The tension in the room crackled like static electricity before a thunderstorm.

Claude’s finger remained extended, pointing at Lynn with the precision of a blade finding its mark.

The afternoon light had shifted, casting longer shadows that seemed to writhe with unspoken accusations and carefully guarded secrets.

“Only the inhabitants of the Armoured Castle possess knowledge of teleportation gate operations,” Claude continued, his voice carrying the weight of absolute certainty. Each word felt measured, calculated—the product of hundreds lifetimes’ worth of accumulated suspicion and hard-earned paranoia. “You demonstrate familiarity with information that individuals on this planet should not possess, including details that only my previous incarnations knew.”

The air in the room felt thick, oppressive, as if the very atmosphere recoiled from the implications of Claude’s accusation.

Perugius shifted in his ancient chair, the Dragon King’s extensive experience recognizing the delicate dance of revelation and concealment playing out before them.

His formidable presence seemed to intensify, as though even he found himself drawn into the mystery of the minstrel’s true nature.

Claude’s incarnations stirred restlessly within their shared consciousness.

Alex Cromwell’s military instincts screamed warnings about compromised intelligence networks, while Fred Alphonse’s analytical mind catalogued every micro-expression, every subtle shift in posture that might reveal truth beneath carefully constructed facades.

Kuro’s representative voice carried the frustration of 345 failed attempts to understand beings who existed beyond conventional categories.

“You cannot possibly be a normal human, Minstrel,” Claude concluded, his teacher’s authority mixing with the cold precision of someone who had learned to distrust convenient explanations.

Lynn’s response came as a casual shrug, his weathered shoulders lifting in a gesture that somehow managed to convey both dismissal and acknowledgment.

His gaze drifted away from Claude’s intense scrutiny, settling on the dust motes dancing in the slanted sunlight—a performance of disinterest so practiced it became suspicious in its very perfection.

The minstrel’s silence stretched like a taut wire, vibrating with unspoken truths and carefully maintained deceptions.

His fingers, Claude noted, possessed calluses inconsistent with simple musical performance—marks that spoke of weapon handling, of conflicts fought in shadows where bards traditionally feared to tread.

Perugius observed the exchange with the patience of centuries, his extensive wisdom recognizing patterns that transcended individual lifetimes.

The Dragon King’s curiosity manifested as subtle changes in posture, a slight forward lean that suggested engagement despite his apparent restraint.

His investigation of the minstrel remained surface-level by choice rather than limitation—a decision that spoke volumes about the careful respect even dragon kings accorded to certain mysteries.

The standoff might have continued indefinitely, two forces of will locked in silent combat, when Lucas’s voice cut through the tension like a blade through silk.

“We’ve learned about them, master Claude. How do you intend to handle it?”

The Undertaker’s emergence from the shadows felt natural, inevitable—as though he had been waiting for precisely this moment to deliver information that would shift the balance of power in the room.

His presence carried the subtle menace of someone accustomed to existing in the spaces between visibility and action.

Claude’s attention shifted with predatory focus, his incarnations automatically cataloguing potential threats and opportunities in the changing dynamic.

The weight of accumulated knowledge pressed against his consciousness—4 different perspectives on intelligence gathering, strategic planning, and the delicate art of managing multiple crisis simultaneously.

“Let’s return to our main topic,” Claude said, his voice carrying the authority of someone accustomed to commanding situations that defied conventional understanding.

The minstrel’s mystery would wait; more immediate concerns demanded resolution. “Mister Hero, let’s discuss this world’s increasingly bleak future.”

The formal address carried subtle mockery, acknowledgment of titles that felt increasingly hollow in the face of cosmic threats that transcended traditional heroic narratives.

Claude’s teacher persona reasserted itself, the familiar rhythm of instruction providing structure for discussions that threatened to spiral into existential chaos.

The corridor leading to their assigned quarters felt longer than it should have, shadows stretching like grasping fingers in the flickering torchlight.

The scent of old wood and metal polish filled the air—familiar, comforting aromas that reminded Matthias of his workshop days at the academy, when his greatest concern had been crafting perfect prosthetics rather than protecting a child from cosmic forces.

“That Claude guy is terrifying,” Matthias said, his craftsman’s eye still processing the subtle wrongness he had observed in the young man’s presence.

Seven years of caring for Mud had sharpened his ability to detect supernatural anomalies, and Claude registered as something fundamentally other despite his human appearance.

His words carried the weight of genuine concern, born from decades of academic study and practical experience with forces that existed beyond normal human comprehension.

The old headmaster’s protective instincts—honed through years of shepherding students through magical education—now focused entirely on the boy walking beside him.

Mud nodded with exaggerated enthusiasm, his artificial joints moving with the precise mechanical rhythm that Matthias had spent countless hours perfecting.

The boy’s translucent flesh caught the torchlight strangely, creating an ethereal quality that emphasized his artificial nature while somehow making him seem more rather than less human.

“His mana is being eaten and eating something else all the time,” Mud observed, his enhanced senses providing details that escaped normal perception.

The boy’s restored hearing—reclaimed through the destruction of devils—allowed him to detect subtle energy fluctuations that most beings missed entirely. “What kind of thing is that?”

The question carried innocent curiosity mixed with the sharp intelligence that marked Mud as exceptional even beyond his Miko heritage.

His artificial eyes—masterworks of Matthias’s craftsmanship—reflected understanding that exceeded his chronological age, wisdom earned through suffering that no child should endure.

“Oya… as expected of a Miko! What wonderful eyes you have!” Lynn exclaimed, his enthusiasm seeming genuine despite the calculated nature of most of his interactions.

The minstrel’s hands came together in applause that echoed strangely in the corridor’s confined space.

Matthias noted the shift in Lynn’s demeanor—the way the minstrel’s carefully maintained facade developed cracks when confronted with Mud’s unique perceptions.

Whatever secrets the performer carried, they seemed connected to supernatural phenomena that even experienced craftsmen found difficult to comprehend.

“I can explain the other energy eating and being consumed by his mana,” Lynn continued, his voice taking on the rhythm of someone sharing genuinely valuable knowledge. “Though I don’t know exactly what you perceive, I understand something about that secondary mana-like energy. It’s called Ki, produced by consuming the Mana within his body.”

The explanation carried technical precision that seemed inconsistent with Lynn’s minstrel persona.

Matthias’s academic background allowed him to recognize the depth of understanding implied by such casual familiarity with advanced magical theory.

The old headmaster’s suspicions about their companion’s true nature crystallized into near-certainty.

“Mana-consuming energy? Is this something different from Touki?” Matthias asked, his scholarly instincts overriding caution.

The craftsman in him hungered for understanding, even when that knowledge carried dangerous implications.

“According to his hypothesis, it represents energy formerly classified as Touki,” Lynn explained, his voice carrying the authority of someone who had witnessed the theoretical breakthrough firsthand.

“Unlike wizards who channel mana externally, weapon masters traditionally imbue their weapons with Touki. But how could someone dismissed as a magical failure become stronger than established masters?”

The question hung in the air like a philosophical challenge, undermining fundamental assumptions about power hierarchies that had shaped magical education for generations.

Matthias felt his worldview shifting, academic foundations cracking under the weight of paradigm-changing revelation.

“I see… that represents an approach I never considered,” Matthias admitted, his craftsman’s precision extending to intellectual honesty. Decades of magical study had prepared him for technical innovation, but not for discoveries that challenged the basic nature of human potential.

“What’s wrong, father? I can’t understand the significance,” Mud interjected, his young voice carrying frustrated confusion. The boy’s intelligence allowed him to follow technical discussions, but the implications remained beyond his experiential comprehension.

“What do you think of the individual we just left? Do you believe he possesses significant mana reserves?” Matthias asked, his teaching instincts automatically seeking to guide Mud toward understanding through direct observation.

“I don’t see as much mana as father has in his body,” Mud replied, his artificial eyes reflecting careful consideration.

The boy’s enhanced senses provided data that contradicted surface impressions, revealing complexities that escaped normal perception.

“You’re correct. However, if your father and that man fought, I would undoubtedly be the one defeated,” Matthias said without shame, his academic honesty extending to realistic assessment of personal limitations.

The admission carried weight beyond simple humility. Matthias had once stood among the most respected magical educators in the kingdom, his theoretical knowledge and practical skills representing the pinnacle of academic achievement.

Acknowledging inferiority to someone barely past adolescence spoke to the magnitude of Claude’s capabilities.

“I already suspected that. But what gives him such strength?” Mud asked, his curiosity carrying the intensity of someone whose survival might depend on understanding supernatural power dynamics.

“It’s their proficiency with both weapons and magic,” Matthias explained, settling into the familiar rhythm of instruction. “As practitioners of dual disciplines, they can employ spells and weaponry simultaneously in combat. They possess the intelligence and physical capability to accomplish feats that traditional magicians and weapon masters typically cannot achieve.”

The explanation felt inadequate even as he spoke it.

Matthias’s academic background provided frameworks for understanding hybrid disciplines, but Claude’s presence suggested complexities that transcended conventional categories entirely.

“Historically, weapon masters and sorcerers maintained obvious distinctions in their respective roles,” Matthias continued, his teacher’s instincts seeking to provide comprehensive context. “Geographic factors and attack positioning typically determined engagement parameters. Common wisdom holds that mages excel at long-range attacks while weapon masters dominate close-quarters combat.”

The familiar territory of tactical analysis provided comfort, allowing Matthias to process recent revelations through established academic frameworks.

His decades of teaching experience automatically structured information for optimal comprehension.

“Specialized experts on both sides can mitigate traditional weaknesses, but this standard evaluation method typically suffices for practical purposes. Ranking systems exist for each discipline, though they become less relevant at higher levels,” he added, his voice carrying the authority of someone who had spent decades studying such classifications.

“Do you mean the Saint, King, Emperor, and God rankings they mentioned?” Mud asked, his enhanced hearing having caught every detail of the earlier conversation despite its complexity.

“Exactly! I’ll explain the details later, but you should understand that we mages have always believed weapon masters use Mana as fuel for their enhanced abilities—and weapon masters themselves accepted this explanation,” Matthias said, his academic excitement overriding concerns about the implications. “However, the Cloud God’s theory changed our fundamental understanding.”

The title carried weight that seemed to press against the corridor walls.

Matthias had spent years avoiding direct engagement with Claude’s legend, but proximity to the man himself made such intellectual distance impossible to maintain.

“Why?” Mud asked, his simple question cutting to the heart of paradigm-shifting revelation.

“Because he succeeded in creating beings capable of utilizing both Mana and Touki simultaneously,” Matthias explained, his voice dropping to near-whisper as the magnitude of the achievement struck him anew.

“Huh? I don’t understand,” Mud said, his confusion reflecting the difficulty even exceptional minds faced when confronting concepts that challenged fundamental assumptions about reality.

Lynn interrupted with the timing of someone accustomed to managing complex conversations. “Because historically, nobody held weapon masters in high regard. Unlike mages, who must study mana channels extensively, weapon masters only require physical training. They don’t use intellectual development to enhance their weapon skills—just muscular conditioning!”

The minstrel’s explanation carried casual dismissal that felt somehow performative, as though he were reciting commonly held prejudices rather than expressing personal beliefs.

Matthias noted the subtle disconnect between Lynn’s words and the respect implicit in his earlier technical discussion.

“Therefore, no one investigated weapon masters sufficiently to understand their actual methodologies?” Mud asked, his intelligence allowing him to grasp sociological implications despite his youth.

“Exactly!” Lynn confirmed, his enthusiasm seeming genuine despite the calculated nature of most of his responses.

“So the fact that this young man discovered humans possess secondary external energy represents a mind-boggling breakthrough that could spark intensive research and revolutionary discoveries,” Matthias said, his academic perspective providing context for the magnitude of Claude’s theoretical contribution. “A paradigm-shifting development that challenges everything we thought we understood about human potential.”

“Wow,” Mud breathed, his artificial voice carrying wonder that transcended his mechanical nature.

“To think that someone in his teens could make such discoveries—even dragons from ancient eras would be astonished by such insight,” Matthias continued, his scholar’s appreciation for intellectual achievement overriding other concerns.

“Clearly, this demonstrates how exceptional that individual truly is,” Lynn observed, his voice carrying undertones that suggested deeper familiarity with Claude’s capabilities than a simple minstrel should possess.

They reached their assigned quarters as the conversation wound toward natural conclusion. The heavy wooden door seemed to represent a barrier between the cosmic implications they had been discussing and the more mundane reality of rest and recovery.

Matthias felt grateful for the prospect of processing recent revelations in relative privacy.

“However, my master is not as enigmatic as you, Minstrel,” Lucas said, his voice emerging from shadows that seemed to deepen around his presence.

The Undertaker’s sudden appearance sent shock waves through the small group. Matthias instinctively moved to shield Mud, his protective instincts overriding surprise as trained responses kicked in.

The boy pressed against his adoptive father’s side, artificial limbs trembling with mechanical precision that somehow conveyed very human fear.

“What terrible behavior, Undertaker. You certainly enjoy eavesdropping on private conversations,” Lynn replied, his casual tone unchanged despite being caught in what should have been a secure location.

The minstrel’s composure in the face of supernatural infiltration struck Matthias as profoundly suspicious.

Normal individuals did not maintain such equilibrium when confronted by beings capable of existing within shadows themselves.

“You possess neither mana nor Ki, but rather some concealed secret,” Lucas continued, his voice carrying the authority of someone accustomed to extracting truth from reluctant subjects. “No one understands its nature, but the possibility that you represent my master’s reincarnation creates genuine concern. However, once you choose concealment, no one can locate you. Minstrel, what are you?”

The question hung in the air like an executioner’s blade, heavy with implications that could reshape everything they thought they understood about their traveling companion.

Matthias felt the weight of mysteries layering upon mysteries, each revelation raising more questions than it answered.

Lynn’s response came as a smile—enigmatic, knowing, carrying depths that seemed to mock attempts at understanding.

His weathered features reflected amusement rather than concern, as though he found the entire situation entertaining rather than threatening.

Matthias and Mud exchanged glances, their shared experience allowing wordless communication. They had only recently begun to recognize the minstrel’s peculiarities, but that growing awareness did not diminish their gratitude for his assistance during their journey. Whatever secrets Lynn carried, his actions had consistently supported their welfare.

“I see you have no intention of answering my questions. I also notice you’ve gained yourself wonderful companions,” Lucas observed, his tone carrying acknowledgment of the protective dynamics he had witnessed.

“Well, thank you,” Lynn replied, his casual acceptance of the compliment somehow managing to defuse tension while maintaining mystery.

“My master wishes to propose a deal. Care to hear the details?” Lucas asked, his formal phrasing carrying implications of negotiations between equals rather than interrogation of suspects.

“Let them all out, tiger. I’ll listen to your proposal before deciding,” Lynn said, his colloquial response suggesting familiarity with such high-stakes negotiations.

The corridor fell silent except for the subtle sounds of breathing and the almost inaudible hum of magical energies that permeated the settlement.

Matthias found himself holding his breath, sensing that whatever came next would fundamentally alter their understanding of the forces shaping their journey.

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