Chapter 61: Report

Armored Dragon Calendar Year 418 – Organizational Documentation & Strategic Planning

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[NARRATOR POV]

The meeting room of Arbalest’s Milishion Branch carried accumulated tension. Maps and intelligence reports scattered across the polished oak table like battle plans before a siege.

Afternoon light filtered through tall windows, casting geometric shadows that seemed to shift with each piece of troubling news.

Claude sat at the head of the table, his fingers drumming a steady rhythm against the wood, a habit that had developed since the memories began converging more frequently. The sound echoed in the relative silence as Charles prepared to deliver his report, the rustle of parchment seeming unnaturally loud.

Before them lay an unusual document, not Charles’s typical field intelligence, but something more comprehensive. The Intelligence Division had spent weeks compiling a complete organizational overview.

And today’s meeting would be the first time command staff reviewed it together.

“Before we begin with field reports,” Charles said, tapping the bound document with one weathered finger, “Division B has prepared a comprehensive assessment of Arbalest’s current capabilities and structure. I thought it prudent to review this first, given the strategic decisions ahead.”

Claude leaned forward, scanning the document’s opening pages. The format was professional, almost military, a far cry from the scrappy operation they’d started just years ago.

“Division A through H,” he read aloud. “When did we become so… organized?”

“When you weren’t looking,” Mike replied from his position near the window. “Turns out organizations organize themselves if you leave them alone long enough.”

Paul shifted impatiently in his seat. “Is this really necessary right now? I thought we were here to discuss Rudeus and—”

“Patience, Paul,” Claude interrupted gently. “Context matters. Understanding what we’ve built helps us deploy it properly.”

He turned to the document’s breakdown of Division A, Combat Operations under Vera’s command. Four hundred eighty-seven active combatants. Mission success rate of eighty-nine percent. The numbers felt surreal compared to their humble beginnings.

“Division B under Ghislaine,” he continued, noting the handwritten annotation about the Commander still preferring sword solutions. That sounded about right. “One hundred fifty-six agents, three hundred forty registered informants.”

“The Intelligence Commander is surprisingly good at her job,” Charles observed with evident satisfaction. “Despite her… direct approach to problem-solving.”

Reida’s tea cup clinked softly as she set it down. “The reformed pirate network mentioned here, that would be Captain Reef’s contribution?”

“Among others,” Charles confirmed. “Maritime intelligence has proven invaluable since establishing the Saint Port hub.”

Claude flipped through the divisions systematically. Medical, logistics, training, communications, maritime, aerial.

Division H caught his attention—Ash’s drake riders, six strong, representing their newest and highest-potential capability.

“We’ve grown,” he said quietly. The observation felt inadequate for the scope of what lay before him.

“Two thousand three hundred forty-seven active personnel,” Mike added. “With eight hundred ninety support staff across four continents. It’s… not what we expected when we started this.”

Paul’s chair scraped violently. “That’s wonderful, truly, but can we PLEASE discuss why my children are imprisoned in the Shirone Kingdom?!”

His outburst broke the contemplative mood. Claude set the document aside and nodded to Charles.

“Very well. The field report, if you please.”

—

“From our intelligence network in the Shirone Kingdom,” Charles began, his voice carrying the practiced neutrality of someone who had delivered too many grim reports, “Rudeus has found himself in… complications.”

“What?!”

Paul’s hand instinctively moved toward where his sword would normally rest.

Charles barely glanced at the outburst, his weathered face maintaining its stoic expression. “The Shirone Kingdom may be small, but it’s weathered two centuries of existence, impressive for this world where history is measured in millennia.”

Claude found himself nodding along, fragments of other timelines whispering familiar patterns. The distinction between his memories and the reports had become increasingly blurred lately.

“Four hundred years ago, the Great War swept away nearly every human nation except Asura and the Holy Milis Kingdom. The southern regions remained wasteland until the Dragon King Kingdom established control three centuries past. Even now, venture too far north and you’ll find active war zones.”

Charles paused, letting the historical context settle. “The Shirone Kingdom’s survival secret? They bent the knee to the Dragon King Kingdom early and thoroughly. Calling it an alliance is generous—they’re vassals, much like Kikka and Sanakia. Survival through submission.”

Ash leaned forward. “So when the Metastasis struck Asura, the Shirone royals dismissed it as someone else’s problem?”

“Precisely,” Reida interjected, her voice carrying bitter wisdom. “Vassals often mirror their masters’ worst traits. The Dragon King Kingdom’s nobility has always been… insular. And Shirone, with their Miko bloodline, considers themselves divinely chosen. Other kingdoms’ misfortunes are simply proof of their own superiority.”

Behind Reida, Isolte maintained stoic silence, though Claude caught her brief glance toward Paul. The Second Sword Saint of the Milshion Branch was too lost in his own anxiety to notice.

“Easy, Paul,” Claude said. “Ruijerd is with them. That alone should give you some measure of peace.”

“Easy for you to say,” Paul snapped, then immediately looked ashamed. “It’s been over a year since Lilia and Aisha disappeared into that place. Now Rudeus is imprisoned there too. What in the seven hells is actually happening?”

The question hung like an accusation. Something familiar moved in him—the same sensation he’d carried since the Metastasis, when all his knowledge and preparation hadn’t been enough.

“The report ends there,” Charles said with deliberate slowness, clearly enjoying Paul’s mounting frustration.

“What do you mean it ends there?” Claude’s voice sharpened. “Did our intelligence network simply stop writing?”

Charles made a show of checking his pocket watch. “The follow-up should arrive in five… four… three…”

On cue, the meeting room door opened. A courier slipped inside, placed a sealed letter on the table, and departed just as silently.

The efficiency spoke to Arbalest’s growing coordination.

“Ah, perfect timing,” Charles said, breaking the seal with theatrical slowness. Paul’s hands clenched into fists.

“Damn it, Charles! Just read the bloody report!”

Charles chuckled, a sound like gravel in a stream. “Very well, it appears our concerns were… premature.”

He cleared his throat. “The situation has resolved itself in typical Rudeus fashion. Prince Zanoba, the Shirone Kingdom’s Miko, had indeed been causing considerable property damage throughout the capital. However, upon learning that Rudeus was the craftsman behind certain artistic figurines… the prince apparently shifted from captor to devoted admirer.”

Paul buried his face in his hands. “Of course he did. Of course my son resolved a diplomatic crisis through his obsession with dolls.”

“Hey now,” Vera said from behind Paul, barely suppressing laughter. “At least he’s consistent.”

Charles continued with evident amusement. “According to our sources, Prince Zanoba has not only released all prisoners, he has also offered Rudeus a workshop, along with full royal patronage, for his ‘divine artistic gifts.'”

The absurdity drew genuine laughter from several members around the table. Even Claude felt his mouth twitch upward, though the expression felt foreign on his face.

When had he last found genuine humor in anything?

The meeting room door opened again, and Norn’s distinctive blonde head peeked around the frame.

“Claude, I heard you’ve found news about Aisha. Is she safe? Oh,” her eyes widened as she took in the crowded room. “Please excuse the interruption.”

She retreated quickly, leaving awkward silence in her wake.

“She didn’t even ask about me,” Paul said quietly, his voice carrying accumulated regrets.

“Focus, Paul,” Claude said, not unkindly. “We have operational matters to discuss.”

He stood, the chair scraping against the floor as fragments of strategic planning from multiple timelines crystallized into actionable intelligence.

“Shirone Kingdom requires our attention, but not for the reasons we initially assumed. The country’s position makes it strategically valuable—too many high-ranked adventurers, too much wealth flowing from dungeon clearances, and too little oversight from any central authority.”

Claude moved to the map mounted on the wall, his finger tracing routes across the continent.

“Looking at the organizational report,” he gestured to the document still lying on the table, “we have the capability to deploy a proper mission. Division A can provide protection, Division B already has intelligence presence. Ash and I will travel to Shirone directly via Charizard. We need to extract Lilia and Aisha while they’re under Arbalest protection and establish a more permanent presence there.”

He turned back to the room. “Charles, you and Paul will continue recovery operations here in Milishion before advancing to the Demon Continent. Focus on the living—we can’t resurrect the dead, but we can still save those who remain.”

Reida nodded approvingly. “A sound strategy. What of our primary target?”

“Ah yes,” Charles said, rifling through another set of papers. “Division A has located your mystery man. Amusing how easy it was to find someone whose mere presence can inspire terror in seasoned warriors.”

Something cold moved through Claude. Even without Charles specifying who they meant, fragments of memory provided context—shadowy figures from timelines where he’d arrived too late, where stronger powers had intervened with devastating consequences.

The formal report had included a threat assessment section. Under “Priority Threats,” one name stood out: Orsted the Dragon God – Threat Level: EXTREME.

Ghislaine’s handwritten note beneath the assessment had been characteristically blunt: “Seriously. Don’t.”

Mike had added his own annotation: “Any direct confrontation with Orsted would result in organizational extinction. Survival depends on either avoiding his attention entirely or somehow becoming useful to his unknown goals.”

“His companion?” Claude asked.

“Still with him. Masked female, never leaves his side. They’ve been traveling steadily eastward.”

“Understood.” Claude’s voice carried finality. “Ash and I depart for the Central Continent via Charizard. Estimated travel time is four weeks.”

As the meeting began to wind down, Reida suddenly spoke up. “Claude, I have a request.”

“Of course, teacher. What do you need?”

“I want Isolte and myself included in your mission to Shirone.”

The request caught Claude off guard. Behind Reida, Isolte’s expression remained carefully neutral, but Claude caught the slight tension in her shoulders.

“May I ask why?” Claude said carefully. “Your expertise would certainly be valuable, but I assumed you’d prefer to remain here coordinating our broader operations.”

Reida set down her teacup with deliberate precision. “There are aspects of the Shirone situation that may require… specialized attention. The Miko bloodline isn’t merely ceremonial, and if Prince Zanoba has taken such an interest in Rudeus, it suggests forces at play beyond simple artistic appreciation.”

Another fragment of memory surfaced—royal bloodlines and hidden powers, the price of convergent memories and the weight they carried. The sensation was like trying to remember a dream upon waking, substantial but just out of reach.

“Very well,” he said finally. “Your insight would be welcome. We leave at dawn.”

As the meeting dissolved into smaller conversations and preparations, Claude remained by the map, his eyes tracing familiar routes while his mind wrestled with unfamiliar knowledge.

Mike approached, picking up the organizational report from the table. “Puts things in perspective, doesn’t it?”

“Two thousand people,” Claude murmured. “When did that happen?”

“Gradually, then suddenly.”

Mike flipped through the asset inventory pages. “Forty-seven warehouses, twelve ships, six drakes, three months of operational reserve funds.”

He looked at Claude. “We built this to help people. Somewhere along the way, it became… more.”

Claude recognized the words. They matched what he’d written in his own hand on the document’s final page.

A note to himself. A reminder of purpose.

We built this to help people.

Somewhere along the way, it became more. An organization. A power. Something that matters on a scale I never anticipated.

I hope we don’t forget why we started. The children in cages. The families torn apart. The people who had no one to help them until we decided to try.

And I hope we’re ready for what’s coming.

Because something is.

I can feel it.

“Orsted,” Mike said quietly, reading Claude’s thoughts. “The report calls him an extreme threat.”

“The report is correct.”

“Can we survive him?”

Claude was silent for a long moment. In other timelines, other versions of himself had faced this question.

Some had found answers. Others had died trying.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But we prepare anyway. That’s what survivors do.”

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