Claude’s fingers traced the parchment’s edge as he absorbed each line of the intelligence report, his pen occasionally scratching notes onto the blank paper beside him.

The rhythmic tapping of the pen’s end against the wooden table punctuated his thoughts—a habit that had emerged from countless strategy sessions across fragments of memory.

“This network expansion is promising,” Claude said, setting down the document. “But what’s causing the intelligence gap in the Upper Central Continent? Our information flow has essentially stopped there.”

His subordinate shifted uncomfortably. “We lack sufficient personnel, sir.”

“I thought we’d established connections with the Asura Kingdom. Recruitment shouldn’t be this difficult.” Claude’s brow furrowed as he considered the logistics. The Arbalest organization had grown considerably, but apparently not enough.

“The issue is infiltration, sir. Too many nobles have planted spies within our ranks. We can’t distinguish between genuine recruits and enemy agents.”

Claude suppressed a sigh. The nobility system in this world remained frustratingly opaque compared to the structured hierarchies he remembered from other timelines.

Unlike the clear Baron-Viscount-Count progression of feudal systems, these kingdoms operated on bloodline purity—a concept that made political maneuvering unnecessarily complex.

“The Great Nobles…” Claude muttered, then caught himself. “Right, these kingdoms don’t follow traditional ranking systems. What an irritating way to structure power.”

Beyond the four Greyrat branch families who served as regional lords, the political landscape remained largely mysterious.

Even his fragmented knowledge from alternate timelines provided little insight into the deeper machinations of Asura’s nobility.

When Sauros would eventually meet his end, these same nobles would play their part, yet their true motivations remained opaque.

“Forgive me, sir, but the Asura Kingdom harbors extensive slave trading operations. Many of our potential contacts are compromised by these networks. Trust is… difficult to establish.”

“Why not simply eliminate the slave traders? That’s how I recruited most of our current members, including you.” Claude’s tone carried the casual cruelty that had become his trademark—a calculated coldness that masked genuine concern for those under his protection.

The man’s face tightened with remembered pain. “Sir, I cannot express enough gratitude for extracting me from that hell. However, as the Arbalest gains notoriety, we cannot openly move against slaving operations connected to Great Nobles and the Asuran Royal Family. They’re watching us from every direction, restricting our operational freedom.”

Claude nodded slowly. Recognition brought power, but also shackles. “Fame has its price. Very well—continue coordinating with the Adventurers’ Guild, local militias, and volunteer organizations. Work through existing networks rather than creating new ones.”

“Understood, sir.”

As his subordinate departed, Claude remained seated for a moment longer. The weight of incomplete knowledge pressed against his temples—fragments of memory from timelines where different strategies had succeeded or failed catastrophically.

He rose and exited the room, the familiar ache of uncertainty gnawing at him. Despite all his accumulated knowledge, he was still navigating blind through a maze of political complexities.

Walking through the inn’s corridors, Claude’s attention was drawn to raised voices from the direction of the Adventurers’ Guild Hall.

He recognized Paul’s distinctive tone—strained, angry, and carrying the edge of desperation that had become increasingly common since the teleportation disaster.

Family reunions, Claude thought grimly. Never as joyful as they should be.

Memory fragments stirred unbidden—scenes of different Pauls in different timelines, some broken by loss, others consumed by guilt.

In one particularly vivid recollection, Paul had died still believing his family hated him. The thought sent an uncomfortable chill through Claude’s chest.

He paused outside the Guild Hall, close enough to hear the escalating argument but far enough to avoid being noticed.

Paul’s accusations about Rudeus’s priorities during their journey, Rudeus’s defensive justifications—it was unfolding exactly as Claude had witnessed in fragmented visions.

Should I intervene? The question plagued him constantly. How much guidance was too much? How many “natural” conversations should he disrupt to prevent greater tragedies down the line?

But family dynamics were delicate things. Sometimes the explosion was necessary for the healing to begin.

Claude turned away from the Guild Hall and made his way toward the inn’s dining area instead. There would be time for intervention if things went too far.

For now, father and son needed to confront their accumulated resentments.

The inn’s dining hall buzzed with afternoon activity, but Claude’s attention focused immediately on a small figure with golden hair peering around the corner—clearly trying to catch glimpses of some commotion without being noticed.

A smile tugged at Claude’s lips as recognition sparked. Moving with practiced stealth, he approached from behind until he could confirm his suspicions. Without warning, he scooped up the little girl in a firm embrace.

“Kyaaa, no! A pervert! Help!”

Norn’s terrified shriek cut through the dining hall’s chatter like a blade. Patrons turned toward the sound, creating a clear line of sight to the source of disturbance—where Paul Greyrat was currently being pummeled by his eldest son.

Paul’s head snapped up at his daughter’s cry, his protective instincts overriding whatever conflict had been occupying him. “What the hell are you doing to my daughter!”

The man struggled to his feet despite Rudeus’s continued assault, drawing his sword with desperate fury.

“Such harsh words from my little princess,” Claude said, effortlessly evading Paul’s wild charge while maintaining his hold on the squirming child. “Calling me a pervert really wounds my feelings.”

He pressed his cheek against Norn’s in an exaggerated display of affection, easily sidestepping Paul’s increasingly frantic attacks.

The older swordsman’s movements were sloppy—compromised by alcohol and emotional turmoil.

Norn’s eyes flew open mid-struggle, terror melting into joy as she recognized her captor. “Claude!” She threw her small arms around his neck, tears streaming down her face.

Paul, however, saw only a stranger manhandling his daughter. His protective rage reached a breaking point as he raised his sword with lethal intent.

“Get away from her!” Paul’s voice cracked with desperation as he launched himself forward.

Claude assessed the situation with calculating eyes. The crowded dining hall, panicked civilians, an enraged swordsman with a drawn blade—collateral damage was inevitable unless he acted decisively.

“What’s wrong with this old man?” Claude muttered, noting Paul’s obvious inability to recognize him. “Has he gone deaf and blind?”

Without his weapon box, Claude couldn’t rely on his usual arsenal of enchanted tools. Barrier spells might protect him, but they wouldn’t stop Paul from endangering bystanders.

“Time Square.”

Claude raised his free hand, palm extended toward the charging swordsman. The spell took hold immediately—his perception of time stretching like taffy while his body moved at accelerated speed.

Around him, the world slowed to a crawl. Paul’s sword seemed to hang motionless in the air, droplets of spilled ale suspended like amber pearls.

This wasn’t true time manipulation—Claude lacked the raw power of Kuro, the Miko of Time and Space.

Instead, his spell accelerated his own temporal frame, allowing him to move freely while everyone else remained locked in sluggish motion.

In the stretched seconds of accelerated time, Claude positioned himself behind Paul, grabbed the man’s neck in a precise grip, and drove him face-first into the floor with controlled force.

The spell released.

To everyone watching, Claude had simply vanished and reappeared atop the sprawled Paul in less than a blink.

The older swordsman lay pinned and dazed, his sword clattering harmlessly across the wooden floor.

“Damn you…” Paul groaned, struggling weakly against Claude’s hold.

“Relax, old man. It’s me—Claude.”

Paul’s eyes widened with recognition, anger melting into bitter embarrassment. The realization of his own powerlessness—being so easily subdued while drunk and emotional—proved too much. He lost consciousness, whether from the impact or the shame.

“How pathetic,” Claude said, standing and brushing off his clothes. Norn remained in his arms, though her tears had been replaced by indignant fury.

“Don’t bully my dad!” she declared, landing a tiny fist against Claude’s chest with all the force her five-year-old frame could muster.

“Ouch,” Claude said with exaggerated pain, though his expression remained fond. “Such a fierce little warrior.”

The ‘Dawn of the Door Inn’ where Paul had been staying was marginally larger than typical roadside establishments, though that distinction hardly mattered now.

We’d relocated to the Adventurers’ Guild Hall in Millishion—a circular space dominated by a massive wooden table surrounded by ten chairs.

I occupied one seat while Paul sat directly across from me, his presence radiating tension despite the daylight hour.

Every seat was filled with Paul’s companions—the same people I’d “knocked out” during our earlier altercation. A healing mage among their group had treated their injuries, but their hostile glares made their feelings toward me abundantly clear.

The confrontation outside the Guild had been straightforward enough. Seeing suspicious figures lurking near the entrance, I’d acted with Ruijerd and Eris’s assistance to neutralize what I’d assumed were potential threats. Only afterward did I discover these were Paul’s allies.

Ruijerd and Eris had tactfully withdrawn, leaving me alone with Paul and his assembled party. Their absence felt like abandonment, though I understood the wisdom of letting father and son resolve their differences privately.

My attention kept drifting to the woman positioned behind Paul—a striking female warrior with short, chestnut-colored hair that curled outward in a deliberately tousled style.

Her pouty lips and overall bearing gave her an undeniably charming appearance, but what truly commanded attention was her figure.

Large breasts, a narrow waist, and curved hips were barely concealed by what could generously be called “bikini armor”—leather straps and metal plates that covered essential areas while leaving vast expanses of skin exposed. She couldn’t be older than her late teens.

This was undoubtedly Vera, the woman Paul had mentioned earlier.

Her choice of armor wasn’t entirely unusual in this world. With healing magic readily available for minor wounds, many fighters prioritized mobility over protection.

Chainmail and heavy armor could impede movement, making lightweight alternatives appealing to certain schools of swordsmanship.

Still, this was the most revealing combat attire I’d encountered. Most female adventurers I’d met on the Demon Continent wore practical clothing with armor pieces protecting joints and vital areas. Even accounting for Millis’s stable climate maintained by the Seven Towers, her outfit seemed impractically minimal.

Our eyes met across the table. She winked.

I returned the gesture.

“Oi, Rudy… Rudy?”

Paul’s voice snapped my attention back to the conversation.

“Father, it has been a while.”

“What… Rudy, you actually survived, huh?”

Paul’s words carried exhaustion rather than relief. His appearance had deteriorated dramatically since my last memories of him—unshaven, disheveled, reeking of alcohol, and radiating an Touki of barely contained irritation. This wasn’t the Paul I remembered.

“Well… yes.”

My mind struggled to process the situation. Why was Paul here in Millishion, thousands of miles from his responsibilities in Asura? Had he come searching for me? No, he couldn’t have known about my teleportation to the Demon Continent. What about his duty protecting Buena Village? Had the disaster’s aftermath been so severe that he’d abandoned his post?

“So, why are you here, Father?”

Paul looked genuinely surprised by the question. “Why? You saw the message, didn’t you?”

“Message?”

I genuinely had no idea what he was referring to. No message had reached me during our year-long journey across the Demon Continent.

Paul’s expression darkened at my obvious confusion. “Oi, Rudeus. What exactly have you been doing all this time?”

“It’s been… rather challenging,” I replied, uncertain why this seemed to agitate him further.

Despite my growing confusion, I launched into a detailed account of our adventures—the teleportation to the Demon Continent, Ruijerd’s rescue, our decision to become adventurers, and the year-long journey that had brought us here.

The memories proved surprisingly pleasant to recount. Our initial struggles had given way to genuine camaraderie and adventure. Perhaps influenced by these positive recollections, my storytelling became increasingly animated and dramatic.

I organized the tale into three distinct arcs: first, meeting Ruijerd and the chaos in Rikarisu Town; second, our mission to restore the Superd race’s reputation; and third, my capture by Beast People and subsequent rescue by Claude.

Though I embellished certain details for dramatic effect, the core events remained truthful. My gestures became more expansive, my voice more passionate, as I lost myself in the narrative.

I carefully omitted any mention of the Human God, as I did even in conversations with Claude. Something about those encounters felt too personal, too dangerous to share.

“And when we finally reached Wind Port, what we discovered was—”

“That’s enough.”

Paul’s sharp interruption cut through my enthusiasm like a blade. His face had twisted into an expression of pure irritation, fingers drumming impatiently against the table.

“I understand quite well that you’ve spent the past year gallivanting about,” he said with undisguised contempt.

The word choice stung. “I had quite a difficult time as well, you know.”

“What exactly was difficult about it?”

His counter-question caught me off-guard. “Eh?”

“From your tone, I didn’t detect even a hint of hardship.”

That was because I’d deliberately presented it that way—emphasizing the adventure and camaraderie over our genuine struggles. Perhaps I had gotten carried away with the storytelling.

“Hey, Rudy. There’s something I want to ask you.”

“What is it?”

“Why didn’t you gather information about other people who were teleported while you were on the Demon Continent?”

Silence.

I had no choice but to remain silent because there was only one truthful answer: I had forgotten.

Initially, we’d struggled desperately just to survive. But even after finding our footing, even when we had resources and connections, I hadn’t thought to search for other teleportation victims. The possibility hadn’t even occurred to me.

“I… I had forgotten. We didn’t have time, and—”

“Didn’t have time? You had time to help random demons you’d never met, but no time to concern yourself with other people who’d been teleported?”

The accusation hit like a physical blow. He was right—my priorities had been completely wrong. Geese and Claude had already made this clear to me, but hearing it from Paul’s lips made the failure feel fresh and raw.

“Even though you had a strong escort and that cute little ojou-san with you, living like you were on a pleasant vacation, playing at being adventurers. And then, when you finally reach Millishion, you see a kidnapping and decide to play hero with panties on your head?”

Paul reached for a jug of alcohol, draining half of it in a single gulp before spitting dismissively. The gesture was so openly contemptuous that my own anger began to rise.

“I’ve had to deal with one crisis after another,” I protested. “In a situation where I couldn’t tell which way was up, I decided to focus on protecting Eris. Various things happened—it couldn’t be helped, right?”

“I’m not exactly blaming you.”

His tone suggested otherwise. My voice rose despite my attempts at restraint.

“Then why are you picking a fight with me?”

Paul spat again. “I should be asking you that question.”

“What do you mean?”

“That Eris you mentioned—she’s Phillip’s daughter, right?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Never seen her myself, but she must be quite the cute little ojou-san. Did you avoid sending letters because you thought extra guards would interfere with your flirting?”

“Didn’t I just explain that I forgot?”

The conversation was spiraling beyond my comprehension. Paul seemed convinced I’d deliberately neglected some responsibility, but I genuinely didn’t understand what he expected me to have done differently.

“Leader, perhaps you should leave it there,” Vera interjected, placing her hands on Paul’s shoulders. “He’s still young—if he said something thoughtless, it can’t be helped.”

Her intervention only fueled my growing resentment. Here was Paul, surrounded by beautiful women, lecturing me about responsibility and propriety.

“When it comes to women, I don’t want lectures from you, Father.”

Paul’s eyes flashed dangerously, but I was too caught up in my anger to notice.

“What’s the deal with that woman behind you?”

“What about Vera?”

“Do Mother and Lilia know you have such a beautiful woman traveling with you?”

Paul’s expression shifted to something resembling regret, but I was too focused on what I perceived as victory to recognize it.

“They don’t know. There’s no way they would.”

“So you’re cheating as much as you like? You’ve got her dressed in quite the erotic outfit. Should I expect a new brother or sister soon?”

The blow came so fast I barely registered the movement. One moment I was standing; the next, I was sprawled on the floor with Paul looming over me, his face twisted with rage.

“Don’t fuck around with me, Rudy.”

The profanity shocked me more than the physical pain. Paul had hit me—actually struck me down like a common brawler.

“Since you’re here, you must have passed through Saint Port, right?”

“What about it?”

“Then you should know!” His voice cracked with emotion I couldn’t interpret.

I was completely lost. Paul was hiding something—some crucial piece of information he expected me to know, and his anger stemmed from my ignorance of whatever it was.

“I don’t know!”

I swung my fist at Paul’s face. He avoided it easily, forcing me to activate my demon eye to track his movements. I stomped toward his leg with all my strength, then spun to aim for his chin.

Despite his apparent intoxication, Paul moved with fluid grace—nowhere near his former speed, but still beyond my purely physical capabilities.

I channeled mana into my right arm. In close combat, I couldn’t match Paul, but magic was my domain.

The tornado spell erupted from my palm, catching Paul center-mass and hurling him across the room. He crashed into the counter behind him, sending bottles and mugs flying in a cascade of glass and alcohol.

“Damn! You’ve really done it now!”

Paul struggled to his feet, but his legs betrayed him—too much alcohol compromising his balance. In the past, Paul would have avoided my spell even from that position. Age and drink had clearly taken their toll.

“Rudy, you bastard…”

Another woman rushed to support the stumbling Paul, confirming my suspicions about his behavior. Even surrounded by female companions, he had the audacity to criticize me.

“Don’t touch me!” Paul shoved her away and staggered toward me.

“Paul, how many women have you cheated with while I was away?”

“Shut the hell up!”

His punch was telegraphed and clumsy—nothing like the Paul I remembered. I could avoid it easily even without my demon eye.

I caught his arm and attempted a shoulder throw, supplementing my limited technique with wind magic to provide the necessary force. Paul hit the floor hard, clearly unprepared for the impact.

I mounted him as I’d seen Eris do in our sparring sessions, pinning his arms with my knees to prevent retaliation.

“I’ve been trying my best too!”

I struck him repeatedly, each blow punctuated by my growing fury.

“There was no other choice! I was in a place I knew nothing about! There wasn’t anyone I knew! Even so, I somehow managed to make it here! Why do I have to be criticized like this?”

“Since it was you, you should have been able to do better!”

“I couldn’t!”

Paul endured my assault in silence, blood trickling from his mouth as he stared at me with an expression I couldn’t interpret—disappointed, perhaps, or simply resigned.

That look infuriated me more than any words could have.

“Kyaaa, no! A pervert! Help!”

A child’s terrified scream cut through our confrontation. Both Paul and I immediately turned toward the sound, our personal conflict forgotten in the face of potential danger.

The crowd had parted to reveal Claude holding a small girl with golden hair and features I recognized from paints—Norn, my younger sister, now five or perhaps six years old.

She’d grown so much.

Paul’s entire demeanor transformed. The drunken, stumbling man vanished, replaced by a predator moving with lethal grace.

His speed was beyond what my demon eye could easily track—closer to Ghislaine’s level than the Paul I remembered.

Claude evaded the attack with casual ease, cradling Norn protectively while maintaining perfect balance. When Paul pressed his assault, Claude simply raised his palm and whispered a single word.

My demon eye caught the spell’s activation, but Claude’s movement during its effect was almost too fast for even enhanced perception to follow. This was his Time Square technique—not true time manipulation, but personal acceleration that let him move while everyone else remained effectively frozen.

The spell’s duration was brief but sufficient. Claude repositioned himself behind Paul and drove the older man to the ground with precise, controlled force.

As the spell ended, Paul found himself pinned and disoriented, finally recognizing his attacker.

“Claude?”

“Don’t bully my dad!” Norn declared, punching Claude’s chest with tiny fists.

Despite myself, I couldn’t help but cheer her on—knowing full well that her attacks couldn’t possibly hurt him.