Ghost Falna
I walked around for a while. Like a tourist, sight-seeing.
The cobblestone streets twisted in ways that made no sense—left turns that somehow looped back, alleys that opened into plazas I'd already passed. Babel Tower stayed visible no matter where I went, that impossible pillar punching through clouds like a middle finger to physics.
Street vendors packed up stalls. Adventurers stumbled out of taverns, laughing too loud. The smell shifted from bread to grilled meat to something alcoholic and sharp.
I didn't have a plan. Just kept moving. Kept existing. Kept not dying.
The sky bled orange, then purple, then black.
Night came sudden.
And with it—something started burn into my back.
Not pain—presence. Like ink sinking beneath skin, warm and permanent. A weight that settled into my bones and decided it belonged there.
I knew what it was immediately.
Falna.
I pressed my palm against the alley wall, breathing hard.
The sensation hadn't faded—that warm weight between my shoulder blades, constant as a heartbeat. Not painful. Not intrusive. Just there, like a program running in the background of my existence.
Anyone who knew DanMachi recognized the feeling. Divine script etched by a god's blessing. The system that elevated mortals into adventurers, tracked their growth, converted experience into measurable power.
But I didn't have a god.
"This shouldn't exist," I muttered, twisting to look over my shoulder as if I could see through my own back.
Gods descended from heaven to grant falna. That was law. That was canon. Even the wildest fan theories never mentioned this—a blessing without a deity, a system without an administrator.
Yet something had claimed me anyway.
The warmth pulsed once—deliberate, almost responsive—then settled back into that steady background hum.
My mind raced through everything I knew. Status updates required a god to read and translate. Excelia accumulated during combat, but only divine touch could convert it into statistical growth. Without a deity managing the process, falna was theoretically impossible.
And yet I felt it.
Not engraved by a god.
Engraved around where one should be.
A ghost falna.
The term formed unbidden in my thoughts, and my stomach dropped as understanding crept in. This wasn't a blessing bestowed. It was a system that had latched onto me—as if the world itself had shrugged and said close enough.
Cold sweat prickled my neck.
If the gods noticed...
If the Guild noticed...
I yanked my shirt back down, heart hammering against my ribs. Gods in Orario didn't tolerate anomalies. Curiosity was dangerous when divinity was involved. Questions led to investigations. Investigations led to dissection—social, political, or literal depending on which deity took interest.
But when I focused—really focused—I could feel it working.
Strength responding more cleanly than it should. Fatigue pulling back slightly faster. Like invisible numbers incrementing without anyone watching the screen.
No prayers needed.
No blessings required.
No god looking over my shoulder.
Just me.
I laughed under my breath, shaky and disbelieving.
"Even here," I whispered, "I don't belong anywhere."
But as I stepped out of the alley and into Orario's lantern-lit evening streets, the warmth flared again—steady, patient, almost approving.
Whatever this falna was, it had chosen me.
And for the first time since waking in this world, I understood something terrifying:
I could grow.
Not as someone's child.
Not as a pawn of heaven.
As an unclaimed variable in a city ruled by gods.
That, I suspect, was far more dangerous than being blessed at all.