The first thing that registered in Hikigaya Hachiman's consciousness was not the faint morning light filtering through the cracks of the abandoned house, nor the persistent smell of dust and dampness, but rather a warm weight and soft, rhythmic breathing uncomfortably close to his face. He opened his eyes slowly, his vision focusing on the vibrant blue hair spread across his chest and the thin arm wrapped possessively around him. Aqua was clinging to him like a needy divine koala as she slept, murmuring something unintelligible about pudding or purification.
'Oh, for the love of...', Hachiman sighed internally, feeling a vein throb in his forehead. Exasperated, he tried to carefully disentangle himself, but Aqua just mumbled and clung tighter. 'Unbelievable. Yesterday I risked my life, got injured, earned a pittance, and my reward is waking up being used as a teddy bear by a useless goddess.'
Despite the irritation and physical discomfort (sleeping on the hard floor hadn't done wonders for his back), a spark of determination reignited within him. Yesterday was brutal, but he survived. He gained status. He earned Valis. He had a tool – his magic – that could be the key to more than just surviving day by day. 'I can't stop now. I have to keep going. I have to get stronger.' He needed to get up, needed to go back to the Dungeon. With a slightly more abrupt movement, he finally managed to free himself from Aqua's sleepy embrace, who just turned over and continued sleeping on the floor.
He sat up, stretching his sore muscles. As his mind began to clear, replaying the previous day's events and planning the next dive into the Dungeon, a thought began to form, an offshoot of his reflections on the "Blacksmith" Development Ability.
'Trace On... I analyzed the Grizzled Blacksmith's sword. I felt its history, the creation process, his experience embedded in that specific object. That gave me the Blacksmith ability, even at Level 1. So... the analysis isn't limited to physical structure or composition.' His mind raced. 'The magic's description... analyze an object's history. What if I could do that intentionally? Not just passively feel, but actively extract?'
He thought about his own lack of combat experience. Yesterday, he survived by luck, by facing weak and isolated enemies, and perhaps by a slight boost from his Skill. But he was fundamentally a clumsy novice. Training would take time, time he might not have. But what if... what if he could absorb the experience of others through the objects they used?
'Old, worn, discarded equipment... they must carry echoes of their former owners. Years of use, of combat... If I could trace the history of a weapon used by an experienced adventurer, perhaps I could... assimilate part of that experience? Understand the movements, the reactions, the tactics, even if only rudimentarily?'
The idea was exciting and potentially revolutionary for someone in his position. A shortcut, perhaps? Or a form of accelerated learning? It wouldn't make him skilled overnight, but it could give him a foundation, an intuitive understanding he completely lacked.
'I need to try,' Hachiman decided. 'I need to find a suitable object.'
With a new goal in mind, he quietly left the house, leaving Aqua asleep. Where would adventurers discard old or broken equipment? He thought logically. 'Maybe near blacksmiths, where they try to sell them as scrap? Or in trash piles in alleys near taverns or even the Guild? Places where the old is replaced by the new.'
He began his search through the less reputable parts of Orario, rummaging through alleys and disposal areas. The smell was often unpleasant, and he received some suspicious glances from other scavengers or local residents, but he was focused. After nearly an hour of fruitless searching through rubble and common trash, he finally found a small scrap heap behind a modest blacksmith shop, different from the one he visited yesterday. Among pieces of twisted metal and dented shields, he spotted it: a sword.
It was in terrible condition. The blade was worn, full of nicks, and covered in a thick layer of red rust. The leather hilt was rotten and falling apart, and the guard was bent. Clearly, it was a weapon that had seen much better days and had been discarded as completely unusable. 'Perfect. The more used it is, the more history it must have accumulated.'
Hachiman picked up the rusty sword, feeling the uneven weight and the rough texture of the corrosion. Making sure no one was watching in that forgotten corner of the city, he concentrated, directing his Trace On not at the physical structure (which was obviously compromised), but at the history contained within the metal.
'Trace On. Show me your past.'
The sensation was different from before. It wasn't the cold, structural analysis of the Grizzled Blacksmith's sword. It was like opening an old, dusty book, or watching a grainy, ghost-filled film. Images and sensations flowed from the rusty metal into his mind.
A middle-aged man, his face marked by time and small scars. He wasn't large or muscular, but his eyes were alert, experienced. He wielded this same sword, then new and shiny, in the blue corridors of the Dungeon's first floor. He fought Goblins, not with brute force, but with economical movements, parrying blows at the last second, using the terrain to his advantage. He took meticulous care of the sword after each expedition, sharpening the blade, cleaning off monster blood.
Years passed in fragmented images. The man remained Level 1. Perhaps he never had the potential or luck to level up, or maybe he was content just surviving on the upper floors. But his experience was palpable. He knew the attack patterns of Goblins and Kobolds. He knew how to avoid ambushes. He knew when to retreat.
The sword aged with him. Nicks appeared on the blade from desperate blocks. Rust began to appear in the corners, despite his maintenance efforts. Finally, the image of the man, now visibly older, looking at the worn sword in his hands with a sigh of resignation. He had replaced it with a new one, perhaps bought with years of savings. And this old companion was set aside, eventually discarded here, on this scrap heap, forgotten.
'Incredible...', Hachiman thought, absorbing the stream of information. It was the complete history of a tool and its user. But he wanted more than just the history. 'The experience... the movements... the instinct...' He focused on the combat memories, trying not just to observe, but to feel what the adventurer felt, to understand why he moved that way.
He felt the ghost of the sword in the man's hand, the slight wrist adjustment to parry a club blow, the way of stepping to maintain balance on uneven ground, the quick assessment of a Goblin group to identify the leader or the weakest one. It wasn't as if he suddenly knew how to fight, but it was as if layers of practical knowledge, of muscle memory engraved in the steel, were being transferred to him, forming a foundation, a combat vocabulary he hadn't possessed before.
When the flow of information subsided, Hachiman opened his eyes, feeling mentally exhausted, but also... different. He looked at the rusty sword in his hands and then at his own empty hand. He felt he understood better how to hold and wield a short sword, even if his physical body wasn't yet fully up to par with that knowledge.
'It worked,' he thought, a rare flicker of genuine optimism arising. 'I can learn from the past trapped in objects. This... this changes things.'
He left the rusty sword where he found it – it had served its purpose for him – and returned home, his mind buzzing with new possibilities and newly acquired knowledge.
He found Aqua awake, sitting on the floor, pouting.
"Ah, you're back," she said, without much enthusiasm. "Where were you? Looking for more street food?"
"I was... researching," Hachiman replied vaguely. He looked around the miserable room, then at Aqua. "I'm going to get ready. I'm going to the Dungeon again today."
Aqua groaned audibly. "Again? That boring, smelly place? You just got back!"
"It's the only way we can get money," Hachiman retorted, his voice tired but firm. "Money for better food, to fix this place... and for you to have your pudding someday." He knew mentioning sweets was the quickest way to get some cooperation, or at least lessen the complaints.
The mention of pudding made Aqua's eyes sparkle for an instant. "Hmmph. Pudding... Right." She crossed her arms, adopting an air of importance. "Then go! Go and bring back lots of Valis for your goddess! And try not to come back so dirty and hurt this time! It's depressing having a single follower who looks like a rag pulled from the trash."
Hachiman ignored the last part of the comment. He picked up his projected sword, which was still on his belt from yesterday. He held it, and this time, the weight felt a little more natural in his hand. Driven by the memories absorbed from the rusty sword, he tried a few basic movements in the air – a slash, a thrust, a block. His movements were still fundamentally those of a novice, but there was a suggestion of purpose, a shadow of efficiency that hadn't existed the morning before.
'I'm still weak. Still Level 1,' he reminded himself, tempering the slight optimism with a dose of realism. 'But now... maybe I have a slightly better chance. Maybe I won't get hurt so easily.'
With this cautious hope and the phantom knowledge of an old adventurer in his mind and perhaps subtly in his muscles, Hikigaya Hachiman left the abandoned house and his complaining goddess behind, walking alone towards the imposing entrance of Babel, ready to face the Dungeon for the second time.