Dungeon manifestation.

The words echoed through Claude’s consciousness like funeral bells, carrying with them the accumulated weight of 347 lifetimes of failure. In his fourth existence, he had witnessed the phenomenon firsthand—reality tearing open like infected wounds to spill forth horrors that defied comprehension.

Monsters that existed outside conventional magical theory, creatures whose very presence rewrote the fundamental laws of nature within their proximity.

The memory fragment surfaced unbidden as he stood in the aftermath of his faculty demonstration, watching medical personnel tend to the wounded.

When would it happen this time? The temporal mechanics of his converged memories remained frustratingly inconsistent. Some incarnations had faced the manifestation within three years of the Metastasis Event.

Others had enjoyed a decade of false peace before reality began unraveling at its seams.

Preparation was everything. Yet the statistics were devastating in their clarity.

Even if Claude possessed continent-destroying magic—which he definitively did not—the sheer scale of a dungeon manifestation rendered individual power meaningless.

Millions of entities pouring through dimensional rifts, each one capable of reducing experienced adventurers to scattered remains.

The mathematics were simple and unforgiving: no single person, regardless of their capabilities, could stand against such an tide.

I cannot protect everyone. The admission tasted like ashes in his mental voice, carrying echoes of 346 previous failures. But ignoring their survival ensures my own death, along with everyone I’ve sworn to safeguard.

Teaching people to fight represented the only viable solution—not optimal, merely the least catastrophic available option.

Transform Ranoa Magic University from an academic institution into something resembling a military academy.

Force every student and faculty member to confront their own mortality while they still possessed time to adapt.

The mandatory classes served as both weapon and shield: a tool to forge competent combatants from bookish scholars, and a cover story to conceal his true motivations from those who might interfere with his preparations.

Burying wizards in theoretical study without combat training is criminal negligence, Claude reflected, watching the last of the injured teachers being carried away on stretchers. They might unlock magical mysteries and advance human understanding, but corpses contribute nothing to civilization’s continuation.

The timeline remained his greatest enemy.

Three years or less before dimensional stability began collapsing.

Not enough time for gradual education or gentle encouragement.

Every lesson had to be delivered with maximum impact, burned into memory through pain and terror until survival instincts overwrote academic complacency.

“It’s amusing how I can toy with them like children while Leviathan toys with me during our training sessions…”

The words slipped out as Claude gazed upward at the night sky, stars scattered like diamonds across black velvet.

The comparison was apt and deeply unsettling—he who had just demolished dozens of experienced magicians was himself reduced to helpless student when facing his incarnation’s combat instructor.

The balcony of the Principal’s office provided a peaceful contrast to the day’s violence. Comfortable chairs arranged around a small table, steaming cups releasing aromatic steam into the cool evening air, and a panoramic view of the university’s grounds spreading below like a miniature kingdom.

The setting was designed for quiet contemplation rather than discussions of apocalyptic preparation.

Principal Jinas and Clara sat across from Claude, their body language speaking of individuals who had accepted their place in a hierarchy far more complex than university administration charts suggested.

The older man’s weathered hands wrapped around his tea cup with the careful grip of someone no longer certain of his own strength, while Clara maintained her characteristic poise despite the day’s revelations.

“In fact, even if I entered the training ground myself, I wouldn’t last five minutes against you,” Principal Jinas admitted, his voice carrying the rueful acceptance of age and limitation. “After learning about Arbalest’s capabilities, I now understand there are dangers in this world that dwarf anything we’ve previously imagined.”

The confession was delivered without shame or resentment—simply the practical acknowledgment of reality by a man who had survived long enough to recognize his own boundaries.

“That’s exactly what I expected,” Clara added, setting her cup down with precise control. “Even a single-digit Arbalest operative could handle that entire group of faculty members without breaking stride. You didn’t need to demonstrate personally, Master Claude.”

Her tone carried the familiarity of someone who had witnessed far more impressive displays of power, making the day’s demonstration seem almost quaint by comparison.

The casual reference to organizational rankings revealed depths of knowledge that most would find disturbing.

Claude made a dismissive sound, his expression shifting to mild disappointment. “I expected better from university-level instructors. Some showed promise, particularly the ones who kept fighting despite hopeless odds, but they’re too set in their ways for rapid improvement. Perhaps I’ll find more potential among tomorrow’s seventh-year students.”

“I doubt they’ll surpass the faculty’s performance,” Clara observed, her analytical mind already working through probability assessments. “Students lack experience and refined technique.”

“Hmm, I agree with Miss Clara,” Principal Jinas nodded thoughtfully. “The seventh-years represent our strongest student cohort, but raw potential rarely translates to immediate combat effectiveness. They may possess better reflexes than older instructors, but they lack the knowledge base to make optimal tactical decisions.”

Claude’s attention shifted to a more specific concern. “I noticed Shirone’s Miko among the student body. What year classification does he hold?”

The question carried weight beyond simple administrative curiosity.

Another Miko represented either valuable ally or potential threat, depending on the nature of his converged memories and personal motivations.

“Special students aren’t bound by traditional year classifications, Master Claude,” Clara explained. “Their unique circumstances require individualized educational approaches.”

“Then how do we integrate them into the mandatory combat curriculum?”

Principal Jinas leaned forward slightly, his administrative experience asserting itself. “We could assign all special students to first-year combat classes. Having them compete against advanced students would create an unfair disadvantage for newer enrollees.”

“Excellent thinking, Principal Jinas,” Claude approved, filing the decision away for future implementation.

“I appreciate the compliment, Teacher Claude,” the older man replied with genuine warmth.

“Please, just call me Claude. There’s no need for excessive formality…”

“I prefer Teacher Claude,” Jinas insisted gently. “The title reflects respect for both your position and your capabilities.”

Claude shrugged acceptance before shifting topics. “Clara, what’s the status of our former principal? That pompous little man with his ridiculous hairpiece…”

Clara’s smile carried notes of sadistic satisfaction. “He’s learning quite obediently under Fred’s supervision, master. Despite having several screws loose in his brain, that Wind King-level wizard has proven surprisingly dedicated to his studies.”

“So Lord Georg is adapting well to his new circumstances?”

“Of course he is—we’re not cold-blooded murderers, after all,” Clara replied with mock innocence. “You’re welcome to visit our educational facilities yourself, Principal Jinas, if you’re interested in advancing your own magical knowledge…”

The invitation hung in the air with carefully calculated ambiguity. Principal Jinas’s polite decline was swift and decisive.

“I’m perfectly content with my current position, thank you for the generous offer.”

The conversation continued for another hour, touching on administrative details, strategic considerations, and the dozen minor concerns that accompanied any major institutional change.

When they finally parted ways, each carried away different perspectives on the evening’s discussions.

Alone in his office, Principal Jinas allowed himself a moment of honest vulnerability. The day’s events had stripped away comfortable illusions about safety and security, leaving him face-to-face with uncomfortable truths about his institution’s true position in the world’s power structure.

“Even without considering future catastrophes, our entire university could be devastated by a single monster from the Begaritt Continent,” he murmured to the empty room, his hands trembling slightly as he reached for official documents. “I’m not sure whether I should be grateful for this knowledge or cursed by it. It’s not as if I can improve my mana capacity at my age—those days are decades behind me.”

The admission was delivered to darkness and silence, witnessed only by moonlight streaming through tall windows.

He was an administrator, not a warrior, shaped by years of academic politics rather than life-or-death combat. The revelation of his own inadequacy carried the weight of mortality made manifest.

“I hope Lord Georg can absorb everything Arbalest has to teach him,” Jinas continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “Perhaps he can return with knowledge that might help our university survive what’s coming. Though I suspect even that may not be enough…”

The night passed slowly, carrying with it the dreams and nightmares of hundreds of individuals whose worldview had been fundamentally altered in the span of a single afternoon.

Morning arrived with deceptive normalcy. Sunlight painted the arena in shades of gold and amber, while early birds provided a cheerful soundtrack that seemed to mock the previous day’s violence.

Students gathered once again, though their demeanor bore little resemblance to the confident enthusiasm of orientation day.

Seventh-year students moved with military precision, their formation work polished through hours of desperate practice.

They had spent the night analyzing their teachers’ failures, identifying weaknesses and developing countermeasures with the intensity of generals planning crucial battles.

Recovery magic shimmered across the arena floor as multiple students channeled Saint-ranked healing spells into the protective ward network.

The coordinated effort represented impressive magical cooperation—dozens of individual casters synchronizing their output to create layered effects that would have challenged experienced professional healers.

Junior students watched from the viewing galleries with expressions mixing awe and terror.

Their seniors had transformed overnight from casual role models into something approaching military specialists, and the implications were deeply unsettling.

The seventh-years arranged themselves according to predetermined battle formations, each position calculated to maximize offensive potential while providing mutual support.

Front-line combat specialists readied weapons and defensive spells. Mid-range attackers prepared area-effect magic designed to saturate target zones.

Support personnel positioned themselves to provide healing, enhancement, and tactical coordination.

They were as ready as desperate preparation could make them.

Pride and determination radiated from their ranks as they awaited Claude’s arrival. These were the university’s elite students—individuals who had earned their positions through years of academic excellence and magical development.

If anyone could succeed where the faculty had failed, surely it would be them.

Their confidence was built on careful analysis of the previous day’s demonstration. They had identified patterns in Claude’s movement, calculated optimal spell combinations, and developed strategies specifically designed to exploit perceived weaknesses.

Most importantly, they had prepared themselves mentally for the crushing pressure of his bloodlust and mana projection.

They were ready for war.

Claude appeared without fanfare, walking onto the arena floor with the same casual demeanor he might display when entering a classroom for routine lectures.

No dramatic entrance, no theatrical buildup—just a young man in instructor’s clothing approaching a gathering of determined students.

The absence of pressure was more unnerving than its presence would have been.

Minutes passed in tense silence as the seventh-years waited for the crushing weight of murderous intent that had characterized the previous day’s encounter.

They had steeled themselves against that specific attack, developed mental techniques to resist its paralyzing effects.

It never came.

“All right, are you ready?” Claude asked casually, one finger absently cleaning his ear with the distracted attention of someone dealing with minor irritation.

The question was met with continued silence—not the silence of fear, but of confusion. This wasn’t following the expected script.

Claude’s voice rose with mild impatience. “The class will begin in five seconds. Prepare whatever you believe necessary for success!”

“Five!”

The countdown struck like lightning through the seventh-year formation. Military training asserted itself as their designated leader’s voice cut through uncertainty.

“Soldiers! Ready your focuses and begin casting! Execute Plan Alpha!”

“Four!”

Magical circles blazed to life as dozens of students began synchronized spell work. Their coordination was impressive—different formations casting complementary magic without interference or overlap.

Months of academic study had been compressed into practical combat application through desperate overnight effort.

But their casting speed remained painfully inadequate.

“Three!”

Only half their intended spells had reached completion after three seconds of intense effort. Complex incantations required time and concentration that combat rarely provided.

The gap between theoretical knowledge and practical application yawned before them like an unbridgeable chasm.

Time was running out with mathematical inevitability.

“Two!”

Claude’s count proceeded with deliberate slowness, each number hanging in the air long enough for students to recognize their impending failure. Some spells neared completion while others remained frustratingly half-formed.

“One!”

A handful of students managed to complete their casting, magical attacks streaking toward Claude with desperate precision. Intermediate-ranked spells struck his position with coordinated timing—the best they could achieve under pressure.

Claude simply raised one hand, and a barrier materialized from nothing. The attacking spells struck shimmering energy and dissolved harmlessly, their power absorbed without visible effort.

The barrier remained pristine, unmarked by impacts that should have cracked stone.

Second wave attacks followed the first. Then third wave. Fourth wave. Each group of students who had required additional casting time contributed their magic to the coordinated assault, determined to overwhelm their instructor’s defense through sheer persistence.

The barrier never wavered.

Spell after spell struck its surface and vanished, consumed by defenses that operated on principles beyond their understanding.

The sustained bombardment that represented their absolute best effort was dismissed with casual contempt.

When the final attack faded, Claude stood unchanged. Not even dust from the magical explosions had settled on his clothing.

The exterior of his barrier showed scorch marks and impact fractures, but the man within remained spotless—untouched by their combined might.

“Is that all?” Claude inquired, his tone carrying polite curiosity rather than mockery.

The seventh-year students could only stare at the pristine figure before them. Their best efforts, their desperate preparations, their carefully crafted strategies—all had proven utterly meaningless against a defense so effortless it seemed like breathing.

“Well then, perhaps next time you’ll find a more effective approach…”

Claude’s words were delivered with the patient tone of a teacher offering constructive criticism. Then Advanced-level magic erupted from his position, washing over the student formation like a tide of controlled destruction.

The lesson lasted exactly as long as it took for every seventh-year student to understand their own insignificance.

Pain and terror burned away academic arrogance, replacing it with the fundamental knowledge that survival required capabilities far beyond anything their previous education had provided.

As consciousness faded from the last student, Claude surveyed the results of his instruction with analytical satisfaction.

Tomorrow would bring sixth-year students, then fifth-year, then fourth, continuing until every individual in the university understood the reality of their situation.

The first lesson had been delivered.

Whether they possessed the wisdom to learn from it would determine who lived to see the next dungeon manifestation—and who became merely statistics in humanity’s ongoing struggle for survival.

Class was dismissed, but education was just beginning.

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