[Claude POV]
Paul and his vigilante group had been officially absorbed into Arbalest's ranks—a development that would serve our long-term objectives while I dealt with the complexities of this continent.
The integration would take time, but it established another crucial link in the chain I was forging toward a brighter future.
What I hadn't anticipated was Somar becoming yet another pivotal connection in that same chain.
Sigh.
This world continued to deviate from Kuro's memories in ways both subtle and profound, each variation rippling outward like stones cast into still water.
While I contemplated our strategic positioning, the discussion around Rudeus, Eris, and Ruijerd's departure plans continued in the background.
Despite my confirmation that her parents had perished in the disaster, Eris remained resolute in her desire to return to Fittoa. Ruijerd and Rudeus would escort her to the region, with their next moves to be determined upon arrival.
"Let's leave it at that for now," I said, rising from my chair and producing a carefully prepared map. "Here."
I handed the document to Rudeus, watching his expression shift as he examined its contents.
"What is this?"
"The last confirmed location where we traced Lilia and Aisha's movements. Search this area thoroughly—Arbalest's attempts to infiltrate Shirone have proven... unsuccessful."
Eris leaned forward with interest. "Wow, Shirone managed to block your infiltration? They must be more capable than I thought."
"The situation remains unclear," I admitted, though the admission tasted bitter. "Our operatives' reports from that region haven't reached me yet."
It was truth, but incomplete truth—the most dangerous kind. My knowledge of Shirone came primarily from fragmented anime canon: Aisha's kidnapping by one of Zanoba's brothers, a character so generically villainous that even Kuro's memories had relegated his name to the shadows of insignificance.
The problem was that Kuro's recollections grew hazier with each passing day, details bleeding away like watercolors in rain. The future had become an increasingly opaque tapestry, its patterns no longer reliable guides.
"Handle your family affairs," I told Rudeus, standing and brushing dust from my clothes. "I'll complete our operations here as quickly as possible before returning to Asura. Mike still requires assistance dealing with the more... obstinate nobles."
The lie came easily, practiced through necessity. My true reasons for avoiding prolonged contact with Rudeus centered on a far more dangerous entity: the Human God.
My fragmented knowledge identified Rudeus and Geese as pawns in that being's cosmic game, though the specifics of that manipulation remained frustratingly unclear.
What I knew with certainty was my own powerlessness against such a force. Until Rudeus encountered Dragon God Orsted—that inevitable collision that would reshape the very foundations of this world—I needed to maintain careful distance.
Transparency regarding the Human God was not wisdom; it was suicide.
If that entity chose to move against me directly, I would respond with everything at my disposal. But as long as it remained unaware of my existence—or dismissed me as inconsequential—I preferred to remain in the shadows.
"I'll be departing with C," I announced. "Paul can finalize tactical arrangements with his team, while Dead End proceeds according to their own judgment."
I moved toward the door, C falling into step behind me like a faithful shadow.
As the door clicked shut, sealing us off from the others, C's voice carried a note of apprehension.
"What are our next objectives, Master Claude?"
"An examination for the Arbalest Milshion branch," I replied, noting the audible gulp that escaped him.
His reaction puzzled me. Was my reputation truly so intimidating?
The announcement went out through proper channels, and within the hour, I stood before our assembled operatives.
"I thought fleeing here would save me from that sadistic trainer, but instead I've delivered myself into the abyss," one operative muttered to his companion.
"Brother, you have my complete sympathy," came the equally morose reply.
The Arbalest members huddled in small groups, sharing what they apparently considered horror stories about my training methods.
Their complaints baffled me—they'd received barely half of my standard regimen, yet they acted as though I'd subjected them to genuine torture.
Pathetic.
"Silence!" I barked, my voice cutting through their whispered conversations like a blade. "Your devastatingly handsome instructor is about to speak!"
The training ground fell silent with gratifying immediacy. Good—they hadn't forgotten the fundamentals of discipline during my absence.
"Before we begin today's sparring exercises, understand this: the training curriculum I design for your future development will be based entirely on what I observe today. When I identify deficiencies in technique, form, or execution, punishment will be immediate and memorable."
Several throats worked nervously, though I couldn't fathom their concern. My disciplinary methods were hardly comparable to the trials I'd endured in various dungeon scenarios, nor did they approach the suffering experienced by my alternates in their final moments.
A day or two in the wilderness without supplies, perhaps a brief immersion in scalding water—simple exercises designed to build heat resistance and survival instincts.
Every operative who'd undergone such training had survived the Metastasis Event. The results spoke for themselves.
The sparring commenced under my watchful eye.
Their weakest fighter demonstrated skill equivalent to Paul's level when I was seven years old. Now, at thirteen, I could clearly see that Paul had allowed his abilities to stagnate—several Arbalest members had already surpassed his current capabilities.
Disappointing.
With their baseline established, I could finally introduce them to my newest creation: Cloud Style.
Though I termed it a sword style, Cloud Style was actually a comprehensive weapon system—a synthesis of North God street-fighting brutality, Water God flowing adaptability, and Sword God precision, expanded to encompass any weapon that might fall into a warrior's hands.
As a magic swordsman, I refused to limit myself or my subordinates to conventional restrictions.
Finding no one slacking in their efforts, I praised their dedication and began demonstrating the Cloud Style's fundamental movements.
Each technique could be refined and personalized—I'd only achieved Saint rank in the style myself, leaving considerable room for innovation and improvement.
My physical development continued, after all. At thirteen, my body was still growing, still adapting.
"You are the first generation of Cloud Style practitioners in this world," I announced, watching pride bloom across their faces.
Several operatives exchanged excited glances, clearly eager to share this distinction with other branches. I allowed them their moment of satisfaction.
"Remember: Cloud Style has no fixed form, because everything can be shaped from clouds. Adaptability is strength. Rigidity is death."
As they absorbed this philosophy, C approached with a status report.
"They've finished packing and are ready for departure."
I already knew what awaited Rudeus on his journey—the catastrophic encounter with Orsted that would nearly cost him everything. Part of me wanted to intervene, to spare him that agony and preserve his current path.
But my desires might prove detrimental to the world's future. That meeting with Orsted represented a crucial turning point in Rudeus's development, a crucible that would forge him into someone capable of facing the challenges ahead.
There was another, more personal reason I couldn't follow Rudeus—a reason that demanded I meet with Mike as soon as possible.
My abilities extended far beyond what I'd revealed to the others.
The truth was that I could feel the regrets of my alternates across the multiverse—their dying screams reaching across dimensional barriers to find me in moments of absolute despair.
When these other versions of myself reached their final moments, they transmitted their memories to me in exchange for a sacred obligation: I must fulfill their dying wishes.
I called this ability [Wailing Point].
As much as I craved knowledge of future events, all my alternates possessed only five years of experience beyond my current timeline.
Those who survived to my present age and died within that five-year window could reach me with their final transmissions.
The exchange was absolute: memories for obligation, knowledge for duty.
Recently, I'd made a disturbing discovery. The Claudes who contacted me weren't limited to those who'd been transmigrated into this world.
Any being sharing my soul could send their wishes and memories across the dimensional void.
And the target of the most recent dying wish was still here in Milshion.
In the City of Criminals...
[Rudeus POV]
Today marked our departure for the Central Continent, with Paul's team providing escort and Norn remaining under his protection.
"Hey, Norn," I said, crouching to her eye level. "Big Brother Rudeus is leaving today. Won't you miss me a little?"
"Okay. See you later," she replied with devastating indifference.
What.
The casual dismissal hit harder than any physical blow. She showered Claude with affection and attention, yet treated me like a stranger—or worse, a nuisance.
"Father, have I done something to upset Norn?" I asked, genuine confusion coloring my voice.
Paul's expression turned mischievous. "She probably remembers all those harsh things you said to Claude during sparring practice. Plus, she witnessed you giving me those spectacular bruises, remember?"
"Ugh... Norn, could I at least have a hug goodbye?"
I extended my arms hopefully, but she regarded me with open wariness.
"I won't bite, I promise."
"Father, Mother, and Claude all told me never to follow perverts. They said not to get close to them, and I know from Aisha that Big Brother Rudeus is a pervert. So I can't get near you," she declared, ducking behind Paul for protection.
Someone snorted with barely contained laughter in the background.
I was speechless. Absolutely flabbergasted.
Who dared find this amusing?
"Don't even try to deny it, Rudeus!" Eris proclaimed with devastating timing. "You tried to look under my skirt years ago!"
Eris!
Why announce that at maximum volume?
"Haha! Just like Paul-san's son should be!"
"Right! Like father, like son!"
Stop encouraging this narrative!
"Father is also a pervert," Norn observed with scientific detachment, immediately abandoning Paul's side and scurrying toward the other adults.
"Wait... Norn..."
I couldn't help but snicker at Paul's crestfallen expression—at least I wasn't suffering alone.
"She'll understand better when we're reunited," Paul sighed. "I'll explain the relationships properly then."
"Speaking of reunions, Father—Claude gave you the report on Buena Village, right?"
Paul's expression sobered as he handed me the document. "Lilia, Aisha, and Zenith weren't found there."
I scanned the list of deceased, recognizing several names from my childhood. Each entry represented a life cut short by the disaster we'd failed to prevent—a brief but heartrending catalog of loss.
"I know Somar's parents are confirmed dead, but... do you remember Claude's parents' names? I can't recall them specifically, and strangely, Claude hasn't mentioned visiting them first."
Paul's face went pale, and he snatched the paper from my hands with sudden urgency.
Claude had always been devoted to his parents. I'd met them during my visits to play with Sylphy—whenever he had free time, he helped them with their work or assisted other village children.
The love in their eyes when they looked at their son had been unmistakable.
That devotion was probably why Claude had concealed his Miko status initially.
"Here..." Paul's voice came out strangled.
Oh no.
"Their names are on the deceased list."
The revelation hit like a physical blow. In all our planning and strategic discussions, in all of Claude's calculated presentations about networks and countermeasures, he'd never once mentioned that his own parents were among the casualties he was working so desperately to avenge.
No wonder he carried such weight on his shoulders. No wonder his voice sometimes carried that edge of barely controlled fury when discussing the disaster's aftermath.
He wasn't just trying to save a world—he was trying to honor the dead who'd raised him, loved him, and died because he'd failed to prevent their fate.
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