The morning sun filtered through the tall windows of Ranoa Magic Academy’s eastern wing, casting long shadows across the polished stone floors where Rudeus sat hunched over his breakfast.

Two days had passed since Claude’s latest “survival lesson,” yet every muscle in his body still screamed in protest.

The phantom pain lingered like an unwelcome guest, a constant reminder of just how thoroughly he’d been outclassed by his childhood friend’s incarnations.

“Isn’t this lesson excessive?” Rudeus groaned, shifting uncomfortably in his chair as another wave of residual agony coursed through his shoulders.

The wooden seat felt like torture against his still-tender back. “Even if we aren’t physically injured, the pain of being hurt should be worse, shouldn’t it?”

The irony wasn’t lost on him.

Physical wounds could heal with magic, scars could fade, but the memory of that overwhelming helplessness—that bone-deep understanding of how easily he could be killed—that would stay with him far longer than any bruise.

Zanoba looked up from his own plate, where he’d been methodically arranging his food into small, geometric patterns—a nervous habit he’d developed since the lessons began.

The tall young man’s usually steady hands trembled slightly as he reached for his water cup.

“Well, I don’t believe that’s the point, Master,” Zanoba said, his voice carrying the measured tone of someone trying to convince himself as much as his audience. “It’s excellent that neither my allies nor my enemies were killed by the attack. Some may lose consciousness, but it’s all acceptable provided they’re not dead.”

Rudeus let out a bitter laugh that echoed off the dining hall’s vaulted ceiling.

The sound was hollow, tinged with the kind of exhaustion that sleep couldn’t cure.

Around them, other students picked at their meals in similar states of physical and mental depletion, their conversations muted and their movements careful.

“What the hell are you talking about, man?” Rudeus shook his head, running his fingers through his disheveled brown hair. “More than half of the students are desperately attempting to avoid the lesson entirely. It’s unclear whether their failure to show up is fortunate or unfortunate at this point.”

The academy’s atmosphere had shifted dramatically since Claude’s teaching methods had been implemented.

Where once students had walked these halls with the confident swagger of young nobles learning magic, now they moved like prey animals—always watching the shadows, always listening for the soft footsteps that might herald another “educational experience.”

“However,” Zanoba pressed on, though his voice wavered slightly, “didn’t you remark that it’s fascinating to witness individuals who normally look down on one another cooperate for their survival?”

Rudeus paused, his fork halfway to his mouth.

The memory of yesterday’s exercise flashed through his mind—the way Princess Ariel’s faction had worked seamlessly with the commoner students, how even the most arrogant noble children had shed their pride when faced with life-or-death scenarios.

There had been something almost beautiful about it, in a terrifying sort of way.

“My opinion hasn’t changed,” he admitted reluctantly, “but it’s becoming worse by the day because the instructors are constantly switching identities. Not to mention, the teachers’ presences have become such a psychological burden that students are returning to complete despondency. They can’t endure the training despite understanding its necessity.”

The instructors—Claude’s incarnations—were like ghosts made manifest.

One moment you’d be speaking with what seemed like a gruff military veteran, the next a scholarly analyst who dissected your every mistake with clinical precision.

The constant uncertainty of never knowing which version of Claude you’d encounter had frayed everyone’s nerves to breaking points. Well, obviously it’s not Claude who taught them, but one of the Arbalest member, but even then, Claude’s shadow are there behind them.

“Oh well,” Zanoba said with forced optimism, “it would be preferable to their death in the future, right?”

Rudeus set down his fork with a heavy sigh.

The dining hall around them buzzed with the subdued conversations of other traumatized students, punctuated by the occasional clatter of dropped cutlery from hands that still shook with remembered fear.

“It’s questionable whether the tragedy Claude predicted will actually occur,” Rudeus mused, staring out the window at the academy grounds where students practiced their magic with movements that were now sharp, efficient, and utterly lacking in the wasteful flourishes they’d once considered stylish. “But you’re correct in that aspect. It would be preferable for them to be able to defend themselves and not perish instantly against masters like those incarnations.”

The sound of approaching footsteps caused both young men to look up as Sylphy entered the dining hall, carrying a tray laden with steaming dishes.

Her green hair caught the morning light as she moved with the careful grace she’d developed since taking on the role of Rudeus’s wife.

The sight of her brought a moment of warmth to the otherwise tense atmosphere.

“Well,” Sylphy said as she set the plates before them, her voice carrying that particular tone wives used when they’d been listening to their husbands complain about the same thing for days, “Ariel-sama mentioned that Claude is actually demonstrating his organization’s prowess to the continental royalty. A warning not to interfere with Arbalest’s operations, lest they find themselves dead before they even realize what happened.”

Zanoba’s eyes lit up at the sight of the carefully prepared meal. “Oh, what a delicious spread you’ve prepared, mistress!” he exclaimed with genuine enthusiasm, momentarily forgetting his fears in the face of good food.

Rudeus felt a chill run down his spine that had nothing to do with the morning air. “I see, so it’s both a political campaign and a protection effort. There will surely be consequences for this display of power, won’t there?”

Sylphy settled into her own chair, smoothing her simple dress as she did so. The domestic gesture seemed almost surreal given the conversation’s dark turn. “From what I’ve heard through Ariel’s intelligence network, various nations have attempted to cause trouble for Arbalest recently—including factions within Asura itself. However, they’re all systematically eliminated by Claude’s counterattacks or caught in Mike’s elaborate traps.”

The casual way she delivered this information—as if discussing the weather rather than international assassinations—sent another shiver through Rudeus.

This was the world they lived in now, where their childhood friend had become something that entire kingdoms feared to provoke.

“Incredible,” Rudeus muttered, cutting his food with movements that were still slightly stiff from residual pain. “What a mature way to conduct international relations. How could he ever conceive of such strategies? Are they truly only a year older than we are?”

Sometimes, in quiet moments like these, Rudeus could almost pretend they were still children playing in the forest around Buena Village.

But then reality would crash back down—the reality of a world where his friend commanded shadow operatives and toppled governments with the same ease most people used to plan dinner.

“Now that you mention it,” Sylphy continued, warming to her subject as she often did when sharing intelligence, “the instructors who’ve been sparring with you are among those who work in Arbalest’s shadow divisions. They’re the ones who typically deliver ‘diplomatic messages’ to anyone who opposes the organization. Since they can hide and emerge from shadows at will, I can’t imagine anyone not being terrified of them.”

Rudeus nodded grimly, remembering the way those figures had seemed to materialize from nowhere during combat exercises. “Based on my observations of their fighting style, they’re capable of true shadow diving—not just illusion magic. Currently, I’m unable to detect them in any meaningful way. Even barrier magic can’t prevent them from concealing themselves in the shadows.”

The technical aspects fascinated and horrified him in equal measure.

As a magician, he could appreciate the incredible skill required for such techniques.

As a human being, the implications were terrifying.

“Indeed, they’re also masters of human mimicry and creating decoy bodies,” Zanoba added, his appetite apparently returning as the academic discussion distracted him from his fears. “Their targets can be hidden within shadow dimensions, making it nearly impossible for anyone to notice them if they choose to work as infiltrators.”

Rudeus felt his appetite disappearing again as the full scope of Claude’s capabilities became clear. “What sort of monsters does that childhood friend of ours command? The very thought of facing such adversaries gives me chills.”

The dining hall had grown quieter around them as other students subconsciously leaned in to catch fragments of their conversation.

Everyone wanted to understand the forces that had turned their academic lives upside down, even if that understanding only deepened their terror.

“Well then,” Zanoba said with determined cheerfulness, clearly eager to change the subject, “let’s stop dwelling on such dark matters and eat! We still have my figure sculpting lesson scheduled for this afternoon!”

“Alright,” Sylphy agreed with a gentle laugh that helped lift some of the oppressive atmosphere. “Please, both of you, enjoy your meal before it gets cold.”

“Thank you for the wonderful food,” Rudeus said, and for a moment, the simple ritual of shared gratitude allowed them all to pretend they were living ordinary lives.

Several miles away, in the residential district where Arbalest’s leadership maintained their private quarters, a very different kind of domestic drama was unfolding.

The morning air was filled with the sound of running footsteps and increasingly desperate shouts.

“Claude! Come back here this instant!”

Isolte’s voice carried clearly through the narrow streets as she pursued her husband, a covered dish clutched protectively in her hands.

Her long blue hair streamed behind her like a banner, and her usual elegant composure had been replaced by the single-minded determination of a wife whose culinary efforts were being thoroughly rejected.

Claude, for his part, was demonstrating exactly why he’d earned his reputation as one of the continent’s most formidable fighters.

His movements were fluid and efficient as he navigated the urban terrain, vaulting over low walls and sliding around corners with practiced ease.

Unfortunately, all of this considerable skill was currently being employed in fleeing from his new bride’s cooking.

“Look, Isolte!” Claude called over his shoulder without slowing his pace. “Before offering that to your husband, shouldn’t you at least sample it yourself?”

“I have tasted it!” Isolte protested, her voice carrying a note of genuine hurt that might have made Claude stop if he hadn’t caught another glimpse of what she was carrying. “It’s absolutely delicious!”

“Then make it look more appetizing!” Claude’s voice cracked slightly with poorly suppressed panic. “It appears terrifying as hell!”

This was not an exaggeration.

Even Claude, who had become grimly accustomed to consuming poisoned and raw flesh during his imprisonment in the unnamed prison, felt his survival instincts screaming warnings at the sight of Isolte’s latest culinary creation.

The dish seemed to writhe with a life of its own, dark vapors rising from its surface like smoke from a funeral pyre.

“What do you mean by appetizing?” Isolte’s voice held the dangerous edge of a woman whose domestic skills were being questioned. “It looks exactly as delicious as it tastes!”

This declaration caused Claude to pale visibly and increase his running speed.

Behind him, he could hear Isolte’s determined footsteps growing closer, accompanied by what sounded suspiciously like tentacles slapping against the sides of the dish.

Running through the residential district with his wife in pursuit, Claude couldn’t help but feel a complex mixture of guilt and terror.

Part of him—probably the part that remembered being a normal person—felt terrible for rejecting Isolte’s efforts so dramatically.

But the writhing appendages and otherworldly smoke surrounding her offering triggered every survival instinct he’d developed over his many lifetimes.

In a sense, Isolte’s perception might be fundamentally altered by her unique visual abilities.

Something that appeared completely inedible to normal human senses could very well register as a delicious delicacy to her enhanced sight.

Claude wasn’t entirely certain what had gone wrong in her cooking process, but for the moment, he had absolutely no desire to taste the dish and potentially poison himself for no discernible reason.

As he successfully put some distance between himself and his persistent wife, Claude rounded a corner and nearly collided with a familiar figure.

Jino Britts stood in the middle of the street, apparently having been heading toward the practice yards that served the Sword God style practitioners.

“Oh, Cloud God!” Jino exclaimed, his face lighting up with pleasure at the unexpected encounter. “It’s wonderful to see you here. What brings you to the Sword God’s practice area? Looking for a sparring match?”

Claude came to a halt, breathing slightly harder than he cared to admit. “Oh, Jino…” he panted, glancing nervously over his shoulder for signs of silver hair and ominous culinary smoke. “No, I’m running away from my wife. She’s just created another otherworldly dish.”

Jino’s expression shifted to one of uncomfortable understanding. “Ah… that’s… quite remarkable.”

The younger swordsman’s mind immediately went back to the infamous after-party they’d hosted at Claude and Isolte’s residence several weeks earlier.

Initially, Isolte’s food had appeared both visually appealing and aromatic. The presentation had been flawless, the colors vibrant, and the smells enticing.

Naturally, when Eris and his girlfriend Nina had discovered the kitchen, they’d been inspired to experiment with their own culinary creations.

What followed had been a cascade of increasingly exotic dishes as the two young women tried to outdo each other’s creativity.

Each dish had looked more appetizing than the last, and they’d all been eager to sample the results of their collaboration.

The Sword God and Water God, not wishing to insult their hosts’ efforts, had graciously tasted the offerings and initially offered enthusiastic compliments.

Encouraged by this response, Jino and the other dojo practitioners had followed suit, determined not to be outdone in politeness by their masters.

The mass food poisoning that followed had been both spectacular and educational. One by one, the guests had collapsed as their systems rebelled against whatever unholy combinations they’d consumed.

The only person who had escaped unscathed was Claude himself, who had politely but firmly refused to taste anything after a single glance at the spread.

“I don’t understand her reasoning!” Claude continued, his voice rising with a mixture of affection and exasperation. “She insists on giving me these unpalatable creations even though she knows they’ve already hospitalized both the Sword God and Water God! Her own grandmother was a victim of her culinary experiments! She’s somehow become even more terrifying now that we’re married!”

Jino winced sympathetically. “My… condolences on your situation.”

Claude’s expression suddenly turned calculating, and Jino felt a familiar chill run down his spine—the same sensation he got when facing a particularly dangerous opponent. “You may feel superior now,” Claude said with the smile of a man who had just thought of something deeply unpleasant, “but remember that Nina might very well be the one force-feeding you similar concoctions after your own wedding.”

The color drained from Jino’s face as the full implications of this statement hit him.

Nina had been enthusiastically participating in those cooking experiments, after all.

And she’d shown considerable creativity in her approach to ingredient combinations.

“Well,” Jino said with forced casualness, though his voice cracked slightly, “I need to defeat Master Gal Farion first before I can even think about marrying her, though… haha.” He rubbed his cheek uncomfortably and let out a nervous giggle that fooled absolutely no one.

Claude’s smile widened, taking on a distinctly predatory quality. “Tell Nina to prepare Sword God one of those ‘special’ dishes,” he suggested with the air of someone offering genuinely helpful advice. “I guarantee he’ll give you Nina’s hand in marriage by tomorrow morning just to make the threat go away. Believe me, it will work perfectly.”

Before Jino could formulate a response to this terrifying suggestion, a familiar voice echoed from the nearby streets.

“Claude!”

“Damn!” Claude’s moment of cruel amusement vanished instantly, replaced by renewed panic. “Isolte’s found my trail! I need to run now! See you later, man!”

And with that, Claude was gone again, disappearing around another corner with the fluid grace of someone who had clearly had extensive practice in urban evasion techniques.

Jino stood alone in the street, watching the newlywed couple’s domestic chase scene with a mixture of amusement and bewilderment.

He scratched his head thoughtfully, wondering why Claude didn’t simply use his considerable abilities to escape more permanently.

It wouldn’t be difficult for someone of his caliber to simply vanish until Isolte gave up her culinary pursuits.

‘Well,’ Jino mused to himself as the sounds of the chase faded into the distance, ‘I suppose he doesn’t really want to run away from her permanently. He just wants her to stop trying to feed him those nightmare dishes.’

The observation was probably more insightful than Jino realized. For all his complaints and dramatic fleeing, Claude never actually left the immediate area.

He never used his more exotic abilities to truly escape, never called upon his incarnations for assistance, and never seemed to consider simply explaining to Isolte that her cooking was genuinely dangerous to human health.

Perhaps, in his own complicated way, this daily ritual of pursuit and evasion was Claude’s method of maintaining some semblance of normal married life.

After all, when your existence involved managing parallel incarnations, international conspiracies, and preparations for world-ending catastrophes, being chased by your wife’s cooking might actually qualify as refreshingly ordinary domestic bliss.

The morning sun climbed higher over the residential district, casting longer shadows between the buildings where the eternal game of newlywed tag would undoubtedly continue until one of them finally collapsed from exhaustion—or until Isolte’s latest culinary creation achieved sentience and wandered off on its own.

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