[Claude POV]

After falling through the dungeon, the first thing I did was find a safe place. The damp stone walls pressed around me like a tomb, triggering memories that weren’t entirely mine—memories of dying here, over and over again. I shuddered, forcing myself to focus on the immediate task of survival.

For days, I methodically hunted the monsters inhabiting this place, relying on knowledge painfully acquired through previous incarnations.

Each movement was calculated, each strike purposeful. The weight of fifteen previous lives guided my hands—fifteen versions of myself who had died learning how to survive in this hellish place.

“One step at a time,” I muttered to myself, the sound of my voice providing small comfort in the echoing darkness.

I’d forgotten I could create drinkable water for several days—a critical oversight that had nearly cost me dearly. The fragments of memory sometimes got jumbled, certain crucial details remaining frustratingly out of reach until triggered by necessity or danger. When thirst had become unbearable, the knowledge had suddenly surfaced, like a drowning man breaking the water’s surface, gasping for air.

Now I sat beside a small fire in a defensible alcove, preparing to cook the meat of a dungeon rabbit I’d slain.

The creature’s carcass lay before me, its horn still glistening with my blood from our encounter. These weren’t ordinary rabbits—they were vicious predators with poisonous flesh.

It had taken my third incarnation fifteen gruesome deaths to perfect a safe method for cooking these monsters’ meat.

Fifteen lives of trial and error, of slow poisonings and agonizing ends. Now that knowledge resided in me, a gift paid for with another Claude’s suffering.

First, I drained the blood into a pot I retrieved from my weapon box. The metallic scent rose as the dark liquid heated over the fire, triggering another fragment of memory—a version of myself convulsing on the ground, body wracked with poison, eyes bulging as he choked on his own vomit. I blinked hard, forcing the image away.

“Add the meat only after the blood has heated,” I recited aloud, focusing on the task. “This neutralizes the poison.”

How did this even work? Was it some alchemical reaction? The scientific part of my brain—influenced by one of my modern Earth incarnations—questioned the process, but experience had proven its effectiveness.

I’d discovered this method after observing the monsters devouring each other without ill effects. There had to be something in their blood that neutralized their own toxins.

The rabbit’s poison was particularly insidious—it wouldn’t kill immediately but would build up over ten days until organ failure set in.

The bear monsters on lower levels had milder toxins that merely paralyzed their victims—making them easier prey. But to reach those bears, I’d need to navigate four floors teeming with rabbits, dogs, and wolves.

My third incarnation—perhaps the weakest of my memory sources but definitely the most stubborn—had required thirty deaths and ninety days to master these upper floors. I could still feel phantom pains from each of those deaths, could still hear his determined mantra: “There’s no way I’d be killed by this weak ass rabbit!”

That version of me had an uncanny ability to memorize attack patterns, honed by the cruel repetition of dying and starting over.

Every detail of those experiences had been replayed to seven-year-old me daily for a year—every gnawing bite, every moment of being devoured alive. The memories were so vivid that I often threw myself into training or raids against slavers just to escape the psychological torment.

I touched the fresh wound on my shoulder where one of the rabbits had bitten me earlier. The flesh was torn and tender despite my healing magic. My hand came away sticky with blood.

“Forty-three,” I counted quietly. Forty-three rabbits killed today. My body ached from the exertion and injuries sustained in the fight.

I’d learned to sidestep their horn attacks, spinning to slice their necks with my sword. But they attacked in swarms, overwhelming even my enhanced combat abilities. One had latched onto my shoulder with vice-like jaws.

“Argh!” The pain had been excruciating, but I fought through it, continuing to attack the others while the one on my shoulder gnawed away.

When it finally released and leaped away, I managed to impale it on an earth spike conjured from the dungeon floor.

Now, several hours later, I sat examining my kills, my body covered in drying blood—mostly mine, some theirs. I’d used healing magic on the worst wounds, but conserved my mana for whatever might come next.

“Crap, I need to kill some cleanly next time,” I muttered, surveying the carcasses. “Most of them are practically donuts.” I sighed, then allowed myself a small smile. “Thankfully, this great chef, Claude, brought condiments with him…”

As I continued preparing the meal, the routine task allowed my mind to wander. The flickering firelight cast dancing shadows on the dungeon walls, and for a moment, I was somewhere else entirely—standing at the end of an asphalt road, watching for travelers with a group of freed slaves I’d trained into my personal militia.

The memory was so vivid I could almost feel the cool forest air against my skin instead of the dungeon’s stagnant atmosphere.

[Flashback – Claude POV]

At the end of the asphalt road where travelers often stopped to rest, I stood concealed in the underbrush, observing.

This spot had become our hunting ground—not for rabbits or bears, but for slavers. Particularly the illegal ones.

I’d begun this work at seven and a half years old, driven by fragments of memory from other lives where I’d witnessed—or perhaps experienced—the cruelty of slavery.

Some thought it strange for a child to lead such raids, but my militia didn’t question my abilities after seeing me fight.

Among the slaves I’d freed, some chose to follow me. Charles was one such person—not particularly skilled in combat, but gifted in deception.

He served as our scout and information gatherer, blending in with travelers to identify potential targets.

“Is there a target we can kill tonight?” I asked, moving toward the teenager who crouched beside me.

Charles shook his head after receiving a signal from our lookouts on the opposite side of the road. “There’s none, Master Claude.”

I nodded, concealing my disappointment. The rush of combat—the outlet it provided from the constant pressure of my fragmented memories—would have been welcome tonight.

Within the dense forest beside the road lay our hideout, where I trained my people and coordinated our operations.

After a year, our militia had grown to five hundred members—all former slaves, all carrying their own scars, both visible and hidden. I trained them myself, pushing them beyond what they believed possible.

“Alright, let’s start the training then,” I announced, leading the way back to camp. “I want to see who can beat this eight-year-old.” I couldn’t help the mocking tone that crept into my voice. “There’s no way a teen will be beaten by a kid, right?”

Charles groaned at my statement, knowing what was coming. Despite their age and size advantage, none of my militia members could match my combat skills—skills refined through multiple lifetimes of experience, though they didn’t know that. They certainly couldn’t match Paul, whose swordsmanship still exceeded my own.

Our militia operated primarily from dusk until dawn, either resting or training during daylight hours. We worked in shifts, sustaining ourselves with food stolen from slavers or purchased through small transactions with passing merchants who were unaware of our true nature.

My ninth birthday arrived during this time. On an impulse—perhaps influenced by a more sentimental incarnation—I decided to host a cooking party for my people.

“Eat your fill, you bastards!” I shouted in uncharacteristically good spirits, watching as they dug into the feast I’d prepared.

Using nutritional knowledge from another Claude—one who’d been a chef or nutritionist, perhaps—I’d created dishes designed to build strength and endurance.

The forest echoed with appreciation that night, though by morning, many complained of sore muscles and aching limbs as their bodies processed the nutrient-dense meal I’d crafted specifically to enhance their training.

The groans that emanated from our camp that night sparked rumors among travelers. Stories spread of forest spirits or tortured souls haunting the woods beside the asphalt road.

These rumors provided an unexpected benefit—fewer people ventured near our hideout, giving us greater freedom of movement.

[Claude POV – Present]

The memory faded as the rabbit meat finished cooking. I pulled the pot from the fire, the rich aroma filling my small camp.

Despite the grim surroundings, I felt a moment of satisfaction. I’d survived another day in this nightmare dungeon, drawing on the hard-earned knowledge of my previous incarnations.

Tomorrow I would push deeper, toward the bear level. One floor at a time. One monster at a time. The weight of multiple failures pressed on my mind, but I refused to become another dead Claude, another set of memories to haunt some future version of myself.

“Not this time,” I whispered to the darkness. “This time, I survive.”