[Claude POV]

Several days before our departure, Lady Eris Boreas Greyrat had ventured out on a goblin extermination quest—alone, or so it appeared. The intelligence had initially surprised me; I hadn’t expected them to allow her such freedom on this continent.

But my scouts had spotted Ruijerd’s distinctive silhouette from a distance, that unmistakable spear-straight posture cutting through the wilderness. The Superd warrior was shadowing her, as always.

The memory fragments stirred uneasily in my mind—flashes of timelines where such protection hadn’t been enough, where companions had fallen despite the strongest guardians. I pushed the images aside, focusing on the present report.

On her way to complete the quest, Eris had encountered Cliff Grimoire at the Temple—the so-called genius magician from the Demon Coalition faction. They’d ventured beyond the city walls together to hunt the goblins plaguing the trade routes.

Genius magician. The title tasted bitter in my thoughts. I’d compared him to Rudeus instinctively, but the gap was… substantial. Even my own progress in magic had outpaced his, which was frankly disappointing.

In the context of this world’s magical education standards, Cliff certainly qualified as prodigious among commoners. But compared to the monsters from Buena Village, or even the weakest members of Arbalest, he fell short.

Still, undermining him served no purpose. The boy had potential, even if it burned dimmer than I’d hoped.

The real development had come during their goblin hunt. Eris and Cliff had stumbled upon an assassination attempt—not random bandits, but organized killers targeting a Temple Knight and a Miko. The irony wasn’t lost on me: a Miko under attack, when I myself carried that cursed title through convergent memories I could barely comprehend.

Our red-haired swordswoman had, predictably, carved through the assassins with beautiful efficiency.

The attackers had been members of the Demon Coalition faction, opposed to their targets from the human supremacy sect within the Temple hierarchy. Politics within politics, the kind of web that made my head ache with half-remembered strategies from parallel selves.

Cliff had assisted, though from the reports, calling it “assistance” was generous. As the old saying went: “Better a strong enemy than a pig teammate.” I couldn’t help but smirk at that particular assessment.

The boy probably remained ignorant of the deeper implications, though he’d likely picked up enough to ask uncomfortable questions. Knowing Eris, she’d spent considerable time comparing him unfavorably to Rudeus—her usual pattern when encountering any young male with magical aptitude. She knew me primarily as a swordsman and enchanter, not a magician, so Rudeus would inevitably serve as her baseline for magical genius.

Not that I could blame her perspective. When you were utterly devoted to someone…

Isolte is the best. Isolte is the cutest.

I cleared my throat, banishing that particular train of thought. Focus, Claude.

After dispatching the assassins, Eris had identified herself as “Dead End Ruijerd from Superd”—a declaration that had visibly shaken the Temple Knight and Miko.

The human supremacy faction wasn’t known for their tolerance of demon races, yet they’d accepted her aid graciously and parted on good terms.

The Temple Knight she’d saved, according to older intelligence from Agent C, was connected to House Latreia.

More specifically, she was Rudeus’s aunt—Zenith’s younger sister. The web of coincidence would have been laughable if I didn’t know how this world’s narrative threads tended to weave together.

I shared this report now because of what had transpired at week’s end. My operatives in Saint Port had sent word of complications involving Rudeus’s group.

The port manager was disputing the authenticity of their recommendation letter—the one bearing Galgard Nash Venick’s seal.

Galgard Nash Venick, Grandmaster of the Order of Instruction. A mercenary organization that deployed young knights to conflict zones for seasoning while spreading Milis teachings across the continent.

For any aspiring Holy Knight, joining one of their expeditions served as a coming-of-age ritual.

I still couldn’t fathom how they’d acquired such a letter, though Ruijerd’s connections seemed the most likely source.

The Superd warrior was older than recorded history; accumulating a few high-placed acquaintances over the centuries wouldn’t be unreasonable, especially on the Demon Continent where such relationships transcended racial boundaries.

Their refusal of Arbalest’s escort made more sense now. They should have been able to resolve this easily—a mere Duke wouldn’t dare antagonize an official envoy from the Asura Kingdom, particularly one with Greyrat backing.

But perhaps intervention wouldn’t be necessary. In my experience, help often arrived faster than problems could fully develop…

[Rudeus POV]

Two months had crawled by since our departure from the Demon Continent. The salt-tinged air of West Port filled my lungs as we crested the final hill, revealing a sprawling harbor city that dwarfed Saint Port in every dimension.

The comparison was inevitable—both cities shared similar architectural DNA, that distinctive Milis blend of practical stonework and religious ornamentation.

But West Port’s scale spoke to its position as a crucial nexus in this world’s trade networks. The journey connecting the Holy Kingdom of Milis to the Asura Kingdom served as this continent’s equivalent of the Silk Road, and every stop along that route had grown fat on commercial prosperity.

Massive warehouses dominated the harbor district, their stone walls blackened by decades of sea spray and smoke from the processing facilities.

Even from our elevated approach, I could see the organized chaos of commerce—dock workers hauling nets heavy with silver-scaled fish, robed figures wielding water magic to create preservation ice, carts groaning under loads of salt-cured goods destined for inland markets.

The sight stirred memories of my previous life, of documentaries about medieval trade routes and the civilizations they’d spawned.

This world’s magic made certain processes more efficient, but the fundamental rhythms of commerce remained unchanged across dimensions.

I couldn’t help wondering why Arbalest hadn’t established their headquarters here instead of deeper inland.

This location offered superior logistical advantages for a merchant organization, yet they’d chosen a different strategic approach. Perhaps there were political considerations I wasn’t seeing, or maybe they preferred to avoid the intense scrutiny that came with operating in major trade hubs.

Our carriage wheels clattered over cobblestones as we entered the city proper. This was as far as our current transportation would take us—the ferries of this world lacked the capacity for horse-drawn vehicles, necessitating another sale and future repurchase cycle.

I’d grown attached to our sturdy mount during the journey, so I gave her a name as we handed her over to the horse trader.

“Goodbye, Haru-rara,” I murmured, patting her neck one final time.

The transaction completed, we made our way toward the customs building—a substantial stone structure that dwarfed its Saint Port counterpart. Armored guards flanked the entrance, their Milis knight regalia polished to mirror brightness despite the humid sea air.

Throughout the city, similar figures maintained visible patrols, their presence both reassuring and vaguely intimidating.

I found myself studying their equipment with a critical eye, wondering how effective those traditional armaments would prove against this world’s more exotic threats.

The creatures we’d faced on the Demon Continent possessed devastating offensive capabilities—a single solid hit could reduce elaborate armor to scrap metal and leave the wearer in their undergarments, assuming they survived the impact.

The mental image of knights being literally knocked out of their clothes by monster attacks struck me as absurdly comedic, though I kept such thoughts to myself.

Inside the customs house, controlled chaos reigned. The contrast with Wind Port’s sleepy operation couldn’t have been more stark—here, adventurers and merchants conducted business with energetic efficiency, their voices creating a constant hum of negotiation and transaction.

I approached one of the service counters, noting with bemused consistency that the receptionist possessed the same generous proportions as her colleagues in other cities.

Perhaps there truly was an unwritten professional requirement for customs workers to meet certain… specifications.

“Excuse me, I’d like to apply for passage across the ocean.”

“Of course, sir. Please take this number and have a seat—we’ll call you shortly.” Her smile was professionally pleasant as she handed me a wooden token marked with the number 34.

The bureaucratic efficiency felt almost nostalgic as we settled into the waiting area. Eris immediately claimed the seat beside me, while Ruijerd remained standing—a habit that made him appear perpetually ready for action.

Around us, dozens of other travelers waited with similar patience, their conversations a multilingual murmur of commercial concerns and travel plans.

“This might take a while,” I observed.

“Shouldn’t we present the letter now?” Ruijerd’s question carried subtle urgency.

I shook my head. “We’ll need to wait for our number to be called. That’s how the system works here.”

“I see…” His unfamiliarity with bureaucratic processes was endearing, in its way.

Eris had begun fidgeting—waiting had never been her strength. Her restless energy manifested in small movements: foot tapping, finger drumming, frequent shifts in position.

“Rudeus,” she whispered, leaning closer. “We’re being watched.”

Following her gaze, I spotted the source of her discomfort. Several guards were stealing glances in our direction, their attention focused primarily on Eris herself.

She’d responded to their scrutiny with her characteristic directness—returning their stares with an aggressive glare that promised violence if they overstepped.

“Try not to start a fight,” I cautioned.

“I wasn’t going to,” she replied, though her tone suggested otherwise.

What had drawn their attention? Eris had indeed grown more beautiful during our travels, her features maturing from childish prettiness into genuine elegance.

But she remained obviously young, and I refused to believe every guard in the building suffered from inappropriate inclinations.

“Number 34, please step forward.”

We approached the designated counter, where I presented our letter of recommendation. The receptionist accepted it with professional courtesy, but her expression shifted dramatically upon reading the name on the back.

“Please wait one moment.”

She disappeared into the back offices, leaving us in uncomfortable uncertainty. The wait stretched longer than expected, punctuated by the sound of raised voices and heavy footsteps from the administrative areas.

When she returned, her nervousness was poorly concealed.

“I apologize for the delay. Duke Baqciel has requested to meet with you personally.”

My stomach dropped. Nothing good ever came from unscheduled meetings with nobility.

Duke Baqciel von Wieser, Chief of the Milis Continent Customs House, was exactly what central casting would have ordered for the role of “corrupt official.” His neck disappeared into rolls of fat, while thinning blonde hair clung to his scalp with the desperation of a man fighting a losing battle against time and genetics.

Dark circles shadowed his eyes, giving him the appearance of an overfed raccoon.

The resemblance to my former self was uncomfortably strong—a reminder of what unchecked indulgence could produce.

“Hmph. For a filthy demon to present me with such a letter…” He didn’t bother rising from his elaborate leather chair, instead waving the document dismissively. The chair’s protests under his weight punctuated his obvious displeasure.

His desk was a monument to bureaucratic excess—expensive writing implements, stacks of official documents, and the tools of his trade arranged with the kind of precision that spoke to obsessive control over his domain.

“This letter bears quite an impressive name, and the seal appears convincing at first glance. However, I won’t be deceived by such obvious forgery.”

He hurled the paper aside, and I caught it reflexively.

The contents made my vision swim:

Though this person is a Superd, they are someone I owe a great debt to. Though they are of few words, they possess an admirable spirit. You should waive their voyage fee and courteously send them to the Central Continent.

Galgard Nash Venick
Grand Master, Order of Instruction

The signature hit me like a physical blow. How had “Galgard Nash Venick” become “Gouache Brush” in Ruijerd’s understanding?

GALgard naSh venick = GASh

The nickname made sense—someone might casually say “Just call me Gash.” But where had “Brush” originated, and how had Ruijerd confused a Grand Master of the Order of Instruction with a simple acquaintance?

The Order of Instruction was one of Milis’s three premier knight organizations. Their Grand Master ranked among the most powerful individuals on the continent. Why would someone of that stature associate with a Superd?

Multiple explanations presented themselves: the relationship might have been clandestine to protect Galgard’s reputation; he might have used aliases during their original meeting; decades could have passed since their initial contact, leading to confusion about names and titles.

“To begin with,” Baqciel continued, his voice dripping with disdain, “that taciturn man would never write such a letter. I know him well—he despises unnecessary correspondence, limiting himself to essential documents only. For him to write a personal recommendation for a demon? Even jokes have limits.”

Ruijerd’s expression had grown thunderous. From his perspective, his trusted letter was being dismissed because of racial prejudice—a conclusion that wasn’t entirely wrong.

According to Paul’s briefings, Baqciel’s hatred of demon races was well-documented. But if that reputation was known, why would Galgard—regardless of his actual relationship with Ruijerd—send such a letter to this particular official?

Unless the letter was genuinely forged…

No. Ruijerd’s description of “Gash’s” residence had been specific: a building rivaling Kishirisu Castle in size, populated by numerous subordinates. That matched perfectly with a knight order’s headquarters.

But understanding the situation wouldn’t resolve our immediate problem. Baqciel had already decided the letter was fraudulent, and we couldn’t simply apologize and leave after coming this far.

I stepped forward, deciding on a calculated risk.

“Your Excellency is stating definitively that this letter is a forgery?”

“Why are you—? Children should remain silent while adults conduct business.”

His dismissive tone sparked familiar irritation—I’d been treated as a child when I wanted adult recognition and as an adult when I craved childhood’s protections. The irony never lost its sting.

I raised my right hand to my chest in the formal noble greeting, drawing on etiquette lessons that felt like lifetime ago.

“Please excuse my delayed introduction. I am Rudeus Greyrat.”

Baqciel’s eyebrow twitched at the family name.

“Greyrat, you say?”

“Indeed. Though it shames me to admit, I belong to one of the lower branches of the high-ranking Asura noble house of Greyrat.”

“Hmm… but the Greyrats traditionally incorporate ancient wind god names into their nomenclature.”

“Precisely. As a branch family member, I lack the privilege of bearing such distinguished names.”

The admission of inferior status had its intended effect—Baqciel’s expression grew more condescending. At that moment, I gestured toward Eris.

“However, Lady Eris carries the authentic Boreas Greyrat name.”

Eris stepped forward on cue, her surprise quickly masked by determination. Her initial posture was characteristically aggressive—arms crossed, legs planted wide—but she caught herself and attempted a more ladylike presentation.

Her curtsy attempt faltered when she realized her traveling clothes lacked a proper skirt, but she recovered by mimicking my noble greeting with admirable composure.

“I am Eris Boreas Greyrat, granddaughter of Sauros Boreas Greyrat.”

The delivery was slightly stiff, and her form wasn’t perfect, but the name itself carried undeniable weight.

Baqciel’s reaction was harder to read—calculation flickering behind those pig-like eyes.

“Why would the daughter of an Asura noble find herself in such circumstances?”

The question was inevitable, and honesty served us better than deception here.

“Is Your Excellency familiar with the Mana Calamity that struck the Fittoa region two years ago?”

“I’m aware of it. A large number of people were reportedly teleported to various locations.”

“We were among those affected. Afterward, I took responsibility for protecting Lady Eris during our journey across the Demon Continent. Ruijerd has served as our guard throughout this ordeal.

We managed to sell our possessions to fund passage to the Milis Continent, but we lack sufficient resources for the final journey to the Central Continent—particularly given the premium rates applied to Superd passengers.

As both an acquaintance of the Greyrat family and a friend to Ruijerd, we requested Lord Galgard’s assistance.”

The explanation wove truth with strategic omissions, presenting our situation in the most sympathetic light possible.

Whether it would be enough to overcome Baqciel’s prejudices remained to be seen, but we’d played our strongest cards.

Now we could only wait for his response, and hope that Greyrat influence carried enough weight to tip the scales in our favor.

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