A new memory means a recent tragedy.

Claude’s chest tightened as the familiar sensation crept through his consciousness—the cold fingers of another timeline’s despair reaching across the void to claim space in his already overcrowded mind.

Each memory fragment arrived like a shard of broken glass, cutting through his thoughts with razor precision.

He wished the knowledge would come without the pain, the understanding without the weight of witnessing another version of himself fail catastrophically.

The world was already bleak enough without adding another layer of suffering.

In the future, what awaited this Claude? What fresh horrors would carve themselves into his soul?

But wait. Who was this Claude in the first place?

The answer crystallized with startling clarity: This Claude had no memories from other timelines. No fragmented knowledge bleeding through dimensional barriers. No burden of parallel failures weighing down his shoulders like stones in a drowning man’s pockets.

This was the story of a normal man named Claude—a Claude who had never become a Miko, who carried only one lifetime’s worth of regrets instead of dozens.

This was Claude’s future if the convergence had never happened.

…

Unlike his other alternates, this Claude possessed an almost heartbreaking innocence. His childhood unfolded in predictable patterns until that fateful meeting with Rudeus in Buena Village, where the familiar dance of destiny began once more.

The story followed the canonical path with cruel precision. When Philip Boreas Greyrat’s letter arrived requesting a tutor for his daughter Eris, Paul saw an opportunity to remove his troublesome son from the village’s increasingly tense atmosphere.

Rudeus and Paul clashed because Somar’s mother had falsified testimony about the bullying incident, painting her son as the victim and Sylphiette as the instigator.

The reality of their systematic harassment—the way they had cornered the half-elf girl, called her “demon spawn,” and thrown stones when the adults weren’t watching—remained buried beneath layers of adult politics and childish pride.

Somar, Mike, and Claude continued their reign of petty terror among the village children. They avoided Rudeus and Sylphy now, but their avoidance was itself a form of cruelty—alienating the pair from what little community the village offered.

They whispered poison in other children’s ears: That green-haired thing isn’t human. She’s part Superd—you know, those demons from the Laplace War who ate children and turned the Red Dragon Mountains into a wasteland. The lies came easily, fed by centuries of prejudice against the cursed Superd race.

When Rudeus departed for Roa to tutor Eris Boreas Greyrat, the trio felt a surge of vindictive satisfaction.

One threat eliminated, one reminder of their own magical inadequacy removed from sight. They didn’t know that their victim was bound for the Asura Kingdom’s noble circles, where his true talents would flourish under Ghislaine Dedoldia’s sword training and the chaotic influence of the “Mad Dog” herself.

But Sylphy remained, and with her, the uncomfortable reality of her growing magical abilities.

“It’s a strategic retreat, guys! Fall back!” Claude had shouted that day, his voice cracking with pubescent uncertainty as Sylphy’s water bullet whistled past their heads.

Mike and Somar needed no further encouragement—they scattered like leaves before a hurricane, leaving only the echo of their footsteps and the bitter taste of cowardice in the air.

The days that followed blurred together in a haze of rambunctious mischief and hollow victories. Each of them helped their parents when necessity demanded, but their bonds lacked the depth that would have developed under different circumstances—the kind of closeness that the Miko Claude had forged through shared purpose and mutual understanding.

This was the life of normal children: present-focused, consequence-blind, drifting through their days like ships without anchors.

Living as village thugs, they created friction with their parents and found solace in each other during moments of crisis.

The time they spent together was simultaneously fulfilling and empty—a contradiction that only childhood could sustain.

Such was life for those under fifteen: tomorrow was a distant concept, and yesterday held no lessons worth learning.

When the Metastasis struck—that catastrophic magical phenomenon that would later be attributed to the clash between Laplace and the Dragon God—they felt only raw, primal terror.

The mana disturbance was so massive it tore holes in space itself, scattering the entire Fittoa region’s population across the world like seeds in a hurricane.

In contrast to other timelines where Claude had been prepared, here he faced the catastrophe as what he truly was: a frightened child with no knowledge of Summoning Magic circles, Teleportation theory, or the ancient magics that had caused this disaster.

Unlike his other alternates, this Claude wasn’t transported to the nightmare dungeon—that ancient dungeon filled with monsters and remnants of the Great War. Instead, he found himself deposited in the unforgiving wilderness of the Millis Continent, far from the Holy Kingdom of Millis where Milis Church’s influence might have offered sanctuary.

…

Surviving in untamed wilderness challenged even veteran adventurers. For a normal adult, it meant facing death at every turn. For a child who had never received proper survival training, it was nothing short of miraculous torture.

Claude spent more than a week stumbling through that green hell, his small body accumulating wounds like a collection of death sentences.

Each step forward cost him blood—literal crimson drops marking his passage through thorny undergrowth and across jagged stones.

Deep gashes crisscrossed his arms and legs, far worse than simple scratches. The wilderness had no mercy for the young or inexperienced.

But perhaps the cruelest irony was that his salvation came wearing the mask of damnation. The slavers who found him half-dead among the roots and shadows operated in the lawless regions between kingdoms, where Milis Church’s anti-slavery doctrine held no sway and the Asura Kingdom’s authority was merely a distant rumor.

After minimal medical attention—just enough healing magic to ensure their investment wouldn’t die immediately—they dragged him to an illegal mine deep in disputed territory.

These operations flourished in the chaos following the Metastasis, as displaced populations and weakened local authorities created perfect conditions for exploitation.

The mine itself was a remnant of the ancient world, carved into veins of magic ore that had been exposed during some long-forgotten conflict.

The slaves extracted precious materials used in magical tool creation—red iron ore for enchanted weapons, blue crystals for mana amplification devices, and occasionally, fragments of the rare magic stones that powered teleportation circles.

Day after agonizing day, Claude swung pickaxe and hauled ore carts, his maimed body screaming protests with every movement.

The other slaves barely acknowledged his existence; in a place where survival was measured in calories and minutes of rest, sympathy was a luxury none could afford.

As weeks turned to months, his wounds gradually healed, leaving behind a network of scars that mapped his journey from innocence to despair. Even so, he remained what the slavers coldly termed “damaged goods”—too weak for heavy labor, too broken for domestic service.

Three years of that underground purgatory passed before salvation arrived in the unlikely form of a Water God Style swordsman.

The raid came without warning—a coordinated strike by the Milis Church’s Temple Knights and independent sword saints working to eliminate illegal mining operations that had proliferated after the Metastasis.

“You look older than me…” The woman’s voice carried genuine surprise as she studied Claude’s prematurely aged features.

She wore the flowing blue garments typical of Water God Style practitioners, and the sword at her hip bore the distinctive curved guard of the Isolte family—a minor noble house known for producing talented swordsmen. “Are you one of the slaves in this illegal operation?”

…

At fifteen, I had already lived lifetimes of suffering compressed into a handful of years. Lady Isolte had rescued me from that hellish mine two years ago, bringing me to her dojo where I slowly remembered what it meant to be human again.

Under her tutelage, I learned the flowing forms of Water God Style swordsmanship—the defensive techniques that emphasized redirection and counter-attacks, so different from the aggressive Sword God Style or the precise North God Style.

Lady Isolte taught me the fundamental principles: Flow like water around obstacles, strike where the enemy is weakest, and never meet force with force when wisdom can find another path.

I also learned the harsh realities of the world beyond Buena Village. The Metastasis Event—that catastrophic magical phenomenon that had erased the Fittoa region from existence—was no longer just a personal trauma but a historical turning point that had reshaped the entire continent’s political landscape.

The Asura Kingdom had mobilized massive resources for search and rescue operations, while the Milis Church provided humanitarian aid to displaced populations.

Even the normally isolationist Magic Kingdom of Ranoa had opened its borders to refugees with magical talents.

Three years had passed since that day of reckoning.

I had returned to Buena Village once, hoping to find some fragment of my former life. The crater where my childhood home once stood gaped like a wound in the earth, filled with nothing but silence and regret.

Beyond that empty space, I could see nothing of meaning—no path forward, no purpose worth pursuing.

This world seemed determined to crush any spark of hope I might nurture.

The depression that followed made even my darkest days in the mine seem bearable by comparison. But within that crushing despair, a miracle occurred: my father was found alive.

Paul had been organizing rescue operations for Metastasis survivors, working closely with the Fittoa Territory Search and Rescue Organization—a group that included former Fittoa residents, noble volunteers, and even some adventurers seeking either redemption or profit.

Through his efforts, my childhood friends had been located across the scattered corners of the world.

Somar had been freed from slavers before being sent to the mines—a fate I wouldn’t wish on anyone, having lived it myself.

His rescue had come through the Temple Knights’ expanding operations against illegal slavery rings that had proliferated in the post-Metastasis chaos.

Mike had been discovered training with merchants in the Asura Kingdom, taken in by a trading company that specialized in magical goods.

The merchant family had lost their own son in the disaster and saw in Mike a chance to continue their legacy.

Though he had lost both parents to the catastrophe, he had found a new purpose in the complex world of international commerce.

Mike threw himself into his merchant work with desperate intensity, declaring his intention to leave a permanent mark on the Kingdom within five years.

Whenever our paths crossed, I could see him running from his grief, using ambition as a shield against the pain of loss.

His parents’ deaths had wounded him more deeply than he would ever admit.

As our lives diverged, the bonds between us stretched and finally snapped. I spent my days at the dojo, repaying Lady Isolte’s kindness through training and maintenance work, while they pursued their own paths toward uncertain futures.

“What are you doing here, Claude?”

Lady Isolte’s voice cut through my reverie with familiar warmth. I had grown accustomed to her sudden appearances—or perhaps I was simply prone to spacing out, lost in memories of better days.

“Lady Isolte, good afternoon.” I bowed slightly, maintaining the formal courtesy she always claimed to dislike.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve told you a thousand times that being too stiff isn’t good for you.” She waved dismissively, but her smile held genuine affection. “So, what’s troubling that overthinking brain of yours today?”

She consistently protested my formal address, but how could I speak casually to someone of her stature? She was stronger than me, higher in social position, and most importantly, my savior. Without her intervention, I would have died in that mine, forgotten and unmourned.

“I’ll always be your subordinate, my lady.”

“You know I’ve always thought of you as my friend, right?” Her expression grew earnest, almost pleading.

“I’m unworthy of being your friend, my lady.”

She made an exasperated sound, somewhere between a growl and a sigh. “Fine, whatever makes you comfortable. But listen—let’s go to the Holy Land of Swords and train until I become a Sword Emperor!”

“You need to achieve Sword King rank first, though, my lady.”

She grumbled at my practical observation but grabbed my arm with characteristic determination, pulling me along as if my protest had never been voiced.

I followed without further resistance, accepting my role as her escort and support for the long journey to the northwestern corner of the Central Continent.

The Holy Land of Swords awaited—headquarters of the Sword God Style practitioners and a place unlike any other in the world.

Unlike other sword schools that operated from simple dojos, the Sword God Style practitioners had claimed an entire region for their own.

The Holy Land’s reputation stemmed not from divine blessing but from the convergence of masters—practitioners from every sword style who gathered there to share knowledge and push their abilities beyond mortal limitations.

It was said that even North Style swordsmen, normally reclusive to the point of legend, occasionally made pilgrimages to that sacred ground.

The current Sword God, Gal Farion, had achieved mastery in Water God Style as well, holding the rank of Emperor in both disciplines—a feat that boggled the mind and defied easy categorization.

I never had fully understood the relationship between titles and ranks among swordsmen until Lady Isolte explained the historical context.

Unlike mages, whose hierarchies followed the structured academic traditions established by the Magic Universities, sword practitioners operated under military traditions that dated back to the wars against the Demon Race.

“Was ‘God’ truly a rank, or merely a title granted to the undefeated?” I had asked one evening as we camped beneath unfamiliar stars.

When I had posed these questions to Lady Isolte, she had paused in sharpening her blade to consider her answer carefully. “The God rank represents something beyond simple skill measurement,” she had explained. “It’s granted to those who have not only mastered their chosen style but transcended its limitations. Gal Farion isn’t just the strongest Sword God Style practitioner—he’s created entirely new techniques by combining different schools. That’s why he holds the title.”

“So if someone defeats a Sword God, they don’t necessarily become weaker?”

“Exactly. But the title passes to whoever proves they’ve surpassed that level of innovation and mastery. It’s not just about winning a single fight—it’s about demonstrating superiority across all aspects of swordsmanship over time.”

The explanation had satisfied my logical mind, though I still found the system more complex than necessary.

The journey to the Holy Land stretched across an entire year, filled with encounters both mundane and memorable.

Along the way, I heard whispered tales of “Rudeus the Quagmire”—the genius mage who had once been Paul’s son and my childhood victim.

It seemed he had made quite a name for himself during his travels through the Demon Continent, likely in the company of the legendary Superd warrior Ruijerd Superdia—one of the few survivors of his cursed race.

But “Quagmire”? The epithet suggested a combination of earth and water magic that created battlefield terrain advantages, possibly combining Water Saint-level magic with advanced earth techniques to trap multiple enemies simultaneously.

Such tactical innovation was impressive, especially considering the traditional magical education at the Ranoa Magic Academy typically focused on singular elemental mastery rather than combination techniques.

It spoke to either exceptional natural talent or guidance from multiple masters—perhaps both.

Not being a mage myself, I filed the information away as an interesting curiosity and focused on more immediate concerns.

“Your cooking is the best as always, Claude!” Lady Isolte declared, savoring a spoonful of the soup I had prepared over our small campfire.

“You’re too kind, my lady. I still have much to learn, but I appreciate your encouragement.”

“When did you start using such formal language?” She paused between bites, studying my face with curious intensity. “I’ve eaten at the finest restToukints in Asura and Ranoa, and none of them compare to your cooking.”

“Oh, that place in Ranoa?” I recalled the memory with unexpected warmth. “They serve excellent fresh seafood. Their preparation surpasses mine by far.”

“You’re too humble.” Her voice carried genuine frustration. “Even the Emperors at various dojos praise your food. If they were honest with themselves, I bet half of them would try to recruit you as their personal cook.”

Lady Isolte’s compliments always felt sincere, but I knew improvement was possible—even necessary. If my cooking could bring her happiness, then perfecting that skill was time well spent.

Throughout our journey, I absorbed culinary knowledge from every region we passed through, constantly refining techniques and expanding my repertoire. Lady Isolte praised every meal, but her training remained as ruthless as ever—a reminder that kindness and standards could coexist without contradiction.

One year of travel, learning, and growth brought us finally to our destination.

I never could have imagined that this place—this supposed sanctuary of martial excellence—would become the site of our permanent separation.

This was where I would lose her forever.