[NARRATOR POV]

“When a weapon master is named after a saint, they will unknowingly begin to manifest the energy we call ‘touki,'” Reida Reia explained, her voice carrying the weight of decades spent perfecting her craft.

The air around her shimmered as ethereal currents became visible, dancing like heat waves in the dappled sunlight filtering through the Great Forest’s canopy.

Claude watched intently as the Water God raised her blade, the weapon seeming to sing through the humid air.

The scent of earth and growing things surrounded them, punctuated by the distant calls of creatures deeper in the forest—a reminder that even here, in this moment of instruction, they remained in hostile territory.

“As a mage, you might perceive this as mana,” Reida continued, her blade moving in the fundamental technique known as Flow. “But touki and mana are fundamentally different energies.”

The sword in her weathered hands moved like liquid mercury, each motion seemingly effortless yet containing depths of technique that made Claude’s enhanced perception strain to follow.

The current of touki surrounding her blade flowed like an invisible river, directed toward a practice target with surgical precision.

Alex would have killed for instruction like this, Claude thought, fragments of his first incarnation’s desperate final moments flickering through his mind.

The memory of dying alone in that cursed dungeon, surrounded by poisonous beasts and his own failures, sent a familiar chill down his spine. He had touki all along but never understood what it meant.

“Using touki, even basic Flow can become a projectile technique,” Reida demonstrated, the energy extending beyond her blade to strike a target twenty paces away. “We manipulate the flow of touki in our surroundings—or within our own bodies—to attack from distance. However, this application rapidly depletes our reserves and should be used sparingly.”

Claude nodded, his analytical mind already cataloging the similarities and differences between this technique and the magical applications he’d mastered.

But beneath his scholarly fascination lurked a deeper hunger—the desperate need to become stronger, to never again watch helplessly as catastrophe consumed everything he’d tried to protect.

The teleportation disaster still haunted his dreams. Despite all his memories, all his preparation, he’d failed to prevent the Metastasis Event.

The weight of that failure pressed against his chest like a physical thing, making each breath a conscious effort.

“Focus, Claude,” Reida’s voice cut through his spiraling thoughts. “The past cannot be changed, but the future remains unwritten. Watch carefully.”

She gathered touki at the tip of her blade, the energy condensing until it became visible as a brilliant azure glow.

The surrounding forest seemed to hold its breath as power accumulated, birds falling silent in the trees above.

“This is the Long Sword of Light,” she announced, and with a single fluid motion, swept the blade in a horizontal arc.

A crescent of pure energy erupted from the sword, gouging a furrow in the earth twenty feet long and two feet deep.

The demonstration left Claude’s ears ringing and his enhanced vision struggling to adjust to the afterimage burned across his retinas.

“Wow,” Claude breathed, unable to keep the awe from his voice. “It’s like Excalibur itself.”

The legendary sword from half-remembered stories seemed pale compared to the raw power he’d just witnessed.

Here was technique refined over centuries, power that could reshape battlefields and destiny alike.

Isolte snorted beside him. “Don’t get too excited. You’re still barely competent with basic Flow.”

Her voice carried its usual edge, but Claude caught the underlying note of pride she tried to hide. His rapid progress had pushed her to new heights as well, their rivalry driving both of them beyond what either might have achieved alone.

“Such harsh words from someone I deflected not an hour ago,” Claude replied with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. The banter helped mask the anxiety that gnawed at him constantly—the fear that no matter how strong he became, it would never be enough.

How can I protect anyone if I can’t even master something as fundamental as swordplay? The thought came unbidden, accompanied by flashes of memory from incarnations that had died despite their best efforts.

The third Miko spent decades perfecting combat techniques, and it still wasn’t enough when the end came.

“Both of you, demonstrate what you’ve learned,” Reida commanded, her tone brooking no argument.

Claude drew his practice sword, feeling the familiar weight settle into his palm. The month of intensive training had transformed his relationship with the blade from awkward necessity to something approaching genuine partnership.

He could feel the potential for touki flickering at the edges of his consciousness, like a flame waiting to catch.

Isolte moved first, her blade describing a perfect arc as she attempted to overwhelm him with aggressive technique.

But Claude had learned to read the subtle shifts in her stance, the telltale tightening of her grip that preceded each attack.

He flowed around her assault like water around stone, his own blade redirecting her strikes with minimal effort.

The technique still felt alien compared to his magical instincts, but muscle memory was building with each repetition.

“Getting predictable, Isolte,” he teased, though sweat beaded on his forehead from the effort of maintaining perfect form. “Maybe you should try a different approach?”

“Shut up and fight properly!” she snapped, her frustration evident as she pressed her attack.

Claude couldn’t help but smile at her reaction. For all her skill and dedication, Isolte had lived a sheltered life within the sanctuary.

Their sparring sessions were probably the most informal interaction she’d ever experienced, and watching her gradually relax into genuine emotion felt like a small victory.

At least I can give her this, he thought, deflecting another strike. Even if I can’t save everyone, maybe I can help a few people find pieces of themselves they’d lost.

“Excellent form, both of you,” Reida observed, though her attention remained focused on Claude. “However, Claude, you’re still thinking like a mage. Swordplay requires a different type of focus—less analysis, more instinct.”

She was right, of course. Every movement felt calculated rather than natural, his enhanced perception allowing him to break down each exchange into component parts rather than flowing with the rhythm of combat. It was efficient but lacked the fluid grace that marked true mastery.

“I’m trying,” Claude admitted, lowering his blade as Isolte backed off to catch her breath. “But it’s difficult to shut off the analysis. I see every angle, every possibility, and it’s… overwhelming sometimes.”

The admission cost him more than he’d expected. Revealing weakness—even to a teacher—went against every survival instinct his accumulated memories had burned into his consciousness. But Reida nodded with understanding rather than judgment.

“Many mages struggle with this transition,” she said gently. “Your mind is trained to impose structure on chaos, but swordplay requires you to become part of the chaos. To flow with it rather than controlling it.”

Flow with chaos. The concept resonated with something deep in Claude’s psyche, reminding him of those moments during the teleportation disaster when his careful plans had crumbled and only instinct had kept him alive.

Perhaps there was wisdom in learning to embrace uncertainty rather than always trying to predict and control outcomes.

“Let’s try a different exercise,” Reida suggested. “Close your eyes and focus only on the sound of movement, the shift of air currents, the vibration through the ground. Let your other senses guide the blade.”

Claude hesitated, every tactical instinct screaming against voluntarily limiting his perception. But he forced his eyes closed, trusting in Reida’s expertise despite his discomfort.

The world transformed into a symphony of subtle sensations. He could hear Isolte’s breathing, slightly elevated from their earlier sparring.

The whisper of wind through leaves above. The distant sounds of the Dedoldia village going about their daily routines.

“Now,” Reida instructed, “defend yourself.”

The attack came as a shift in air pressure, a subtle change in the ambient sound that his enhanced hearing caught just in time.

Claude’s blade moved without conscious thought, guided by instinct rather than calculation, and he felt the satisfying contact as he deflected Isolte’s strike.

“Better,” Reida approved. “Again.”

They continued the exercise until sweat soaked Claude’s training clothes and his arms ached from maintaining proper form.

But gradually, he began to feel the difference—moments where technique flowed naturally rather than being forced, where the blade became an extension of his will rather than a separate tool to be wielded.

When they finally stopped, Claude opened his eyes to find both women watching him with expressions of cautious approval.

“You’re learning,” Isolte admitted grudgingly. “Still nowhere near my level, but… learning.”

“High praise from the future Water God herself,” Claude replied, though fatigue made his usual wit feel forced.

The intensive training was taking its toll, and he could feel the familiar tension building behind his eyes that usually preceded another flood of conflicted memories.

Too much, too fast, he thought. Just like always. Trying to master everything at once because I’m terrified of being caught unprepared again.

“Perhaps that’s enough for today,” Reida suggested, her experienced eyes reading the signs of his exhaustion. “Mastery cannot be rushed, regardless of natural talent or… unique circumstances.”

Claude nodded gratefully, though part of him wanted to push through the fatigue and continue training.

The need to grow stronger consumed him like a fever, driving him to neglect sleep, meals, and even his other magical studies in pursuit of combat proficiency.

But Reida was right—he was spreading himself too thin, trying to excel at enchantment, blacksmithing, magic theory, and now swordplay simultaneously.

The memories of his various incarnations provided knowledge but not the decades of focused practice required to truly master any single discipline.

I need to make choices, he realized. Prioritize what’s most important for what’s coming. Even if I don’t know exactly what that is anymore.

As they walked back toward the village, Claude found his thoughts drifting to the companions scattered by the teleportation disaster.

Somewhere out there, his friends were struggling to survive in an hostile world, possibly facing dangers he couldn’t even imagine.

The weight of responsibility settled on his shoulders like a familiar cloak. Whatever came next, he would need to be ready—not just with knowledge or magical power, but with the kind of practical combat skills that could keep people alive when everything else failed.

The path ahead remained uncertain, but at least now he was taking concrete steps to prepare for it.

[SOMAR POV]

The makeshift cemetery looked absurd in the middle of the Dedoldia village—a collection of wooden markers that Claude had insisted on creating despite the tribe’s bewilderment.

I knelt beside the graves I’d constructed for my parents, brushing away leaves that had fallen during the night.

“After all the preparations, everything still turned to nothing,” I muttered, running my fingers along the rough wood. The carving was crude compared to Claude’s work, but it felt important to maintain them myself.

The irony wasn’t lost on me. Here I was, surrounded by one of the most vibrant communities I’d ever encountered, tending to graves for people who’d died worlds away from this place.

Claude’s decision to create this memorial in the heart of a living village still struck me as morbid, but I was beginning to understand his reasoning.

He’s trying to honor what was lost while building something new, I realized. Even if his methods are unconventional.

“Master! Master, where are you hiding?”

The familiar chorus of voices made me wince. The Dedoldia smiths had been hunting Claude since dawn, their obsession reaching levels that bordered on religious fervor.

I’d tried explaining that he wasn’t with me, but they refused to believe that anyone associated with their “savior” wouldn’t know his exact whereabouts.

“I swear on my ancestors, I’ll give you my wife if you just come back and teach us advanced metallurgy!” one of them shouted from somewhere near the village center.

What the hell did Claude do to these people? I wondered, not for the first time. The transformation in the blacksmiths was remarkable, but their devotion had crossed into territory that made me genuinely uncomfortable.

“Pardon their… enthusiasm,” came a familiar voice behind me.

I turned to find Gyes approaching, his expression caught between amusement and embarrassment. The beast-man warrior had been one of Claude’s primary contacts in the village, and I got the impression he felt somewhat responsible for the smiths’ current behavior.

“It’s fine,” I lied, getting to my feet and dusting off my knees. “Though I have to ask—what exactly did Claude do to inspire this level of fanaticism? It’s honestly a little disturbing.”

Gyes laughed awkwardly, one hand scratching at his cheek in a gesture I’d learned indicated discomfort among the Dedoldia. “Well, he essentially saved their entire profession from extinction. Perhaps I should explain…”

As we walked toward a quieter section of the village, Gyes began to tell me the story I’d only heard fragments of during my time here. The Dedoldia smiths hadn’t always been the confident, skilled craftsmen they were now.

In fact, just months ago, they’d been considered the lowest caste in the village—social outcasts whose traditional skills had become irrelevant in a tree-dwelling community.

“You have to understand,” Gyes explained, his voice taking on the rhythmic cadence of a storyteller, “metallurgy and forest living don’t naturally coexist. How do you forge steel when you can’t build traditional forges without burning down your home? How do you mine ore when your entire civilization exists in the canopy?”

The smiths had found themselves trapped between their inherited calling and the practical realities of Dedoldia life.

Generation after generation had watched their skills atrophy, their social standing diminish, until they existed as little more than charity cases within their own community.

“They lived in the shadow-spaces,” Gyes continued, his expression growing somber. “The parts of the village where the canopy blocks most of the sunlight. Married to women who were themselves outcasts—the disabled, the mentally impaired, those deemed ‘undesirable’ by village standards. It was… not a life anyone would choose.”

I found myself thinking of my own struggles with belonging, the way Claude had found me half-dead and purposeless in Buena Village.

The parallel wasn’t exact, but the core desperation felt familiar.

“Then Claude arrived,” Gyes said, and his voice took on the reverent tone that seemed universal when the villagers spoke of my friend. “He took one look at their situation and declared it unacceptable. Not their status, not their marriage arrangements—their waste of potential.”

What followed was apparently three months of what could only be described as rehabilitation through controlled torment.

Claude had used his enchantment abilities to create impossible forges that wouldn’t damage the trees, established mining operations that seemed to defy conventional logic, and subjected the smiths to training regimens that made his treatment of us children look gentle by comparison.

“He worked them twenty-four hours a day for the first month,” Gyes recounted. “No breaks, no excuses, no acceptance of failure. They hated him with every fiber of their being. Some tried to quit, others attempted to sabotage the equipment. Claude’s response was to increase the workload.”

That sounds like Claude, I thought. He’s never been one to accept defeat gracefully, especially when he thinks he knows what’s best for someone.

But gradually, something had changed. The smiths began to realize they were actually improving, that the skills they’d thought lost forever were returning stronger than before. More importantly, their work was being recognized and valued by the rest of the village for the first time in their lives.

“Within three months, they were producing metalwork that rivaled anything from the human cities,” Gyes said with obvious pride. “Tools, weapons, decorative pieces—suddenly the Dedoldia had access to craftsmanship that had been impossible for generations. The smiths went from outcasts to essential members of the community overnight.”

The transformation had been so dramatic that the smiths now viewed Claude as something approaching a divine figure.

He’d given them not just skills, but purpose, dignity, and a place in their society they’d never thought possible.

“So when they heard Rudeus and I discussing… marriage arrangements,” Gyes continued with obvious discomfort, “they decided to offer their own wives to Claude as an incentive to stay. In their minds, it was the highest honor they could bestow.”

Of course Claude rejected that, I thought. He’s got his own complicated relationship with romantic attachment, and I can’t imagine him accepting what amounts to human trafficking, even if it’s well-intentioned.

“He beat them up for the suggestion,” Gyes confirmed, “but they kept offering. Right up until the day he left the village. They couldn’t understand why someone who’d given them so much would refuse to accept anything in return.”

The story painted a picture of Claude that was both inspiring and troubling. His ability to transform lives was undeniable, but his methods often bordered on cruel.

He’d essentially broken these people down completely before building them back up according to his own vision of what they should become.

He does the same thing to everyone, I realized. To me, to the other children from Buena Village, probably to himself most of all. Tear down what exists and rebuild it stronger, regardless of the cost.

“It’s a complicated situation,” I said finally. “I can understand their gratitude, but this level of obsession isn’t healthy for anyone involved.”

Gyes nodded emphatically. “Exactly. They’ve transferred all their self-worth onto Claude’s approval. It’s… concerning. But I’m not sure how to address it without undermining the genuine good he accomplished.”

As we walked, I found myself thinking about the nature of transformation and the responsibility that came with changing someone’s life so dramatically.

Claude had given these people skills, purpose, and dignity—but he’d also made them dependent on his validation in ways that might prove problematic long-term.

He carries so much weight, I thought. All these people looking to him for salvation, for guidance, for meaning. No wonder he sometimes seems like he’s carrying the world on his shoulders.

The sound of hammering echoed from the smith district as we passed, accompanied by enthusiastic voices discussing advanced metallurgical techniques.

Whatever Claude’s methods, the results were undeniable—a dying craft had been reborn, and an entire caste of people had been lifted from desperation to prosperity.

But the cost of that transformation was still being paid, in ways that probably wouldn’t become clear until Claude returned to deal with the consequences of his own success.

“Anyway,” Gyes said, seeming eager to change the subject, “shall we discuss the matter you came to see me about?”

I nodded, pushing aside my complicated feelings about Claude’s impact on the village. There was business to attend to, and dwelling on philosophical questions about transformation and responsibility wouldn’t help anyone right now.

But as we headed toward Gyes’ dwelling, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the Dedoldia smiths’ obsession was just one example of a larger pattern—people whose lives had been so dramatically changed by Claude’s intervention that they could no longer imagine existing without his continued presence.

What happens to them when he’s gone? I wondered. What happens to any of us?

The question followed me as we entered the building, along with the distant sound of smiths still calling for their absent master.

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