Scavenging the Unclaimed Assessment
I needed weapons.
No money. No way to buy. And the one thing I owned from my old world—a watch—I couldn't use.
Selling it would invite questions. Curiosity. Danger.
A strange object, strange metal, strange design? In Orario, that was how gods started sniffing around.
So I hid it.
Deep inside the rubble, wrapped and buried.
If I ever wanted it again, I could come back.
…Probably not.
"Alright," I muttered. "Spoils it is."
The Location
I didn't go straight in.
That was rule one.
The building sat half-swallowed by two collapsed structures in the outer ring of Orario—same neglected belt as Bell's church, far from Babel, far from main roads. Stone blackened by old fire. Not fresh. Not recent. The kind of burn that had soaked into the walls and stayed there because no one cared enough to clean it.
The roof sagged in the middle, but the side walls still stood, stubborn and tired.
Above what used to be the entrance, a symbol had been scratched nearly flat.
Astrea.
Someone had tried to erase it. They hadn't tried very hard.
That alone told me this wasn't looted clean. People came here, saw the name, and decided it wasn't worth the trouble—too damaged to reuse, too uncomfortable to restore. Everyone remembered why this place exists.
Good.
The front door was sealed—good.
I slipped in through a side window—no glass, old boards rotted and pulled away long ago. I stepped carefully, placing my feet where dust lay thick and undisturbed. No fresh tracks. No animals. No squatters.
The air smelled of ash and cold stone.
Inside, the place wasn't a home. It was an outpost.
One wide room where people must've gathered briefly—orders, plans, arguments spoken too fast. Narrow side rooms stripped bare, probably storage once. And at the back, a chamber with scorched stone and cracked pillars, like something heavy had hit the ground there more than once.
The Search First Hour — Nothing
Just debris.
Broken shelves. Empty crates. Rotting cloth.
This was expected. First looters already took anything obvious. Anyone hoping for treasure here would leave disappointed.
Dust in my lungs. Rust on my fingers. My knees aching from crouching and crawling.
Second Hour — Partial Finds
Near the back chamber, under fallen stone, I found a splintered wooden shaft. A spear shaft. Rotten through. Useless.
But nearby, half-buried in dust, the metal head still lay where it had bounced and stopped.
The edges were nicked. Uneven. Still sharp enough to cut skin with slight polish.
"I could use the edges," I reasoned, wrapping it in cloth. "Cutting. Not throwing."
"…Shuriken?"
I snorted. "No. I'm not a ninja. Manual cutting it is."
Third Hour — The Real Find
Then—behind a collapsed wall panel—I found it.
A short sword.
Or what was left of one.
The blade was snapped cleanly halfway down, the break dull and old. Rust covered the surface, but when I scraped it with my thumb, steel showed through underneath. Someone had polished this once. Maintained it. Used it until it failed.
It hadn't been placed here.
It had fallen here.
That mattered.
"…This can work," I said quietly.
As a sword? No.
But as a long dagger? Yes.
I tested the weight. Awkward. Unbalanced. But solid.
Then I saw it.
A shoe.
I stared at it for a second too long.
"…No," I muttered.
I nudged it with the broken blade. "I'm desperate, not that desperate. And no—I'm not developing a shoe fetish."
Then I paused.
Not thrown carelessly. Not trash. Placed near the wall, half-buried under dust and fallen plaster.
I crouched.
Leather, worn thin at the heel. The stitching reinforced twice, unevenly—someone had repaired it by hand, not by a shop. The size was small. Too small for most men. Too narrow for heavy armor boots.
My mind reached, unbidden, for names I'd only known from stories.
Leon. Alise. Kaguya.
I didn't know which one. I couldn't know. But the shoe fit the idea of them—someone fast, someone who moved a lot, someone who didn't replace gear unless it was absolutely necessary.
Just… left behind.
Not dropped mid-fight. Set aside.
"…You left in a hurry," I murmured.
That meant whoever wore this didn't fall here. They walked away. Barefoot, injured, or borrowing someone else's gear—but alive.
I placed the shoe back where I found it.
Some things weren't spoils. Some things were evidence.
Final Sweep.
A full-length sword lay nearby—cracked at the tang. Dangerous. One bad swing and it would shatter into the hand holding it.
"Nope," I said firmly, setting it aside.
A knife surfaced under rubble. Small. Plain. Blade dulled but intact. Handle wrapped in old leather, darkened with age.
This one felt… honest.
No armor. No bags. No money.
Only what no one wanted.
Final Assessment
I laid everything out on a broken slab and stared, forcing myself to think like someone who wanted to survive, not look cool.
Full sword — dangerous to the user
Spearhead — situational, awkward
Knife — reliable, but short reach
Broken short sword — best balance
The short sword fragment won.
I wrapped cloth around the broken end for a grip. Tested a few swings. Slow. Controlled. No wobble.
"Alright," I breathed. "You're ugly. You're illegal. And you're mine."
It wasn't a weapon of heroes.
But it was enough to not die immediately.
One Thing I Didn't Notice
There was no blood.
Not dried. Not washed away. Not even stains ground into the stone.
For a place used during the Astrea conflict—where fighting definitely happened—that absence was wrong.
This wasn't a massacre site. It was an evacuation point. A place they left, not where they fell.
That explained why weapons were broken, not dropped mid-fight. Why supplies were taken carefully. Why the place feels abandoned, not cursed.
This wasn't a ruin born from chaos.
It was a quiet withdrawal.
Whatever justice Astrea Familia stood for here… it didn't die in this building.
It walked away.
I just happened to find what was left behind.
I slipped back out the way I came, brushing dust over my footprints, not erasing them—just letting them blend into age.
By the time I reached the street, the weapon sat heavy at my side.
Ugly. Illegal. Unimpressive.
Mine.
And right now? That was everything.
Tomorrow, I'd step into the Dungeon.
Not empty-handed.
Not as a hero. Not as a beggar.
Just someone holding a broken blade that once stood for justice.
[End of Chapter]
Author's Notes:
From sharing croquettes in the love nest to scavenging abandoned ruins—our protagonist is learning fast that Orario doesn't give handouts. They've got a broken sword, a spearhead, and absolutely zero combat training. The dungeon awaits.
The Astrea Familia outpost was deliberately chosen for its haunting atmosphere. This isn't grave robbing—it's archaeology with consequences. Our MC is walking a fine line between resourcefulness and disrespect, and they know it.
Next time: First steps into the Dungeon. Will survival instincts kick in? Will that broken blade hold together? Will anyone notice the suspicious person with illegal scavenged weapons?