When I first witnessed a superhero do battle against a blessed criminal as a child, I was transfixed—utterly convinced that I was watching my own future play out before me.
In the awe-inspiring sight of two of the Lord's chosen tearing each other apart, I had seen myself. It was an arrogant notion, born from youthful ignorance and fueled by childish dreams and ambitions.
The role of the shining hero had never been destined to be mine—at least not in the Solstarian Theocracy. Fate itself had made sure of that.
Still, I had never forgotten the striking figure the superhero cut as he stood victorious over his vanquished foe.
From the might of his Fire Blessing—turning night into day with every exhale—to the attire he wore into battle. His Costume. A coiled dragon had adorned its front, the flaming golden tongue spilling from its gaping maw had matched the one he conjured himself.
Like any superhero's unique symbol, it not only represented his power but also ensured that all who saw it would remember the Blessed it belonged to.
"Are you really going to make me ask?" Welf asked, his disheveled red hair jutting upward like a bird's nest as he glanced at me from the corner of his eye.
"Every blacksmith worth his salt is an artisan—but carving this out of that cow-headed woman's best attempt to forge plainness into armor still took me the better part of the day."
The corners of his lips curled into a smile as his gaze swept across each piece of cloth and metal that together formed the adventurer equivalent of a costume.
"The design came to me the moment we parted ways yesterday," he added. "I couldn't stop myself from working on it as soon as I got back to my smithy."
Quiet wonder guided my steps as I approached the mannequin displaying my new armor.
Like iron to a magnet, my eyes locked onto the symbol etched onto the chestplate.
A large hand, gleaming like molten sunlight.
The gilded symbol formed a striking contrast against the obsidian coloring of the armor and the pristine white cape flowing behind it.
"Is it everything you imagined it would be?" Welf asked.
A small smile tugged on my lips as I reached out and brushed my fingers across the cold metal.
"It's… memorable," I said, assessing the spotless cloth that draped down to the mannequin's knees.
"I was surprised to hear you managed to finish it so quickly."
"Memorable is what I was aiming for," Welf chuckled. "Gods know Orario isn't lacking adventurer's dreaming of fame and heroism. If you really want to stick out and leave a lasting impression in this city, you can't just be powerful. You need to be iconic."
He stepped forward and came to a stop beside me.
"It's the reason why you see so many level 1s prance around, dressed up in the most ridiculous of outfits."
A sharp snort escaped me as he fixed me with a stare.
"An adventurer's reputation is defined by their armor just as much as by—"
"—their alias," I finished, meeting his gaze with matching intensity.
"I know."
The Falna was the divine record of my legend.
If Hestia was to be believed, it was the truest expression of my struggles and accomplishments.
Through the eyes of a goddess like her, that might even have been true.
But I doubted the average person a hundred years from now would care much about the numbers and letters etched onto my back.
To the rest of the world, it was my reputation that determined the language my life's story would be written in.
"You do?" Welf asked, arching an eyebrow. "You're strangely knowledgeable… for a rookie."
"Ah, for fu— not you too," I groaned. "I doubt anyone who's made it is as deep into the dungeon as I have still had to put up with that title."
"You've been an adventurer for less than a fortnight," he scoffed. "Anyone in your shoes would still be stumbling up and down the Beginner's Road."
"Good thing I'm not just anyone then," I muttered, reaching for the armor. "But enough of that. Help me put this on."
A slow grin spread across Welf's face as he watched me lift the chestplate from the mannequin.
"I think you'll manage," he snorted. "Or is putting on armor really too much for the mighty rookie to handle?"
"How funny." My voice was as dry as desert sand as I fastened the leg pieces into place, my gaze lingering on the cape.
"What is this made of anyway? Salamander wool?"
"I'm afraid not," he replied. "That's frost giant fur. Less expensive—but still highly resistant to fire."
My fingers curled around the cold fabric as I attached it to my shoulders. It would not be long before I descended deep enough into the dungeon to encounter infant dragons and their blazing breath—only a fool would face something like that without preparing accordingly.
Death by fire was not a pleasant way to go.
"How do I look?" I asked once I had secured the final piece into place.
Welf's blue eyes gleamed as he looked me up and down.
"Why don't you see for yourself?" He motioned for me to follow and headed toward the far side of the room. "I don't keep this thing around here for nothing."
A strange feeling of permanence settled in my chest as Welf uncovered the utilitarian mirror mounted against the wall.
This was it.
My armor. My symbol. My costume.
"I think I understand why adventurers love strutting around in their armor so much," I mused, appraising my reflection. "This is incredible work, Welf. Thank you."
A hint of color spread across his cheeks as our eyes met through the mirror.
"Feel free to keep the praise coming," he said, his lips curling into an upturned crescent. "Honest appreciation from a satisfied customer is a blacksmith's lifeblood."
His head tilted slightly as his gaze drifted toward my chest.
"Though I have been meaning to ask about that symbol."
Following his line of sight, my eyes fell on the golden hand that marked the center of my armor.
"Is it your Familia emblem?"
"No." I shook my head. "We haven't really thought of one yet. This is… a custom from my homeland."
A wistful note entered my voice as my fingers brushed against the symbol.
The idols I revered in my youth had not turned out to be worthy of my admiration. Far from it. But that did not detract from the fact that it was them who had initially kindled the flames that would ultimately give birth to my dreams of heroism.
The people of this world might never understand the true significance of bearing a symbol—but I would. And it would forever reminded me of where I came from. What I must never allow myself to become.
"The monsters my people fight are different from the ones here. And those with the power to oppose them all wear a unique symbol somewhere on their... armor—just like this one."
A thoughtful hum rumbled from Welf's throat as he nodded slowly.
"I see," he mused, his tone shifting with interest, "why a hand? Is there something I'm missing?"
A moment of hesitation delayed my answer as I considered the man beside me.
Welf had shared his absurdly ambitious dream with me and Rose had given him her seal of approval—but even more importantly, I had taken a liking to him.
There had been times in the past where I failed to recognize the true nature of people I trusted, but something told me that Welf would be different.
"It's a bit silly," I admitted, hesitantly, "but it's supposed to represent… a helping hand—extended to those who need it." My fingers tightened against the breastplate. "That's what I want people to think when they see it."
Welf stared at me in silence for a moment before grinning broadly and clasping my shoulder.
"You really meant it when you talked about that dream of yours, didn't you?" he asked. "The world's future greatest hero and blacksmith working together. What were the odds?"
"… I had that same thought."
"Come on, let's drink to that," Welf called, strolling toward the round table nearby—and the old wooden cupboard behind it.
A slow smile formed on my lips as I followed after him, taking in the room around us with idle curiosity.
Unlike the smithy he had shown me earlier, this one was noticeably colder—and smaller. Though I had not yet seen his personal quarters, the state of his workplace still surprised me.
I had simply assumed that all members of first-class families lived like kings and queens.
"How about this?" Welf asked, holding up two bottles. A dark purple haze tinted the red liquid filling the one he extended toward me. "You do drink grape juice, don't you?"
"Who doesn't?" I replied, shifting my cape aside as I took a seat.
"Fantastic."
My smile dimmed slightly as he poured the juice into a glass and slid it toward me, before filling his own with what I could only assume to be wine.
"There's another layer of meaning behind the symbol," I blurted out. "I have a skill that works through my hands. The Falna calls it Morsalis. It allows me to kill things with a single touch."
Welf's glass stilled halfway up to his lips.
"…You already have a skill?" he asked, his voice tinged with a strange mix of amusement and disbelief. "And it's such a ridiculous one too!"
I watched his reaction closely.
"I do."
By now, perhaps I should have rightfully grown used to how casually the people of this world reacted to my Blessing. And yet, somehow, it still managed to surprise ne.
The only thing they ever seemed to care about was the accelerated status growth it granted me.
"You also made it to the 8th floor already—and solo, no less," Welf continued. "Maybe you really aren't a rookie after all."
A humorous grin spread across his face.
"These are clearly the achievements of a super rookie."
"How funny," I deadpanned. "Is this what I get for sharing one of my most highly guarded secrets?"
Welf's smile deepened as he took a sip of wine.
"I'm being serious," he chuckled. "At this point, I wouldn't even be surprised if you told me you already got your scary hands on a spell."
A familiar frustration stirred in my chest at the mention of magic.
Weeks of effort. Hundreds of allocated stat points. And still, the Falna stubbornly refused to grant me the spell I was due.
It had gotten to the point where I was beginning to wonder whether I should continue asking Hestia to distribute my Excelia evenly across all five attributes.
"I wish," I grumbled, raising the glass of juice toward my lips. "Magic doesn't make any sense. And the process of gaining it is even more incomprehensible than with skills."
"That's why mages are considered an entirely separate category of adventurers," Welf explained. "You're more likely to find a whole party full of people with skills than even one person with a spell."
"Yeah. I noticed."
A moment of quiet passed between us as my gaze drifted to the half-filled glass swirling in my hand.
"You've carried a Falna for barely a breath. Nothing's set in stone yet," Welf added. "Skills appear once you've accomplished something impressive enough to impress even the gods—but magic is different. Mages are made through either intense study or innate talent."
He leaned back in his chair, a faint crease forming between his brows.
"Of course, there are also those few lucky bastards. The ones born from a lineage that guarantees a strong magical affinity—or those rich enough to buy a Grimoire and skip the process entirely."
"What's a Grimoire?"
Welf scoffed as he took a long sip of wine before refilling the glass in one smooth motion.
"They're books, which also happen to be the ultimate cheat code," he grumbled. "I'm usually not too fond of single-use items—it's a principal thing—but even I can't deny how absurd they are. Use one, and whatever spell suits you best will appear in your Falna the next time it's updated."
My hands stilled around my own glass as I stared at him.
What kind of nonsense was that?
"Don't go getting any strange ideas though," Welf snorted. "Those things are a massive investment, even for top-tier families. The executives in my familia sell luxury armor cheaper than a Grimoire's base price—and that's before the cost gets driven up by demand and scarcity."
"How much?" I asked.
"A hundred million. At the absolute lowest."
I choked.
Since I arrived in this world, I had spent the vast majority of my waking hours in the Dungeon. And yet, my savings had just reached the five-digit range again.
"I know," Welf breathed. "As much as I'm aiming for the Blacksmith development ability, Mystery is definitely a close second."
I hummed thoughtfully, easily guessing that Mystery made things like Grimoires possible.
"Apologies if this sounds strange," I began, "but I would not have expected a blacksmith like yourself to care much about magic."
A sharp grin formed on Welf's face as he pointed at himself.
"If it were anyone else, you'd be correct in thinking so," he proclaimed. "But this guy here is far from a one-trick pony."
He straightened proudly in his seat.
"I wouldn't call myself a mage or anything like that, but I do poses a spell of my own."
I blinked, momentarily thrown by the revelation.
Not only was he a talented blacksmith and swordsman, but he could also use magic.
Wasn't this guy a bit too outstanding?
"What does it do?" I asked.
"It…" He paused, a pensive look spreading across his face as his finger traced the rim of his glass.
"It's not a perfect description, but the easiest way to explain it is that it's a kind of anti-magic. I can trigger other people's spells before they finish casting them."
"Huh," I muttered.
A dozen different ways such a spell could be utilized in combat—against both people and monsters alike—flashed through my mind in an instant.
"That's… pretty cool."
"Thanks," Welf chuckled, taking another sip.
A comfortable silence spread between us as my thoughts drifted.
Magic fascinated me.
The Falna classified magic as a skill, but it felt far closer to the Blessings of my old world.
It was unfortunate that Rose had not been able to answer most of my questions regarding it. Despite her extensive experience dealing with them, she had never actually been an adventurer herself—much less a mage.
Even her vast knowledge had its limits.
"Are you sure you don't want me to do some work on your sword?" Welf asked, his gaze trailing across my armor. "I don't doubt Seria sold you something decent, but a bit of of polishing never hurts. Same as with your armor."
"Just decent?" I echoed, arching a brow.
"More like basic," he chuckled. "It's fine for your current level, but the design and artistry behind it definitely had room for improvement."
"Ah," I said. "Yeah, that makes sense."
My sword had served me well, but unlike my armor, it inspired no particular feelings of attachment in me. It was a convenient tool that allowed me to kill efficiently without relying on my blessing.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
"But no," I added. "I'm satisfied with how it looks right now."
I shifted in my seat, fingers tapping rhythmically against the breastplate.
"How much do I owe you for this?"
A flicker of uncertainty crossed Welf's angular features—brief enough that I almost missed it—before he cleared his throat.
"Yeah… about that," he said. "There's something I'd like to discuss first."
I straightened slightly.
"Sure. I'm listening."
His sharp eyes fell to the table as his mouth opened and closed for a long moment.
"There's a reason why I insisted on getting to know you before agreeing to a long-term contract."
He lingered for a moment, his gaze drifting toward the pristine weapons and armor surrounding us.
"It's been a while since I received a customer who was genuinely interested in and appreciative of my work."
"How is that possible?" I interjected, confusion slipping into my voice. "You're a great smith."
Welf's lips twitched faintly as he looked at me again.
"Thank you for saying that, but I'm afraid it has nothing to do with my skills at the forge—and everything to do with my family name."
His expression dimmed.
"And the legacy attached to it."
I reached for the wine bottle and refilled his glass.
Alerted by the strange emphasis people kept placing on the name Crozzo, I had already begun to suspect that there was more to Welf than met the eye.
He gave me a quiet nod of thanks and wrapped his fingers around the glass—then tipped his head back and drained it in one long gulp.
"According to the legends, one of my ancestors was blessed by a spirit long ago and received its blood." Welf breathed out sharply as he set the glass back down on the table. "This led to him awakening a skill he called Crozzo Blood. The ability to forge magic swords."
His voice lowered as his brows slowly drew together.
"It's been passed down through my bloodline ever since. And it has also been the curse of my existence since I was knee-high and first showed talent with a hammer."
My lips thinned slightly as I considered his words.
A blessing that turned out to be a curse was something I understood intimately.
"What's a magic sword?" I asked.
"Are you ser—"
He stopped himself and simply snorted instead, apparently deciding to take my persistent lack of common knowledge in stride.
"They're useless things that only serve to make foolish people feel more powerful and important than they really are." His voice took on a harsh edge. "They're enchanted with a spell their wielder can activate by swinging them—and then they shatter."
I blinked, caught off guard by the bluntness of his explanation.
"What do you mean by 'shatter'?" I asked. "Like… glass?"
"Exactly like glass," he sneered, "none of them survive past a few swings."
"Huh," I muttered. "That doesn't sound very… wise. What if the sword has shattered and the enemy is still alive?"
Welf's expression eased as he leaned back, some of the tension draining from his shoulders.
"I wish more people thought of it that way. Unfortunately, there's never a shortage of idiots eager to take the easy way out. And they expect me to forge that shortcut for them."
My gaze lingered on his face as understanding dawned on mine.
His dream was to become the greatest blacksmith in the world. And yet, all people saw when they looked at him was his family name.
"For what it's worth," I said, injecting a trace of levity into my voice as the corner of my mouth lifted, "I think I'll stick to your regular catalogue. Buying something that breaks the moment I use it doesn't sound very appealing."
"I'm glad to hear it," Welf huffed, dragging a hand through his unruly red hair.
"We've strayed pretty far off topic. Sorry about that."
"It's fine."
He had clearly needed to get that off his chest.
"What I actually wanted to talk to you about was the two of us forming a party," he said. "You mentioned yesterday that you usually go into the Dungeon solo."
"Ah."
I lingered for a moment, my thoughts speeding up as I considered the proposal.
Out of the hundreds of hours I had spent in the Dungeon, my time in it alongside Mikoto had easily been the most enjoyable.
"Why not party with someone from your own familia?" I asked. "Our goddesses are friends, so I don't think it would be a problem. Isn't that how things are usually done here?"
A quiet snort slipped from Welf's nose as he shook his head.
"That's not really the kind of atmosphere we have in this place," he said. "Besides, I've mostly managed fine on my own. It's only now that I'm approaching level 2 that I've started hitting a wall."
"You're close to ranking up?"
"Yes," he confirmed. "The blacksmith development ability is a crucial part of achieving my ambition, so I made sure to balance forging with Dungeon exploration. The lowest I've reached on my own is the 10th floor."
I nodded slowly.
"You're aware I don't have a supporter, right?" I asked. We'll have to look after our loot and supplies ourselves… I've been told that that's something people struggle with."
"I don't," Welt replied without hesitation. "That's how I've been doing things all along."
Faint amusement curled my lips as I glanced around the room.
"Are you sure you're actually part of a first-class Familia?" I asked. "I really thought there would be more benefits to it than this."
"There are," he answered evenly. "But I don't need handouts."
My brows rose slightly as I met his determined gaze.
The fact that he deliberately refused assistance from his familia surprised me less than it probably should have.
No mortal challenged the divine without possessing an extraordinary amount of pride.
"Fair enough," I conceded easily, straightening my cape as I rose to my feet.
"Let's go into the Dungeon together then, Welf."
I would need to introduce him to Mikoto before we got together again in a few days. They were both good people, so I was not worried that they wouldn't get along.
If anything, I was curious to see which one of them would level up first.
My own stats, hovering around the upper reaches of D rank, were still far from the S I had set my sights on—but as long as I kept advancing down the Dungeon's floors and outpaced the diminishing returns granted by weaker monsters, I might still be able to enter the race.
Welf's expression brightened as he stood and clasped the hand I extended toward him.
"That means I can finally answer your earlier question," he smirked. "Since you're now officially the first beneficiary of the Welfare Party discount."
His eyes gleamed with restrained laughter at his own play of words.
"I'll give you the exact number after we see how well the armor holds up in the field."
I simply nodded and took a step back.
If he had been anyone else, I might have suspected he wanted to watch me fight before deciding on how much to change me.
But that clearly wasn't the kind of man Welf was.
"Sounds good," I agreed, suppressing the urge to glance down and marvel at my armor yet again.
"There's something else I've been wondering about," Welf said, a trace of hesitation entering his voice.
"What is it?"
"It's about yesterday."
"Ah."
My smile tightened slightly, threatening to twist into a grimace.
It was not difficult to guess what this was about.
"Something really had you spooked for a moment back there," he continued. "You said you didn't know what it was then. Have you figured it out yet?"
"No."
My mood soured as I rubbed my fingers against the edge of my brow.
"Don't worry about it, though," I added after exhaling deeply. "It's probably nothing."
I had already wasted more than enough time worrying about my mysterious stalker.
Eventually, they would have to reveal themselves.
And when they did—I would deal with them.