It was the same as before.
Even when Noah laid his bare hands upon the Grimoire, Truth Seeker failed to decipher the complete breadth of information locked within its pages.
Was one of the previous holders simply too powerful?
This phenomenon occurred whenever a target's level vastly eclipsed his own.
The same rigid logic applied to the curse.
At its current stage of evolution, the power of Truth Seeker remained inferior to the cosmic weight of the Yog-Sothoth magic.
The spell activated, but it failed to produce the desired dimensional breach.
Perhaps the magic demanded specific, unfulfilled conditions.
As for the nature of those conditions, Truth Seeker offered zero answers.
Noah felt a brief wave of helplessness, but he pushed the frustration aside.
Obsessing over the unknown served no purpose.
...
Returning to the present, Noah awaited his goddess's advice.
Hephaestus rested her forehead against the palm of her hand, a weary sigh escaping her lips.
"Just like your previous level-up, there are so many options available that I do not even want to read the list aloud."
For an adventurer harboring such a vast array of optional Development Abilities, making a single permanent choice was a daunting task.
Magic, Mystery, Blacksmith, Engraving—the Falna offered him a treasure trove of powerful paths to walk.
From a pure craftsman's perspective, selecting Blacksmith represented the most logical route.
Hephaestus likely harbored a strong desire for him to choose Blacksmith and follow in her footsteps.
Yet, out of respect for his autonomy, she kept that personal wish unspoken.
After all, the Mystery ability was leagues rarer than Blacksmith, granting its holder almost mystical status within the city.
A high-tier Development Ability held enough power to dictate the trajectory of an adventurer's entire life.
To avoid swaying his destiny, the goddess chose silence.
'No 'Luck' ability appeared this time, either,' Noah mused.
His base ability scores had not yet reached the absolute physical limits of his vessel, so he maintained a comfortable buffer before his next official level-up.
He possessed ample time to deliberate on his choice.
"Oh, speaking of which, Noah... there is a matter I hope you can assist me with," Hephaestus began, shifting the topic.
"Tsubaki has gone off hiding in some tavern or forge again. I can't count on our captain for this."
When Hephaestus mentioned her Familia's eccentric leader, her expression betrayed no reassurance—only a deep, pulsing headache.
"A favor?" Noah raised an eyebrow.
For the Goddess of Forging to request his favor was a rare occurrence.
"What is it?"
"A rather sensational figure joined our ranks a short while ago. However, the boy does not get along with his fellow Familia members. In short, his peers are ostracizing him, so he has resorted to acting alone. I fear he will die a meaningless death in the Dungeon without anyone knowing. Could you look after him for a bit?"
Noah stifled a sigh.
He could deduce the boy's identity through simple elimination.
Arriving fresh in Orario, joining a prominent Familia, and then charging headlong into the Dungeon alone—it was a tragic, all-too-common template.
Every year, hundreds of hot-blooded rookies met their end in the labyrinth following that exact script.
The complication arose because this specific rookie belonged to the Hephaestus Familia.
As a comrade under the same goddess, Noah could not leave the boy to the mercy of the monsters.
Noah offered a knowing smile. "You are talking about the Crozzo kid, are you not?"
"You heard the rumors?"
"Tsubaki mentioned his arrival in passing."
"Then that simplifies the explanation," Hephaestus said, leaning back in her chair. "You understand why the other smiths shun him. Even if I intervene as their goddess, resentment will fester in their hearts. To be honest, the others have no fault in this. They have not harmed him, they just refuse to associate with him."
Noah understood the friction.
To possess a world-class talent, yet squander it over a stubborn personal grudge—to a dedicated blacksmith who bled over the anvil, witnessing such a half-hearted attitude felt like a direct insult to the profession.
It mocked their lifelong, grueling pursuit of perfection.
As for Welf Crozzo, the boy likely failed to comprehend why his peers treat him with such disdain.
Ignorance was a luxury afforded only to the gifted.
Even if his innate magic sword forging was a power others would kill to obtain, Welf viewed it as a curse.
Because the talent belonged to him, he ignored the feelings of the talentless.
It mirrored a man using pages from a sacred text to stoke a fire right in front of a devout zealot.
It was a walking provocation.
"I believe you can handle this situation with ease," Hephaestus ventured, watching his reaction.
Seeing her cautious demeanor, Noah gave a firm nod.
The goddess had provided him with shelter, guidance, and power, he would not let her down over a simple favor.
Furthermore, he harbored none of the deep-seated disgust for Welf that the other smiths held.
In Noah's memories of the original timeline, Welf was a decent man and possessed an easy-going nature beneath his stubborn exterior.
"Understood," Noah agreed. "I will form a party with him and help him adjust to the rhythm of the Dungeon."
"I leave him in your capable hands."
...
Two days later.
The sprawling plaza in front of the Babel Tower teemed with adventurers.
Noah sat on the smooth stone ledge of the central fountain, thanks to the unique, weight-shifting properties of the slime material, he traveled light.
However, entering the labyrinth with empty hands would draw unwanted attention.
He wore his durable combat suit, his hands clad in the dark reinforced gauntlets known as Raven Feather.
As the appointed hour approached, a young man with short fiery red hair navigated the crowd.
He wore a stiff, guarded expression, but his punctuality spoke volumes, Welf had arrived seven minutes ahead of schedule.
"Welf Crozzo," Noah called out, standing up to meet him. "Hello. I am Noah. I joined the Familia before you."
"I know who you are," Welf muttered, his jaw tight.
He looked at the younger boy who had taken the initiative to greet him.
Scratching the back of his neck, he added, "I have heard the rumors about you until my ears bled, and I have only been in the city for a few days."
Staring down at Noah, who stood a full head shorter than him, Welf could not stop his mind from replaying the absurd tales circulating the taverns.
The fastest adventurer in history to reach Level 2, shattering the legendary Sword Princess's record.
A boy who single-handedly crushed a core executive of the evilus.
The creator of the city's only true, sustainable magic sword.
The architect behind the annihilation of a corrupt human trafficking ring.
Welf found it hard to swallow even a third of those claims.
Seeing the legend in the flesh made the rumors feel even more ridiculous.
The guy was just a kid.
What was Welf doing at that age? Could the gap in capability between two people be this vast?
"Please take care of me down there," Welf said, offering a stiff nod.
"Mm," Noah acknowledged.
He reached down and hoisted the Annihilator with a single fluid motion, resting the flat of the blade against his shoulder.
He raised an eyebrow, waiting for Welf to lead the way.
Seeing the casual display of strength, a spark of genuine surprise broke through Welf's guarded exterior.
As a trained blacksmith, Welf possessed an eye for materials.
He recognized the dense, unforgiving metal making up that exaggerated, slab-like weapon.
A block of solid adamantite of that size weighed a ton.
Welf had received his Falna just days ago.
To a normal human, lifting that weapon would rupture their spinal discs.
Yet, this young boy hoisted it one-handed. His wrist did not tremble, his posture did not waver.
'Is this the true strength of a seasoned adventurer?'
"Is that your weapon?" Noah asked, gesturing to the shoddy, oversized greatsword strapped to Welf's back.
Noah scanned the blade.
The primary material appeared to be low-grade pig iron, haphazardly alloyed with... was that tin ore?
The entire construct was a structural disaster, a brittle piece of junk barely worth its weight in scrap metal.
A vendor might offer eight hundred Valis for it out of pity.
And the creator stood right in front of him. Wielding a fragile slab like that in the Dungeon was a death sentence, the blade would shatter on the first armored monster he struck.
Welf missed the heavy skepticism in Noah's voice.
Instead, he puffed out his chest and patted the hilt of the greatsword. "Hehe, that's right. I forged this bad boy with my own two hands."
Seeing the redhead's bright, confident smile, Noah suppressed a heavy sigh.
He opted for silence, turning on his heel and walking toward the yawning entrance of Babel.
"Hey! If you are moving out, give a warning! Wait up!" Welf jogged to catch up.
'So, this is the current Welf,' Noah thought as they descended the spiral stairs.
'The Welf from a few years in the future was a composed, mature veteran.'
It made sense.
Right now, he was nothing more than a fledgling, stubborn rookie who had just tasted the air of Orario.
The danger of the labyrinth would temper him into the man he was supposed to become.
...
First Floor.
Welf took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the damp, moss-scented air of the Dungeon's upper levels.
He slapped his cheeks with both hands to psych himself up.
"Alright, let us do this!" Welf cheered.
He drew the iron greatsword from his back, gripping the hilt with both hands.
His arms shook slightly under the unbalanced weight.
He possessed zero tactical stance.
The sheer mass of the weapon dictated his movements, rather than his muscles controlling the blade. If he swung it, he would rely entirely on the sword's falling momentum to generate kinetic force.
That was not swordsmanship, that was just reckless smashing! A warrior dragged around by the momentum of his own weapon would lose his footing in a real fight!
Noah cataloged Welf's fatal flaws in an instant, shaking his head by a fraction of an inch.
"Hey, Noah," Welf asked, glancing over his shoulder. "Are you a vanguard? A mid-guard? Or a rear guard?"
Welf jerked a thumb toward his own chest. "You can tell by the size of my sword, right? I am a vanguard. If it is just the two of us, we can both hold the front line, right?"
Seeing the rookie's eager excitement, Noah delivered his answer like a bucket of freezing water.
"I will not be participating in the combat."
"Eh?"
"I am a rear guard, but I am not an attack mage. I'm a supporter. I will manage the battlefield and provide the necessary utility to make your fights manageable. That is the extent of my role."
"Huh? A supporter? Are you kidding me right now? You're a Level 2!"
In standard Familia operations, low-level newcomers shadowed the veterans as passive observers.
They watched, they learned the attack patterns, and then they slowly integrated into the formation.
Yet, here stood a high-level powerhouse declaring he would carry the bags while the greenhorn took all the aggro.
It sounded like a bad joke!
"My level has nothing to do with this," Noah stated, his tone leaving no room for argument.
"I possess the strength to sweep through every monster on these upper floors in a matter of minutes, but watching me slaughter goblins will teach you nothing. I need you to fight on your own feet. As I said, while I will not swing my weapon, I will control the flow of the battle to ensure you do not die."
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