Clothes were handled.
Black.
Less suspicious. Definitely. Everyone says that.
Which is funny, because I love black. Like… really love black.
So of course I picked it. Deliberately.
Because apparently I enjoy putting a target on myself and calling it "personal taste."
Blend in? Nah. Stand out quietly? That's more my speed.
I checked my reflection once.
Yeah. Still looked like trouble. Just cleaner trouble.
I adjusted the jacket and kept walking.
---
Weapon shops were everywhere.
Line the street. Corner to corner. Steel on display like promises.
Some small. Some proud. Some… famous.
Hephaistos Familia.
I didn't go inside. Didn't need to.
You could feel it from outside. The weight. The confidence. Blades that knew what they were worth.
Beautiful work. Reliable. See-you-in-another-life prices.
Affordable? In dreams. Maybe nightmares. Expensive nightmares where you wake up broke but stylish.
I walked past slowly, let my eyes linger just long enough to hurt.
Every sword looked sturdier than mine. Every edge sharper. Every hilt uncracked. Unashamed.
Swords with self-respect. Mine had issues.
My hand brushed my pouch. Heavy. Not heavy enough. Not even close.
I told myself I was being smart. Told myself waiting made sense. Told myself the sword worked.
Barely. Technically.
I didn't stop. Didn't ask about costs. Didn't step inside.
Just moved.
Because looking too long turns into wanting. And wanting turns into bad math.
Future reference. That's all this was.
Yeah. Sure.
---
Wish I could meet Welf. Once.
Not for legends. Not for magic.
One blade. Short sword, maybe. That's enough.
And if I—
No.
White's too much. Hero color. Spotlight shade.
"I'm about to die dramatically and everyone's going to watch" territory.
I'd rather go naked than wear that. At least then I'd know exactly how screwed I am.
And I'd have better mobility.
Priorities.
---
I caught another shop a few blocks down. Different.
Not shining. Not proud. No promises hanging in the window.
Rework. Resale.
That caught my eye.
Reworked meant repaired. Resale meant cheaper.
In theory. Supposedly.
I stepped inside.
Smell of old steel. Oil. Burn marks that never quite left. Blades with history—most of it bad.
But solid. Edges straight. Hilts intact. Balance there if you knew what you were looking at.
A dwarf glanced up from behind the counter. Beard like wire. Arms thicker than my thighs. Possibly thicker than both combined.
He could probably bench press me. One arm. While filing.
"Help ya?"
"Just browsing."
"Uh-huh."
He went back to his work.
I stepped closer to a short sword. Clean repair job. Handle rewrapped. Good weight.
This could work.
I checked the tag. 18,000 valis.
I blinked. Read it again.
Yep. 18,000.
Maybe I misread. Nope. Definitely 18,000.
"…Fine," I muttered under my breath.
Very fine. Exceptionally fine.
Reworked. Resale.
Apparently that just meant someone else already survived with it. Or died with style.
"Anything under 10,000?" I asked.
The dwarf didn't even look up. "Nope."
"...Nothing?"
"Nope."
"Like… nothing at all?"
"Nope."
Cool. Great talk.
A human leaned out from the back room—tall, tired, covered in soot.
He tossed something onto the counter. Small. Metal. Wrapped hilt.
Clattered once.
I stared.
"What is this?"
"A knife."
"..."
"I already have one."
"Then use two."
I looked at the knife. Looked at him. Looked at the dwarf.
The dwarf kept filing. No help there.
"...I'd look even dumber."
The human shrugged. "Then go to Babel. Or find a direct smith."
"Yeah?"
He nodded. Like that was obvious. Like I had options.
"Nope."
I turned and walked out.
Empty-handed. Broke. Armed with a dying blade and exactly one knife. And a spear head practically useless.
I tightened my grip on my pouch and kept moving.
Because apparently "future reference" didn't come with a backup plan. Or a budget.
Just vibes. Bad vibes.
---
So, I couldn't afford a new weapon.
Cool. Great. Fantastic.
Which meant I came back to the dungeon.
Same routine. Same entrance. Same descent.
No leave for me today. Already bad luck. Might as well commit.
Something told me I was getting out of commission soon.
Not dramatically. Not heroically.
Just… eventually.
The kind of slow drop you don't notice until you're already falling.
Same floors. Same monsters. Same cracked sword.
Except a little worse each time.
A little slower. A little closer to breaking.
Keeps dropping.
Always dropping.
---
Ghost Falna.
From today onwards? Waste Falna.
Yep.
No god can sense you. No use having you.
Status update? No way. Growth tracking? Nope. Guidance? Hell no.
Reliable? At least I can go toe-to-toe with one War Shadow at a time.
One. Maybe. If it's having a bad day and I'm having a good one.
Which… let's be honest. Not likely.
A Falna that hides. A broken short sword that's dying. A knife I already had.
And a pouch getting lighter by the hour.
I stepped into the dungeon entrance and took a breath.
"Yep," I muttered.
And headed down.
Again.
***