[ALEX CROMWELL POV]

The afternoon sun filtered through the dusty windows of Mike’s estate, casting long shadows across the simple wooden floors.

I watched Claude from my position near the doorway, my spectral form tethered to the iron rod leaning against the wall.

The boy sat hunched over at the worn dining table, his shoulders trembling as he carried on an animated conversation with empty air.

“…and then Mother, you should have seen the way Isolte handled the sword today. She’s improving so quickly, just like you always said she would when we first met her…” Claude’s voice cracked slightly, his green eyes bright with an unsettling mixture of joy and desperation as he gestured to the vacant chair across from him.

A familiar ache settled in my chest—the same helpless frustration I’d felt watching too many young soldiers break under the weight of war.

Except this wasn’t battle fatigue or survivor’s guilt. This was something far more insidious.

“Ah… so the sickness has reappeared, huh?” I let the words slip out, though I knew he couldn’t hear me in this state.

Isolte’s footsteps echoed from the hallway before she appeared in the doorway, her silver hair catching the light as she took in the scene.

Her face went through a series of expressions—confusion, concern, then that familiar look of determined understanding that reminded me why all three of us incarnations had grown so protective of her.

“What do you mean, is that something that happens on occasion?” Her voice was steady, but I caught the slight tremor underneath. She was getting better at hiding her worry, but not good enough to fool someone who’d spent decades reading people’s tells.

“I’ve mentioned it before, but every miko has a loose screw in their head…” I materialized more solidly, drawing on Claude’s soul energy to manifest in a way she could see and hear.

The effort sent a familiar drain through our shared connection, but some conversations required presence, not just observation.

“I’m aware of it, and shouldn’t Claude’s irresponsibility be the record for him?” Isolte moved closer to the table, her movements careful and deliberate. She’d learned to navigate around Claude’s episodes without triggering worse reactions.

I shook my head, feeling the weight of too many similar scenes across too many timelines. “No, being irresponsible is something that every martial artist will experience in some fashion. But it’s not the same for a miko.” The words tasted bitter.

“Look at Fred and Kuro—they had far worse personality problems than the other mikos!” The protest came from Claude himself, his consciousness suddenly snapping back to the present like a rubber band released under tension. His eyes focused on us with startling clarity, though his hands still shook slightly. “Out of the three incarnations, I’m the most normal!”

Normal. The word hung in the air like a bad joke. I studied the boy’s face—my face, technically, though younger and bearing scars I’d never earned.

The defiant set of his jaw, the way his fingers drummed against the table in a nervous rhythm that perfectly matched my own habits. He was trying so hard to convince himself as much as us.

“Uhm… Okay.” Isolte’s response was carefully neutral, but I saw her cataloging every detail of his behavior. She’d become an expert at reading the signs, knowing when to push and when to simply provide steady presence.

“I know you mistrust me, but I’m the only one of the three who has actual fighting experience.” Claude’s voice gained strength as he spoke, falling into the familiar pattern of logical argumentation that had served him well in political negotiations. “I didn’t get my knowledge overnight, and I’m training my body step by step while enjoying my life in the village…”

The irony wasn’t lost on me.

Even in the midst of a psychological break, he was trying to rationalize, to find logical frameworks to explain the impossible burden he carried.

It was so fundamentally him—and so fundamentally heartbreaking.

“I’ve had more childhood than Fred, Kuro, and Claude combined!” The statement came out with fierce pride, but I heard the desperate edge underneath.

He was clinging to whatever normalcy he could claim.

“I never have nightmares about the indefinite future, and I always look forward to the next day!” The lie was so blatant I almost laughed. I’d been present for too many of those nightmares, felt the way his body jolted awake in cold sweats, heard him whisper apologies to people who existed only in parallel timelines.

“When we rank our sanity, I will undoubtedly be the most sane Claude you’ve ever met, followed by Fred, Kuro, and Cloud King in the end…” He paused, his gaze sharpening as he looked directly at Isolte. “You should be able to tell how insane your husband is based on his rank, right?”

The casual way he referred to himself as her husband sent a complicated flutter through our shared consciousness.

Hope and terror intertwined—hope that he could still envision a future with her, terror that his fractured mental state might destroy any chance of that future becoming reality.

“Could you explain what that means?” Isolte settled into the chair beside him, close enough to offer comfort but not so close as to feel threatening. Her positioning was perfect—supportive without being overwhelming. She’d learned well.

I felt the familiar weight of explanation settling on my shoulders. How do you explain the impossible to someone whose reality is already strained to the breaking point?

“Kid, Claude bore far too much in his youth…” I began, each word carefully chosen. “It’s a blessing that he can recall the memory after his brain has matured sufficiently. If he received all of the information at once, his skull would explode. Even so, how can a child remain mentally stable after witnessing death so many times?”

The memories hit like physical blows—flashes of battlefields, execution chambers, political assassinations, natural disasters. Three hundred and forty-seven different ways to die, to fail, to watch everything you care about crumble to ash. And Claude had experienced every single one, filtered through a consciousness that had been barely sixteen when it all began.

“Not like us reincarnators. He is a regular boy, and Claude cannot withstand the weight of a massive information dump that has suddenly appeared within his mind…” My voice roughened despite my efforts to maintain clinical detachment. “Regular” was such an inadequate word for what he’d endured.

“But Claude is a fighter! He’ll undoubtedly overcome this… right?” Isolte’s voice carried a desperate optimism that reminded me painfully of younger versions of myself, back when I still believed willpower could overcome any obstacle.

I paused, turning to look at Claude, who had drifted back into his conversation with invisible parents. His face was animated, almost childlike in its enthusiasm as he described some minor victory from training.

The contrast between his current joy and the conversation we were having about his sanity was stark enough to steal breath.

“I believe the same… but I am hoping that following the 4th incarnation’s abrupt emergence, he would be able to deal with the issue better.” The words felt like a prayer more than a statement.

Hope was a dangerous thing for incarnations—we’d learned that lesson across too many timelines.

“Does that mean he’ll get even worse?” The question hit like a physical blow, all the more painful for its accuracy.

“Certainly, as time passes, there will be less memory being sucked.” I forced myself to continue, to give her the truth she deserved even if it hurt. “He only acquired roughly 30% of my and Fred’s memories at first, and they are gradually unlocked as time passes. Kuro’s recollection gradually blended, night after night for years. This may appear to be a positive incentive, but witnessing your death and sorrow will never be a pleasant experience…”

The clinical description felt inadequate for the reality of what Claude endured each night. The way he’d wake up screaming names of people who didn’t exist in this timeline. The mornings when he’d stare at his hands in confusion, expecting to see scars that belonged to other lives. The moments when he’d flinch away from Isolte’s touch because some fragment of memory had convinced him she was already dead.

“I see…” Isolte’s response was quiet, thoughtful. I watched her process the information, saw the moment when full understanding settled in her eyes. It wasn’t pity—she was too strong for that. It was a kind of fierce protectiveness that reminded me why Claude had fallen for her across multiple timelines.

“Meeting you is a blessing for him, Claude began to believe.” The words came easier now, truth making them lighter somehow. “His feelings could have been influenced by the 4th incarnation, but they were genuine. Isolte, you shouldn’t be suspicious of his affections for you; it’s not related from his fourth incarnation, but his actual feelings…”

I watched her face carefully as I spoke, noting the way her shoulders relaxed slightly.

She’d been carrying that doubt like a physical weight, questioning whether Claude loved her or just the memory of who she’d been in another life.

The truth was more complicated than my reassurance suggested, but some truths were too heavy for anyone to bear alone.

[ISOLTE POV]

Alex’s words should have been comforting, but they only intensified the knot of uncertainty that had taken up permanent residence in my chest.

I watched Claude gesture animatedly at the empty chair, his whole face bright with happiness as he shared some story about our training progress with parents who existed only in his fractured memories.

The sight was simultaneously heartbreaking and terrifying.

I’d always wondered about Claude’s sudden confession that day months ago, the way he’d looked at me with such intense recognition, as if he’d been searching for me his entire life.

Now I understood why—he had been. Across multiple lifetimes, through death and failure and rebirth, some part of him had been reaching toward this moment.

But was I the same person he’d loved in that other timeline? The question gnawed at me constantly, especially during moments like this when the weight of our shared future felt crushing.

“Did this hallucination occur because his parents survived his fourth incarnation?” I asked, needing to understand the mechanics of his breaking mind. If I could understand it, maybe I could help fix it.

“Probably…” Alex’s response was heavy with implications I was only beginning to grasp. “By the time he received the incarnation memories, he didn’t believe the report and continued to give orders to search for his missing parents, though seeing Somar’s parents’ corpse stopped him from increasing his hope. Seeing his 4th incarnation’s happy family life must have etched deeper than he thought…”

The image that painted was devastating.

Claude, holding onto impossible hope while simultaneously carrying the memory of a timeline where his family had lived, where he’d been truly happy.

No wonder his mind was fracturing under the weight of conflicting realities.

“I see…” The words felt inadequate, but what else could I say? How do you respond to the revelation that the person you love most is slowly being torn apart by forces beyond anyone’s control?

I stood up slowly, decision crystallizing in my mind. Alex watched me with those knowing eyes—so similar to Claude’s but carrying the weight of experience Claude hadn’t earned yet.

I could see approval there, and something that might have been relief.

Moving carefully, I took the seat beside Claude at the table. He was in the middle of describing my sword work to his imaginary mother, his hands moving in enthusiastic gestures that made my heart clench with affection and worry in equal measure.

“…and then Mother, you should have seen the way she moved during the sparring match with Leviathan yesterday. She’s getting so much stronger, just like Father always said she would…”

I reached out slowly, letting my presence register in his peripheral vision before I spoke. “Hello,” I said softly, directing my words to the empty chair across from us. “Nice to meet you, my name is Isolte, and I’m Claude’s current lover. It’s lovely to meet you, mother and father…”

The words felt strange in my mouth, playing along with a delusion that was slowly destroying the person I loved most.

But I’d learned that fighting Claude’s episodes only made them worse, only pushed him deeper into the fractured landscape of his own mind.

His face lit up with such pure joy that tears pricked at my eyes. “Isolte! I was just telling them about your progress. Mother says she’s so proud of how dedicated you are to your training.” He turned to the empty space with an expression of such genuine happiness that I had to look away for a moment.

This was love, I realized.

Not the romantic fantasy I’d imagined as a young girl, but something far more complex and demanding.

Love was sitting beside someone while they talked to ghosts, was learning to navigate the landscape of a mind that had been shattered by impossible knowledge.

Love was choosing to stay even when staying meant watching someone you cared about slowly break apart, piece by piece.

Behind us, I heard Alex sigh heavily.

When I glanced back, his expression was a mixture of admiration and deep sadness.

He understood what I was choosing, what it would cost me in the long run.

[ALEX CROMWELL POV]

Watching Isolte settle into the delusion with such gentle grace was both inspiring and heartbreaking. She moved with careful precision, her voice warm and natural as she engaged with Claude’s imaginary parents.

The girl had more strength than most soldiers I’d known, and she was going to need every bit of it.

“People with mental illnesses, whatever of severity, should be accompanied,” I murmured to myself, remembering the words of a field medic who’d tried to explain shell shock to me decades ago in a different life. “Having someone accompany you is preferable to dealing with it alone.”

The truth of that statement was playing out in front of me. Claude’s posture had relaxed completely, his hands steady for the first time since the episode began.

Isolte’s presence—her willingness to enter his fractured reality instead of fighting it—was providing an anchor he desperately needed.

But I couldn’t help but stare at the young couple with a growing sense of foreboding. How long could she maintain this?

How many conversations with imaginary parents could she endure before her own mental health began to fracture?

How much of herself would she sacrifice to keep Claude anchored to some version of sanity?

“Is that my fault?”

Kuro’s voice materialized beside me, and I turned to see his slight form taking shape near the window.

His usual sardonic expression was replaced by something raw and vulnerable—an emotion that looked foreign on his sharp features.

“No, it’s not our fault, neither yours nor mine…” The lie came automatically, but we both knew it for what it was.

We were Claude’s memories, his accumulated experience and knowledge.

Every piece of trauma he carried had been filtered through our consciousness first.

“But, if I am stronger, Claude won’t have those horrible nightmares. If I merely had a stronger will, I could deal with the matter faster while without burdening the youngster’s head…” Kuro’s voice cracked slightly, revealing the guilt he usually kept buried beneath layers of cynicism and dark humor.

The silence stretched between us, heavy with shared regret and helpless frustration.

We were ghosts trying to fix problems that existed in the realm of the living, memories attempting to heal wounds that our very existence had caused.

“So, in the end, I broke another child because of my ignorance, huh?” Kuro’s final words hung in the air like an accusation, though whether directed at himself or the cruel mechanics of their existence was unclear.

I didn’t have an answer for him.

How do you comfort someone when the comfort itself is built on lies? How do you absolve guilt when the guilt might be justified?

Instead, I watched Claude lean closer to Isolte, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as he shared some private joke with his imaginary parents.

His laughter was bright and genuine, the sound of a boy who had never known loss or failure or the weight of impossible choices.

For now, that was enough. It had to be.

The late afternoon sun continued its slow journey across the sky, painting the simple room in shades of gold and amber.

Somewhere in the distance, I could hear the normal sounds of village life—children playing, merchants calling their wares, the steady rhythm of everyday existence that had somehow learned to continue despite the impossible complexities that surrounded them.

Claude’s condition would worsen before it improved. The memories would keep coming, night after night, year after year, until he either found a way to integrate them or broke completely under their weight.

Isolte would face impossible choices about how much of herself to sacrifice in the name of love.

The world would keep turning, indifferent to the private struggles of one fractured boy and the girl who refused to abandon him.

But for this moment, in this room touched by golden light, they were together. And sometimes, that was all anyone could hope for.

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