The memories came back all at once, a brutal deluge the moment my cracked leather boots touched Orario’s paved streets. One second, I was Elian, a thirteen-year-old half-elf from a village so small it didn’t have a name, gawking at the impossible spire of Babel. The next, I was someone else, someone older, from another world entirely, who knew that the tower was called Babel, that the city was called Orario, and that my entire life was about to become a footnote in someone else’s heroic epic.
The sensory overload was staggering. The reek of a thousand unwashed bodies, sizzled monster meat, and cloying perfume. The din of bartering, of clanging steel from distant forges, of a dozen languages I suddenly understood. And the stone. My hand, of its own accord, drifted down to press against the cool, dressed granite of a nearby building. My fingers traced the deliberate tooling marks, the faint grit left behind by the mason’s chisel. It was a stupid, grounding habit I’d had since I was small—the need to feel the texture of worked stone. Smooth, but not slick. Solid. Real.
Cobblestones, on the other hand, are a romanticised lie. They look charming in pictures, but in reality, they’re an ankle-twisting nightmare designed by sadists. Each step was a minor calculation.
My past self—the one who read the story—was screaming at me. *Find Hestia. Find the tiny, broke goddess before Bell Cranel does. Take his place. Become the hero.*
My current self, the one whose stomach was gnawing a hole in his spine after a week on the road eating nothing but dried fruit and hardtack, had other ideas. Betting my entire future on a goddess who was, at this exact moment, working a food stall for a pittance and racking up a hundred-million-valis debt seemed… unwise. Heroism didn’t fill your stomach. Excelia did, and you only got that by surviving the Dungeon.
Bell Cranel could have his story. I just wanted to live.
Which meant I needed a Falna. And a strong, stable Familia to back it. A Familia that wasn't a narrative-driven disaster waiting to happen.
Hephaestus.
It was the logical choice. The best smiths in the world. A massive, powerful Familia with resources, structure, and a no-nonsense goddess. They valued skill and hard work. Perfect. My elven blood gave me a natural dexterity, and I was a quick study. I could learn to smith. I could contribute.
I squared my shoulders, ignoring the phantom voice of the reader I used to be, and navigated the chaotic streets towards the northwest district. The air grew warmer, the rhythmic clang of hammers on anvils becoming a constant, deafening heartbeat. The Hephaestus Familia headquarters wasn't a single building but a sprawling complex of stone and iron, smoke pluming from a dozen chimneys. A wall of heat washed over me as I approached the main entrance, a huge set of iron-banded doors guarded by a stern-looking dwarf in plate armour.
"State your business," he grunted, his hand resting on the pommel of a war axe that was almost as tall as I was.
"I wish to petition for entry into the Hephaestus Familia," I said, trying to keep my voice from cracking.
The dwarf gave me a slow, deliberate once-over. His eyes lingered on my pointed ears. "We ain't recruiting. Especially not green kids with no gear and no name."
"I'm a fast learner," I insisted, my own initiative feeling more like foolishness with every passing moment. "I can work. I'll do anything. Clean the forges, run errands, anything."
"That's what they all say," he sighed, the sound like rocks grinding together. He wasn't even angry, just tired. "Look, kid. We forge gear for heroes. We don't raise them from scratch. Come back when you've made a name for yourself. Or, better yet, don't."
He turned his attention back to the street, a silent, final dismissal. The iron doors remained shut. The heat from the forges felt mocking now. So much for my logical plan. The world didn't run on logic; it ran on reputation, and I had none.
Dejected, I wandered away, the cacophony of the smithies fading behind me. My feet led me aimlessly, until the sounds of the city softened and the streets narrowed. I was in a quieter, poorer residential area. The grand stone façades gave way to wood and plaster. The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows that felt like grasping fingers.
Fine. Plan B it was. Find the walking disaster of a goddess.
But I couldn't approach her without a Falna. To a god, a mortal without a Falna was just… a person. To get one, I needed a god. Any god.
I was leaning against a crumbling brick wall, catching my breath and my thoughts, when a voice cut through my brooding.
"You look lost."
I turned. He was sitting on the steps of a tiny, dilapidated shrine that was practically squeezed between two tenements. He was slight of build, with kind eyes and unassuming brown hair. He wore a simple grey chiton that had seen better days. The only thing that marked him as more than human was the faint, almost imperceptible aura of something *other*.
"I'm new in Orario," I said, which was true enough. "Looking for… opportunities."
"Ah, an aspiring adventurer," he said with a soft smile. "The city is full of them. And full of gods who have closed their doors. I've seen a dozen like you today, turned away from Loki, from Ganesha, from Hephaestus." He gestured to the empty air. "Big Familia, you see. They have no time for saplings. They desire only strong oaks."
He patted the step next to him. "I am Photinus. And my Familia has room for a sapling. If you are willing to grow in humble soil."
I hesitated. My meta-knowledge had zero information on a god named Photinus. He was a nobody. Joining his Familia would be almost as bad as being on my own.
But the sun was setting. I was alone. And he was offering.
"You'd give me your Falna?" I asked, unable to keep the disbelief out of my voice. "Just like that?"
"A god with no children is just a lonely immortal," he said, his smile tinged with a melancholy that felt ancient. "And a mortal with ambition but no Falna is just a dream waiting to die. We can help each other. I ask only for your loyalty."
I looked at his gentle face, at the worn steps of his pathetic little shrine. This was a desperate god. And I was a desperate boy. It was a perfect match.
"I accept," I said.
The ritual was surprisingly simple. I turned my back, pulling up the rough linen of my shirt. Photinus pricked his thumb with a small, sharpened pin. I felt a single drop of divine blood, impossibly warm, land between my shoulder blades. It didn't burn. It was more like sinking into a hot bath, a warmth that spread through my veins and settled deep in my bones. An intricate pattern, invisible to the naked eye, bloomed across my back.
"It is done," he whispered. "Now, let us update your Status. It will be… modest, at first."
He placed his hand on the emblem. I felt a strange tingling, and then he pulled out a small, unassuming piece of parchment from his sleeve. He scribbled on it for a moment, his brow furrowed in concentration.
"Here," he said, handing it to me. "Your first steps, Elian."
My hands trembled as I took the paper. My own Status. The foundation of my new life.
**Elian**
**Lv. 1**
**Strength: I-58**
**Endurance: I-44**
**Dexterity: H-121**
**Agility: H-115**
**Magic: G-209**
**Skills:**
**[Liar's Requiem]**
**• ???**
I stared at it. The stats were decent enough for a starting half-elf, especially the high base Magic. It was the other part that made my blood run cold.
My knowledge, the one thing I was counting on, contained nothing about a skill called [Liar's Requiem]. It was a blank. An anomaly. An aberration in a story I thought I knew by heart.
The parchment shook in my grasp. The solid ground of Orario, the heavy reality of the stone I had touched just an hour ago, suddenly felt like thin ice. The path forward wasn't a road I recognized from a book; it was a dark, unmarked trail, and my first step had just landed me somewhere completely unknown.
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