A faint flutter came from somewhere above the rafters.
Birds—sparrows, by the sound of it—stirring as light crept through the broken shutters.
Morning.
I lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling beams while the building warmed around me. Old wood. Old stone. A place that had seen fire once and never quite forgotten it. What was left of an Astrea Familia property—patched just enough to be called housing instead of ruins.
Growllll.
"...I just ate," I told my stomach.
It growled again.
Louder. Angrier. With profound betrayal.
Impressive loyalty to the cause of making me miserable.
"My enemy," I muttered. "My own stomach. Betrayed by my own organs."
I reached for the pouch beside my bed anyway. Not because I expected a miracle. Just habit. The leather was worn smooth from too many checks, too many recounts, too many moments of doing sad math at dawn.
Two goblin magic stones—already sold.
Gross payout: 250 valis.
Handler's cut: 100 valis.
What reached my hands?
150 valis.
The number didn't soften no matter how long I looked at it.
Ding.
Low funds.
Critical funds.
Poverty status: Confirmed.
That look came back to me then.
The adventurer who handled the sale yesterday.
The way his eyes skimmed my gear—lingered on the half-broken sword at my hip. The blade was snapped clean at the midpoint, jagged edge where steel had given up on life. The remaining half was nicked, worn, the kind of weapon you saw in the hands of people who couldn't afford better.
People like me.
The pause when he noticed it.
That expression—not mocking. Not cruel.
Pity.
The kind you give someone you've already decided won't last long enough for advice to matter.
Like watching a man walk into a bear trap while holding a "Free Hugs" sign.
He took his hundred without comment.
I took the rest without complaint.
Unregistered adventurers don't argue.
They accept the cut—or they attract attention.
And attention in Orario usually came with swords.
I leaned back against the wall and let my head touch the stone. Cool. Rough. Real. Unimpressed with my life choices.
This one's on me.
Dungeon.
Mama Mia.
Home.
Dungeon.
Mama Mia.
Home.
What did I get?
Nothing.
Fight. Eat. Sleep.
Fight. Eat. Sleep.
The cycle of champions.
I pushed myself upright.
Who could save money when Mama Mia existed? That place was a crime. A divine scam wrapped in comfort food. Heaven itself probably lost worshippers to those meals.
I tore off a piece of bread.
"One," I said quietly. "That's all you get."
Dry. Slightly stale. The crust cracked between my teeth. Still food. Technically.
Bread was cheap.
Bread was safe.
Dungeon first.
Food after.
And probably bread again.
The cycle continues.
From today onward, we save.
Famous last words.
I stood, brushed crumbs from my hands, and strapped on my gear. The half-broken sword settled at my hip—familiar weight, familiar shame, familiar reminder that life was going great.
It's broken.
I'm broken.
Can't afford new.
We match.
A beautiful friendship forged in poverty and poor decisions.
Outside, the street was already awake.
The smell hit immediately—oil, fresh bread, something fried that should've been illegal this early in the morning. Voices layered over each other—merchants calling prices, adventurers laughing too loud, the eternal hum of Orario waking up hungry.
My stomach growled.
Traitor.
"No," I said. "Absolutely not."
It disagreed. Loudly. With conviction.
"We have bread at home."
It was unimpressed with this argument.
I tightened the pouch at my waist and walked faster, eyes forward, refusing to acknowledge the stalls. Fifty more valis gone on impulse and I'd be counting crumbs instead of meals.
Strategic financial planning: Avoid all joy.
Because here's the truth no one advertises in Orario:
I don't sell Dungeon drops.
I can't.
No Guild registration.
No god.
No status plate.
No leverage.
No dignity.
Which meant no Exchange.
No price boards.
No "fair market value."
Everything went through someone else.
A handler.
And handlers paid what they felt like paying.
Which was always less than I hoped and more than I could argue for.
I clenched my jaw and kept walking. Boots scuffed stone. The morning air was cool—almost pleasant—before the day's heat settled in and reminded everyone that Orario was built on suffering.
Pathetic?
Yeah. Probably.
But pity didn't buy food.
Valis did.
And right now, I had 150 of it.
Enough to survive another day.
Maybe two if I developed an eating disorder.
In Orario, that counted.
The Dungeon entrance loomed ahead—massive stone archway swallowing sound and second thoughts alike. Adventurers streamed in and out. Confident. Armed. Backed by gods and Familias and health insurance I'd never qualify for.
I adjusted the strap on my shoulder and stepped forward.
Bread could wait.
I needed to earn the next one.
And probably cry about it later.
---
I descended into the Dungeon.
First floor.
Those soft blue walls—calm, yet unsettling. Beautiful in a way that made your breath catch.
Like staring at something that could kill you but looked too pretty to care.
Butcher Skill Activate!
Just kidding.
There was no dramatic activation sequence. No glowing aura. No system message congratulating me on unlocking "Meat Mastery."
Just trauma, muscle memory, and questionable life choices.
Back in my original world, it meant part-time work behind stainless steel counters. Sunday shifts that started too early and ended too late. Meat hooks. Bone saws. Fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like the universe's way of saying "this is your life now."
Learning where to cut so nothing slipped.
Learning how bodies moved when weight shifted the wrong way.
Learning that chickens were surprisingly heavy and your boss surprisingly unsympathetic when you complained about back pain at eighteen.
Scholarship student by weekday.
Butcher by necessity.
Emotionally damaged by both.
You learned fast or you lost fingers.
That habit never left.
So, when I stepped into the Dungeon, I didn't think fight.
I thought space.
Weight distribution.
Movement patterns.
Where to cut so things stopped moving.
Turns out, goblins and pigs had a lot in common.
Both were ugly.
Both smelled bad.
Both died when you stabbed them correctly.
Professional skills: Transferable.
Ghost Falna?
Cool name.
Completely useless.
That warm presence between my shoulder blades—the one that appeared that first night when I'd wandered Orario like a lost tourist—was still there. Constant. Quiet. A system that latched on without permission, engraved around where a god should be but wasn't.
Only slight speed boost. Slight strength improvement.
Still useless.
No godly awakening. No otherworlder privilege. No protagonist halo.
Just me, a half-broken sword, and a falna that couldn't even be read because I didn't have a god to translate it.
Dangerous if noticed.
Pathetic if not.
I'd stopped thinking about it after the first week. What was the point? It wasn't making me stronger. Wasn't making survival easier. Just existed, like everything else in my life—present but unhelpful.
At least it matched the sword.
Both broken.
Both ignored.
Both still here.
***