A young boy, bloodied and battered, stood amidst a field of corpses, his small frame rising in triumph. Surrounding him were the remains of six wild wolves, their lifeless bodies sprawled across the ground. Half of them were already dead, while the remaining three twitched and writhed, caught in the throes of death, their souls already stepping into the afterlife.
"Shiro!"
A desperate scream cut through the eerie silence, yanking the boy back to reality. His golden-amber eyes flickered toward the direction of the voice, his mind instantly recognizing it. He turned his head, sweat dripping from his brow, and saw a dozen or so villagers rushing toward him, their faces pale with worry. Among them were his childhood friend, their expressions filled with panic and fear as they sprinted toward him.
"You're late," Shiro called out, flashing a wide, cheeky grin despite his bloodied appearance.
"You suicidal brat!"
The first to reach him was his uncle—the only adventurer in their small village. His sharp, battle-hardened eyes scanned Shiro's battered body, his frown deepening as he took in the severity of his injuries. Without a moment's hesitation, he pulled out a small vial of liquid—a healing potion—and quickly uncorked it. Pouring the glowing liquid over Shiro's wounds, he watched as the injuries began to heal at an astonishing rate. The boy's torn flesh closed up, bruises faded, and blood-stained skin regained its natural color in mere seconds.
Shiro stared in awe, his breath hitching. He knew this world was one of swords and magic, yet witnessing its miraculous wonders firsthand left him speechless. The reality of it all struck him like a hammer. This wasn't Earth. This was another world entirely.
Shiro was no ordinary boy.
He was a reincarnated otherworlder—a man whose life had already ended once. In his previous existence, he had died during the chaos of World War III, only to be reborn into a world far too familiar to him. A world that once existed only in fiction.
This was the world of Danmachi—also known as Is It Wrong to Try to Pick Up Girls in a Dungeon?
Currently, he lived in a small farming village located neither too close nor too far from Orario, a village under the jurisdiction of the Demeter Familia. He had even caught a glimpse of the goddess Demeter once—and damn, she was stunning.
No, stunning was an understatement. She was transcendent. Her beauty was almost divine—well, she was a goddess, after all—but more than that, those two bountiful, gravity-defying assets of hers were something else entirely. Just remembering them made Shiro feel lightheaded.
But before he could get lost in his daydreams, his mind returned to what had happened earlier.
It all started when he and his childhood friend, Airmid Teasanare, had been playing near the river. Out of nowhere, a pack of wolves lunged at Airmid from the dense underbrush. Shiro had barely reacted in time, gripping his wooden sword tightly as he charged forward, thrusting it into the eye of the nearest wolf. The beast howled in agony, releasing Airmid from its jaws.
"Run!" he had shouted at her. "Go get help! I'll hold them off!"
But Airmid had refused to leave.
"Don't be stupid, Shiro!" she had cried, her voice trembling. "I won't leave you behind!"
Dumb girl. She didn't realize that by staying, she was putting them both in greater danger. Shiro had grit his teeth, forcing himself to stay calm. He knew why she was acting this way. Her parents had died in a monster attack, leaving her with a deep-seated fear of losing those she cared about. She didn't want to lose him too.
But Shiro wasn't about to let them both die because of sentimentality.
"Airmid! Go get my uncle! He's the only adventurer in the village! I'll keep them busy until you get back!"
Reluctantly, Airmid had run toward the village, her eyes filled with hesitation. Unfortunately, that left Shiro alone. The moment she was gone, the remaining wolves encircled him, their sharp fangs bared, their hungry eyes locked onto his small frame.
Just my luck.
But instead of despair, excitement had surged through Shiro's veins.
In his past life, he had been an obedient citizen, following the laws and morality of men. But when World War III erupted, something inside him had snapped. He hadn't joined any official army, choosing instead to become a mercenary. He killed without hesitation—whether they were invaders or even his own countrymen, it didn't matter. If he deemed them enemies, they were as good as dead. He had let loose, surrendering to his primal instincts, until, in the end, he was betrayed and executed by his supposed allies.
And now, facing an impossible battle once more, he had refused to back down.
The result?
Six wolves slain. Three already dead. Three on death's door.
And him? Battered and bloody, but alive.
An extraordinary feat for an ordinary twelve-year-old boy.
If only his past memories had returned sooner. If they had resurfaced years ago, he could have trained his body, adapted, and easily dispatched the wolves without sustaining any injuries. Yet, despite only now regaining his memories, his instincts had remained sharp. His body had reacted just as his past self would have, as if his previous life's experiences had been ingrained into his very soul.
"Damn brat, you've got guts," his uncle muttered, surveying the corpses of the wolves with a single glance. He could see it clearly—Shiro had struck with deadly precision, each wound a calculated strike to a vital point. Even the unfortunate male wolves had their family jewels crushed beyond repair. No wonder the three remaining wolves were still twitching in agony.
His nephew was a monster in disguise. The thought sent a chill down his spine.
"Shiro!"
Airmid finally arrived, her face streaked with tears. She was about to throw herself at Shiro, but his uncle grabbed her by the collar just in time.
"Oi, don't go jumping on him, you reckless brat! He's still injured! You'll only make things worse," his uncle scolded her.
Airmid, realizing her mistake, nodded quickly, swallowing her panic.
'Damn old man, that was a perfect moment, and you ruined it,' Shiro grumbled inwardly, cursing his uncle under his breath.
His uncle, noticing the glare, smirked and stuck out his tongue in amusement.
Then, looking up at the sky, the man's expression softened. A melancholic smile crossed his lips as he muttered, "My lady… your son's grown up now."
Shiro watched him in silence, raising an eyebrow.
What the hell? Why was this old man suddenly getting sentimental? He was acting like some melodramatic fool out of a storybook.