Orario was a city of altars and alleys.
The gods ruled from marble halls and towers of laughter. But if you wanted to live — really live, where the danger bled into desperation — you went below the markets. Past the brightly lit stalls. Past the guided tours and the street performers and the sponsored blacksmiths.
That's where I went.
Because gear didn't care how shiny your Familia crest was.And neither did I. The lower district didn't have signs. It had smells—oil and iron, sweat and burnt leather. I passed a booth selling cracked breastplates, another peddling used gloves still stained with blood. Most of what I saw was too expensive, too worn out, or too obviously broken.
After nearly an hour of walking in circles, asking questions, and getting more scoffs than answers, I stumbled across a squat, soot-streaked forge jammed between two closed potion stalls. The heat from the furnace bled into the street. A dwarf was hammering away at a bent sword, muttering curses through his beard.
I waited until he took a break to drink from a dented canteen.
"You selling anything I can afford?" I asked, stepping into the shade.
He looked up, eyes squinting through the smoke. "You don't look like you can afford anything."
"That's fair," I said. "But maybe we can trade. I've got a trick or two. Let me try something on one of your rejects. If it works, I walk out with it. If not, I leave."
He arched a brow, unconvinced. "You know how many greenhorns come through here promising tricks? Half of 'em break the damn thing worse."
"I won't," I said. "Just let me try."
He waved a thick hand toward a pile near the back wall. "Fine. Don't cry when it bites."
I dug through a rusted heap of discarded blades and hilts. Most were worthless. But eventually, I found a short dagger—the edge chipped, the hilt loose, but the core was solid. It had potential.
I knelt on the floor, placed the blade flat on a slab of wood, and exhaled.
This part wasn't instinct. It wasn't skill. It was guesswork — built on fragments of information I shouldn't even have. Meta-knowledge from anime I'd watched back home.
The phrase came to mind like a reflex. Not magic. Not real. But...
Trace... on.
In the Fate universe, it was a spell. Structural analysis. Reinforcement. I remembered the rhythm of it, the concept behind it. Visualizing the internal composition of an object and reinforcing it along its natural lines.
Here? I had no circuits. No training. But I had instinct. Intent. A sliver of mana in my blood since I'd fallen into this spiral of worlds.
I concentrated on the blade's shape. Where it faltered. Where it should have held. And I willed that stability into it. The hilt tightened. The balance settled. The edge didn't gleam, but it straightened just enough. It was a crude imitation, a child scribbling a spell circle in the dirt—but it worked. For now.
The dwarf leaned over and squinted. He picked it up, tested the weight, tapped it against the bench.
"That was half-cracked steel a minute ago. You made it hold."
"Temporarily. Just enough to matter."
He grunted. "Where'd you learn that?"
I shrugged. "Bit of theory. Bit of luck."
He stared a little longer, then nodded once. "Fine. You can take it. But don't expect charity twice."
"I won't."
Next came armor. Which was harder.
The dagger had cost me time and sweat. Armor cost more of both. I asked three different stall owners before one even let me touch the merchandise. Most laughed when I said I had no valis.
Eventually, I found an older woman running a street-side scrap shop. She was stacking worn leather chestplates like they were going out of fashion.
"You trade?" I asked.
"Depends. What have you got?"
I reached into my coat and pulled out a sealed vial I'd lifted from a dusty corner of Calamus' house. No label, but it shimmered faintly. Honestly, I wasn't even sure if it was meant for alchemy or old tea. But it looked just useful enough to bluff with—and more importantly, Calamus wouldn't miss it.
"Alchemical," I said with a casual smile. "Not sure what kind. Might be junk. Might not."
She took it, turned it in the light, sniffed it.
"Could be stabilizer oil," she muttered. "Or perfume. Hard to say."
"Worth a shoulder guard?"
She narrowed her eyes. Then shrugged. "If it blows up, I'll remember your face."
"heh''
I left wearing a mismatched hide mantle, the dagger tucked beneath it.
The Dungeon entrance waited beneath the Tower.
Not loud. Not grand. Just present.
The guards didn't stop me. One of them saw the Guild pass clipped to my belt and gave a nod that felt more like habit than approval.
I stepped down.
Stone swallowed sound.
The air thinned. Cooled. Stilled.
The stairs curved down like the throat of a god.
Each step felt like an ending. And a beginning.
My boots hit the first floor. The Dungeon didn't greet me.
It waited.
And so did I.
For the first real test.
For the blood.
And for the name I'd carve out of silence.