The adventurer plate seemed to weigh more than its modest metal suggested in Hikigaya Hachiman's hand as he exited the imposing Guild building. The morning sun still shone, but it now seemed less offensive and more indifferent, illuminating a world that, despite his new official license, remained as hostile and indifferent to his existence as before. He paused for a moment on the bustling sidewalk, watching the flow of experienced adventurers – laughing, showing off expensive gear, clearly heading to or returning from lucrative expeditions – and felt the chasm between them and his own condition widen.
'Adventurer Hikigaya Hachiman, Level 1, Aqua Familia,' he thought. 'The title sounds hollow, almost a cruel joke. Officially recognized, yes. But what does that mean in practice? It meant he was allowed to risk his life in a monster-infested dungeon. It meant he was now a member of a "Familia" composed of himself and a useless, crybaby goddess who, by some cosmic whim, was uniquely bound to him. And, above all, it meant he was fundamentally, utterly, broke.'
A quick glance at his own feet, shod in simple, worn shoes that came from who-knows-where, and at his equally basic clothes, reinforced the situation. 'No money. No Valis. Not a single cent to buy food, let alone the essential equipment Misha had recommended. My "home" is a dilapidated structure in a forgotten alley, a precarious roof over our heads offering neither comfort nor real security. And then there's Aqua. Another mouth to feed, another responsibility I didn't ask for, waiting for me in that damp hovel.'
The irony was overwhelming. 'I have a Falna, a tool for exponential growth in this world. I even have a Skill and Magic that seem absurdly powerful, unexpected gifts from that sarcastic entity. But potential doesn't fill a stomach. Secret abilities don't buy a sword or armor. To turn this potential into survival, I need a starting point. I need to enter the Dungeon, kill monsters, collect the magic stones they drop, and sell them for Valis. The basic cycle of an adventurer's life in Orario.'
But how could he take the first step in this cycle without the minimal tools? Entering the Dungeon empty-handed was suicide, even on the upper floors. He needed a weapon. Armor would be ideal, but a weapon was the most basic and immediate necessity.
'Buying is out of the question,' he reasoned, his gaze sweeping over nearby shop windows displaying gleaming equipment with price tags he couldn't even begin to decipher, but which were certainly far beyond his zero reach. 'Borrowing? Unlikely. No one would lend anything to an unknown rookie from a non-existent Familia. Steal?' The idea surfaced, unpleasant, but his pragmatic mind considered it for an instant before dismissing it. 'The risk of getting caught is too high, and the consequences likely severe. Getting kicked out of the Guild or arrested before I even start would be the end of everything.'
So, what was left? The answer came like an echo of the words engraved on his back, hidden beneath the discreet status update: Unlimited Blade Works. 'The magic itself, the Reality Marble, is beyond my current reach – I can feel it, a dormant vastness I lack the strength or understanding to awaken. But the fundamental basis of this magic: Trace On.'
He focused, searching his newly acquired memory of his own abilities. 'Trace On... the most basic sub-magic. Analyze the conceptual structure of an object... history, composition, purpose... Reinforce... and... Recreate.' The last word resonated. 'Recreate. Copy. That's it. If I can analyze an existing weapon, maybe I can create a copy for myself using mana.'
The idea was ingenious and slightly desperate. It meant using his newly acquired magic in an unconventional and technically illicit way – copying an artisan's design without permission. But it was a solution that didn't involve direct theft and utilized his own resources (mana and the ability itself). It was the kind of loophole his mind always sought.
'I need to test this,' he decided. 'And I need a target.'
With a renewed purpose, Hachiman began walking the streets, no longer just absorbing the atmosphere but actively searching for his objective: a weapon shop. He avoided the large, flashy stores in the main commercial district, where security would likely be tighter and eyes more watchful. Instead, he headed down side streets, looking for smaller establishments, perhaps older or less frequented.
Finally, he found one. A simple shop, with a worn wooden facade and a plain sign that read "Graybeard Smith's Weapons." The display window showed a few lackluster pieces – hand axes, daggers, basic shields, and some functional-looking but unadorned short swords. 'Perfect,' he thought. 'Common weapons, probably mass-produced, and the inside looks relatively empty right now.'
Hachiman took a deep breath, steadying his nerves. He entered the shop, the chime of a small bell attached to the door announcing his arrival. A stout, gray-bearded man, presumably the smith, was in the back, hammering something on an anvil. He looked up, wiped his soot-stained hands on a leather apron, and said in a gruff voice:
"Welcome. Looking for anything specific?"
Hachiman averted his gaze for an instant, feeling slightly guilty about what he was about to do. "Ah... just looking for now," he replied, trying to sound like a casual customer. "I just registered with the Guild, need something basic to start."
The smith nodded, seeming to accept the answer. "I see. Take a look around. If you need help, just holler." He returned to his anvil, but Hachiman sensed the man was keeping an ear out. There was only one other customer in the shop, a novice-looking adventurer examining some daggers on the other side.
'Okay, I have to be quick and discreet,' Hachiman thought. Feigning genuine interest, he approached a rack displaying several identical short swords. They were simple, single-edged weapons, about sixty centimeters long, with rough leather-wrapped hilts and no elaborate handguards. 'This one. Common enough.'
He reached out, stopping just short of touching the hilt. He closed his eyes slightly, focusing his intent while maintaining the posture of someone just evaluating the piece. 'Trace On.'
The sensation was strange and immediate. His mind plunged into the sword, deconstructing it. 'Iron, reasonable carbon... skillfully forged, but unrefined... standard Graybeard Smith process... heat, hammer, quench, sharpen... functional balance...' The sword's history, from raw metal to finished product, unfolded in his mind in seconds. He could feel its weight, its texture, the intent behind it. 'Okay, got it.'
He opened his eyes. The other customer was heading to the counter. The smith was wiping sweat from his brow. Hachiman stepped back from the sword rack.
"That's a good starter sword," the smith commented, noticing Hachiman's gaze. "Sturdy, reliable, and won't cost you an arm and a leg. Gets a lot of rookies through the first few floors."
"Ah, yeah. Looks good," Hachiman replied, his voice slightly strained. "I'll... think about it. Thanks."
"No problem. Come back anytime," the smith said, turning his attention to the other customer.
With the sword's structure firmly etched in his mind, Hachiman left the shop, the bell announcing his departure. 'Made it out without raising suspicion. Now, the hard part.' He needed a secluded spot. He found it a few blocks away – a narrow, foul-smelling alley between two buildings, filled with trash and away from prying eyes. 'Disgusting, but it'll do.'
Taking another deep breath, he held his empty hand out in front of him and focused on the mental image of the short sword. He gathered his mana – 'this faint, still unfamiliar energy, need to learn better control' – and directed it, following the structural "blueprint" he had just acquired. 'Projection.'
The effort was immediate and intense. Creating something from nothing, even a copy, was demanding. He felt his mana draining rapidly, 'a horrible empty feeling'. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his muscles tensed with concentration. Particles of bluish light began to gather in the air before his hand, slowly coalescing.
'Not easy... unstable...' he thought, as the form flickered. The blue light swirled and gradually solidified, magical metal taking shape. 'Align the molecules... define the blade... It's exhausting.' His vision started to darken at the edges, and his legs trembled.
'Just a little more...' he pushed.
Finally, with a last effort that left him panting and dizzy, the light dissipated, and a short sword dropped into his outstretched hand with a soft metallic thud. He almost dropped it. He looked at the weapon. It was identical to the one he had "traced." 'Same length, same shape... maybe a nearly imperceptible bluish sheen? The only clue.'
He gripped it, feeling the familiar weight in his hand. 'It worked. My magic worked. I have a weapon.' But the cost was high. He felt drained, as if he had run a marathon. His mana reserves were almost zero.
'This... is much harder than I thought,' he admitted to himself, panting. 'Recreating a simple sword like this nearly incapacitated me. If I want to make better weapons, or more than one, I'll need much more mana, much more control... I'll need to get stronger. Level 1 really is just the beginning.'
Still, a flicker of satisfaction cut through his exhaustion. He had overcome the first hurdle. He had a tool. A tool created by his own means. It was a small step, but it was a step in the right direction.
Leaning against the alley wall for a moment to catch his breath, Hachiman looked at the sword in his hand and then in the general direction of the gigantic tower that dominated Orario's skyline – Babel, the gateway to the Dungeon. The apprehension was still there, 'a cold knot in his stomach'. But now, mixed with it, was a spark of determination and the tangible possession of a means to fight back.
He tucked the makeshift sword into his makeshift belt ('maybe I can use Trace On to 'reinforce' the belt later, when I have mana again?') and stepped out of the stinking alley, straightening his shoulders. 'The path ahead is dangerous, uncertain, and likely full of pain and hardship. But it's the only path available.'
With slow but steady steps, Hikigaya Hachiman, the newly officialized Level 1 Adventurer of the Aqua Familia, began his walk towards Babel, towards his first foray into the Dungeon. 'The real journey is just beginning.'