[NARRATOR POV]
The silence in the VIP room of the Adventurer Guild stretched taut as a bowstring. Claude sat rigid on the plush couch, his fingers drumming an irregular rhythm against the polished mahogany table before him. The sound echoed in the tension-thick air, each tap deliberate and measured.
Across from him, Paul lay unconscious on a matching settee, his weathered face bearing fresh bruises that spoke of recent violence.
Norn knelt beside her father, her small hands trembling as she dabbed at his wounds with a damp cloth. Vera hovered nearby, her usual confidence replaced by uncertain fidgeting.
"You don't need to look at me like that, Princess," Claude said, his voice carrying an edge that seemed too sharp for someone his age.
"I don't talk to bad people, humph!" Norn's voice cracked with barely contained tears and fury. She clutched the bloodied cloth tighter, her knuckles white.
The sight of her father's injuries—inflicted by the boy she'd once considered a friend—burned in her chest like swallowed fire.
Claude's expression didn't change, though something flickered behind his eyes. Regret? Frustration? It vanished too quickly to identify.
Beside him, Eris shifted uncomfortably while Ruijerd maintained his stoic watch, neither fully understanding the complex web of relationships that had led to this moment.
"Sigh..." Claude's breath escaped him slowly, weighted with exhaustion that belonged to someone far older. "I leave for half an hour, and my teacher beats my other teacher. Now I'm taking blame for something I only partially caused." His fingers stilled against the table. "The irony isn't lost on me."
Memory fragments flickered at the edges of his consciousness—dozens of variations of this scene, some where Paul died, others where words cut deeper than any sword. In one particularly vivid recollection, Norn had never forgiven him. The weight of those alternate failures pressed against his temples like a migraine.
His gaze shifted to Vera, who stood awkwardly in her revealing armor. "Hey, exhibitionist over there—can you just use a robe or something? It's dirtying my eyes."
The dismissive tone carried more venom than necessary, but Claude couldn't seem to help himself.
Every interaction felt like walking through a minefield of potential futures, each word carefully chosen to avoid the worst outcomes he remembered.
An Arbalest officer materialized beside Vera with practiced efficiency, offering her a simple brown robe. The woman accepted it with confusion rather than gratitude.
"Uh... thanks?"
"I don't need your thanks." Claude's voice turned business-like, professional in a way that made the adults in the room uncomfortable. "Just tell me why you people keep acting without coordinating with Arbalest."
Vera pulled the robe around her shoulders, but it did little to shield her from the intensity of Claude's stare.
Never in her career as an adventurer had she felt such pressure from a child—the kind of weight that spoke of authority earned through blood and consequence rather than birthright.
She'd heard Paul and Norn's stories about the boy, knew he was supposedly strong, but this... this was different.
Paul had described a talented student, not someone who could command a room full of adults with nothing but presence.
'There's no way an Advanced Swordsman could do what he did to Paul,' she thought, recalling the brief, brutal exchange she'd witnessed. 'Was Paul lying about his skill level? Or has this boy grown stronger than anyone imagined?'
"We... we actually just learned about Arbalest being in charge of rescue operations," Vera said, her voice smaller than she intended.
"Is that so?" Claude's attention shifted to the Arbalest officer beside him—a man Vera now realized held significant rank despite his unassuming appearance.
"It's a lie, Master Claude." The officer's tone was respectful but firm. "They refuse to acknowledge Arbalest's authority. We've been cleaning up their mistakes and saving who we can from the slavers they can't handle alone."
"That's not true! You don't know what we've been doing!" Vera's composure cracked, desperation bleeding through.
The officer's response was methodical, clinical. He recounted every unauthorized operation, every civilian lost due to Paul's militia acting independently, every resource wasted on pride rather than coordination. With each revelation, Vera's protests died in her throat.
"I see who's lying now." Claude stood with fluid grace, his movements carrying an odd weight—as if he moved through memory as much as reality. He approached Paul's prone form, gently but firmly moving Norn aside.
"Water Ball."
The spell manifested with precision rather than power, cool water cascading over Paul's face with surgical accuracy. The unconscious man sputtered awake, coughing and disoriented.
"Hey! What did you do to Father!" Norn's shriek pierced the air, her composure finally shattering completely.
Paul's eyes focused slowly, taking in his surroundings before settling on Claude. Recognition brought with it a complex mixture of shame, anger, and resignation.
"I see... you're safe," Paul said quietly, his voice hoarse. The words carried layers of meaning—relief, acknowledgment, and perhaps a grudging respect.
"So, what's wrong with you?" Claude's question cut straight to the heart of things. "Have you given up on saving your wives and Aisha already?"
He'd already guided Norn toward Rudeus, murmuring something about keeping her safe while the adults talked. The gesture was gentle, almost protective—a stark contrast to his harsh words.
Paul's glare could have melted steel. "Don't play with me, kid. If I wasn't exhausted, you'd be the one on the ground."
"Don't joke around, drunkard." The nickname rolled off Claude's tongue with practiced cruelty. "Even without my sword, I could defeat you a dozen times over. Just look at yourself—how can someone who can't help himself hope to help others?"
The words tasted like ash in his mouth, but they were necessary. He'd seen too many timelines where gentleness led to Paul's death, where encouragement bred complacency. Sometimes cruelty was the only kindness that worked.
"You—!" Paul surged to his feet, anger giving him strength. He towered over Claude, but somehow the height difference felt meaningless.
"What about me?" Claude met his gaze without flinching. "Do you think you're special? Your son and daughter are right here, safe and sound. You just need to pull yourself together and wait—either for death notices or for the chance to smile with your family when they're reunited."
Paul's fist came down on the table with a thunderous crack. The sound reverberated through the room, causing everyone except Claude to flinch. Papers scattered, an inkwell toppled, but the table held.
"What could a child like you possibly understand!"
"More than you." Claude's voice remained level, but something dangerous flickered in his expression. "C, give him the list."
The officer stepped forward, producing a carefully folded document. Paul's hands shook slightly as he accepted it.
"Those are the names from Buena Village—everyone we've accounted for, living or dead. Anyone not on that list is still missing, which means they're likely alive. We have methods for tracking those caught in the teleportation event." Claude paused, letting the implications sink in. "Do you see Zenith, Aisha, or Lilia's names there?"
Paul scanned the document with desperate intensity. "No... none of them are here."
"You know what that means. So treat Norn better. Cooperate with Arbalest, and you'll get information like this regularly. You're just too stubborn to see that we're not your enemy."
"I..." Paul's voice cracked.
"What makes you different from Rudeus?" The question hung in the air like a blade. "Both of you waste time playing victim instead of taking action." Claude returned to his seat, his movement sharp with controlled anger. "Like father, like son. What a touching family tradition."
The silence that followed was suffocating. Paul stood frozen, the list crumpled in his white-knuckled grip. Every word had found its mark with surgical precision.
Rudeus, who had been holding Norn's hand in quiet support, flinched at the comparison. His grip tightened involuntarily, drawing a small sound of protest from his sister.
"Rudeus, you're equally at fault here." Claude's attention shifted like a predator selecting new prey. "I've heard the full story, so save your excuses."
"I'm sorry..." The words came out barely above a whisper.
Eris bristled at the exchange, her protective instincts flaring. "Hey! It's not fair to blame Rudeus for everything!"
"Do you agree with her assessment, Ruijerd?" Claude asked, completely ignoring Eris's outburst.
The Superd warrior considered the question with his characteristic solemnity. "No. I believe you are correct. Rudeus is a warrior now. Ignoring one's failures serves no one."
The judgment struck home. Rudeus seemed to shrink into himself, the weight of accumulated guilt pressing down on his young shoulders.
"I need air." Claude stood abruptly, the emotional toll of the confrontation finally showing in the tight lines around his eyes. "C, let's continue this discussion in your office."
"Please follow me, Master Claude." The officer's deference was absolute, but not servile—the respect of one professional for another.
As they left, the room seemed to exhale collectively. The oppressive atmosphere lifted slightly, but the damage was done. Relationships had shifted, truths had been exposed, and none of them would leave unchanged.
[PAUL POV]
The silence after Claude's departure felt like breathing underwater—thick, suffocating, wrong. Paul remained standing beside the table, the crumpled paper cutting into his palm as his grip tightened involuntarily.
Zenith. Aisha. Lilia. Their names—or rather, their absence from the list—pounded through his thoughts like a mantra. Hope warred with despair in his chest, each emotion taking turns at dominance.
"Are you alright, Father?" Norn's voice was small, fragile in a way that made his heart clench. She approached cautiously, as if afraid he might collapse again.
"Yeah, I'm okay." The lie came automatically, years of paternal protection overriding honesty. He forced his face into what he hoped was a reassuring smile and reached out to pat her head. "Have you... have you greeted your brother yet?"
Norn shook her head, glancing toward where Rudeus sat in dejected silence. The boy—his son—looked smaller somehow, as if Claude's words had physically diminished him.
When did I fail them both so completely?
The thought hit him like a physical blow. Somewhere in his quest to find his missing family, he'd neglected the family members right in front of him. Norn's anger, Rudeus's guilt, his own spiral into despair—it was all connected, all his responsibility.
"Hey... Rudy." His voice cracked on the nickname, decades of affection and recent disappointment tangling together.
Before Rudeus could respond, Eris erupted. "What's wrong with you! Don't you know your words hurt—mmph!" Ruijerd's large hand covered her mouth, cutting off her tirade.
"You must be Phillips's daughter," Paul said, looking at the red-haired girl with new understanding. "And you're the Demon who saved my son." His gaze shifted to Ruijerd. "I can't thank you enough for what you've done. Thank you."
He bowed deeply, the gesture carrying all the gratitude he couldn't properly express. These strangers had protected his children when he'd failed to do so himself.
"No need for thanks," Ruijerd replied with characteristic stoicism. "I was also helped by your son."
Paul straightened, his attention returning to Rudeus. The boy sat hunched over, shoulders shaking slightly with suppressed emotion.
When had his son learned to carry such weight? When had those young shoulders grown strong enough to bear burdens that would crush grown men?
"Hey... I'm sorry, Rudy."
The apology felt inadequate, pathetic even. How did you apologize for failing as a father? For putting your pain above your children's needs? For allowing grief to consume you when they needed your strength?
Rudeus opened his mouth, closed it, tried again. No words came. Paul watched his son struggle with a mixture of heartbreak and recognition—he'd seen that same paralysis in the mirror too often recently.
He's just a child, Paul realized with startling clarity. Eleven years old, and I've been expecting him to be stronger than me.
The memory of Rudeus as a toddler surfaced unbidden—tiny hands reaching up from his crib, absolute trust in innocent eyes, the weight of him sleeping against Paul's chest. When had he forgotten that this powerful young mage was still that same boy who'd once been afraid to leave the house?
"Rudeus!" Ruijerd's voice boomed with sudden authority. "A warrior accepts his faults and apologizes for his mistakes!"
The words seemed to unlock something in Rudeus. His head snapped up, meeting Paul's eyes for the first time since the confrontation began.
"Fa... Father... I'm also... I..." The words stumbled over each other, emotion strangling coherent speech. "Father..."
Paul didn't wait for more. He moved forward, Norn beside him, and pulled his son into a fierce embrace.
Rudeus felt small in his arms—not the prodigy everyone praised, not the powerful mage who'd survived the Demon Continent, just his boy who needed his father.
Rudeus's arms came up around him with desperate strength, and Paul felt the dam break. His son's tears soaked through his shirt as eleven years of bottled emotion finally found release.
"I'm sorry, Father..."
"Me too, Rudy." Paul's own voice broke as he held his children—both of them now, as Norn pressed against his side. "Me too."
We're all broken, he thought as his family clung together in the aftermath of Claude's harsh truths. But maybe... maybe we can help each other heal.
The paper with the village names lay forgotten on the floor, its message of hope trampled but not destroyed. Like them, it had survived the storm. Like them, it still mattered.
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