seeking a quiet place where he could begin sketching.
Perhaps a small inn or a quiet bench in one of Orario's many parks. Somewhere he could sit down and let memory guide his hand—recreating every fold, stitch, and design from the outfits once worn by legends.
Ultimately he decides to return to his inn.
"Hehehee…"
Zamasu smiled faintly to himself.
Chapter 14 end