[NARRATOR POV]

The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across what had once been fertile farmland as Rudeus took his first steps onto Fittoa soil in what felt like a lifetime.

The earth beneath his feet was different now—harder, more brittle, as if the very ground still bore scars from the catastrophic mana surge that had torn reality apart months ago.

“At last, we’ve arrived in Fittoa!” Rudeus’s voice carried a mixture of relief and barely contained anxiety. This moment had driven him forward through countless hardships, yet now that he stood here, the weight of what he might—or might not—find pressed down upon his shoulders like a physical burden.

The landscape before them told a story written in ash and regrowth. Where once verdant fields had stretched to the horizon, now patches of barren earth struggled against tentative shoots of new grass. The Metastasis Event had left its mark not just on the people, but on the very bones of the land itself.

“This sure is devastating,” Reida murmured, her experienced eyes taking in the scope of the destruction. “I’ve been traveling around the Millis continent all this time, but I still remember when this place was green as far as the eye could see. The soil here was some of the richest in the kingdom.”

Isolte placed a gentle hand on Eris’s shoulder, misreading the tension in the red-haired girl’s posture. “It’s alright. The damage can be recovered, as long as there are still people willing to help rebuild what was lost.”

Eris turned to look at Isolte with genuine confusion, her amber eyes reflecting none of the sympathy the other girl expected. “Why would I care about this barren place?” The bluntness of her response revealed a fundamental disconnect—to Eris, this wasn’t home. It was simply another obstacle between her and Rudeus’s goals.

Isolte’s hand dropped as understanding dawned. She really doesn’t understand the broader implications, she thought with a mixture of pity and relief. Thank the gods she won’t be ruling anything. Politics would eat her alive. The realization that she would likely be training alongside this girl at the Holy Land of Swords in the future suddenly seemed far more daunting.

Ruijerd remained characteristically stoic, though his red eyes surveyed the damage with the practiced assessment of one who had seen far worse.

The Demon Continent’s harsh realities had prepared him for scenes of devastation that would break lesser spirits.

As they continued their journey deeper into the region, a pattern began to emerge that painted a more complex picture than simple destruction and slow recovery. The damage hadn’t worsened as they traveled, but neither had it improved uniformly.

Instead, pockets of organized reconstruction dotted the landscape like islands of hope in a sea of lingering devastation.

Most telling were the crossbow flags that flew proudly from poles erected at regular intervals—the unmistakable banner of Arbalest.

“They really have made their mark here,” Rudeus observed, noting how the flags seemed to cluster around the most successfully rebuilt settlements.

Reida nodded with something approaching admiration. “From what I’ve gathered, Arbalest didn’t just provide emergency aid. They offered comprehensive support—food, temporary shelter, construction materials, even combat training so the villagers could defend themselves against the bandit raids that always follow disasters like this.” She paused, her water-blue eyes growing thoughtful. “They also established a protection service for those who couldn’t defend themselves.”

“But what could these people possibly pay with?” Rudeus asked, the economist in him trying to understand the logistics. “The Metastasis scattered everything—belongings, livestock, even family members. What currency could they offer?”

“The most valuable currency of all,” Reida replied with a knowing smile. “Human resources. Labor, loyalty, and information.”

As if to illustrate her point, they came upon a harvest scene that perfectly demonstrated the complex new order taking shape. Workers moved through fields in organized groups, their efforts producing three distinct piles of grain.

The distribution was telling: the largest pile bore no markings, the middle pile was substantial but smaller, and the smallest pile—marked with Arbalest’s crossbow flag—seemed almost token by comparison.

“Interesting,” Rudeus murmured, his analytical mind immediately recognizing the economic structure at play. “From flagless to flagged portions… it looks like Arbalest is taking the smallest share despite providing the most support. That doesn’t make typical economic sense.”

Unable to contain his curiosity, Rudeus approached one of the farmers—a weathered man whose sun-darkened hands spoke of decades working the soil.

“Excuse me,” Rudeus began politely, “could you explain how this harvest division works?”

The farmer straightened, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. His eyes held the mixture of gratitude and wariness common to those who had survived catastrophe. “These crops were grown with seed and tools provided by Arbalest,” he explained, gesturing toward the organized piles. “In exchange, we send them ten percent of every harvest. Fifty percent goes to emergency taxes—and before you ask, yes, that’s steep, but Lord Sauros assured us it’s only temporary until the region stabilizes. That leaves us with forty percent, which is honestly more than we expected to have at all.”

“Lord Sauros?” Rudeus’s heart skipped. The name carried weight—both political and personal.

“Aye, he’s been working day and night to coordinate recovery efforts. Good man, that one. Understands what we’re going through.” The farmer studied Rudeus with increased interest. “You’re young to be asking such detailed questions. Are you one of the survivors who got scattered by the disaster?”

Rudeus felt the familiar tightness in his chest that came with discussing his experience. “Yes, we just recently arrived here. The red-haired girl and I were both victims of the Metastasis. The others are… helping us find our way home.”

The farmer’s expression immediately softened with genuine sympathy. “Ah, I thought as much. You have that look—like someone still trying to figure out where they belong.” He glanced toward the modest buildings clustered nearby. “It might not be much, but would you like to stay in our lodging tonight? We can at least offer you beds and a hot meal.”

Rudeus looked back at his companions, receiving encouraging nods from each of them. “That’s exactly what we needed. Thank you, village chief.”

The farmer—apparently the local leader—beamed with pride. “No problem at all. The people of Arbalest are always helping us when we need it most. It’d be embarrassing if we couldn’t return that hospitality to fellow survivors.”

[CLAUDE POV]

While Rudeus and his companions made their way toward Fittoa’s capital city of Roa, I found myself buried in logistical nightmares that made dragon fights seem refreshingly straightforward.

A week had passed since my confrontation with Orsted, and every moment of that time had been spent preparing for challenges that most people couldn’t even imagine.

The undead dungeon crisis loomed on the horizon like a storm cloud visible only to those with the knowledge to recognize its approach.

My fragmented memories provided glimpses of the devastation it would bring, but frustratingly incomplete information about how to prevent it entirely.

What I did know was that we had limited time to prepare, and preparation meant power. Raw, overwhelming power.

By my calculations, we had perhaps eighteen months before the first dungeon breaks would begin manifesting.

In that time, I needed to transform Arbalest from a well-organized mercenary company into something approaching a private army capable of battling supernatural threats.

The math was both encouraging and terrifying. Based on our current training regimens and the quality of recruits we’d been attracting, I could reasonably expect thirty percent of our active members to reach Saint Rank by the time the crisis began. A smaller percentage—perhaps five to ten percent—might achieve King Rank or higher.

My own trajectory was… unprecedented. The confrontation with Orsted had catalyzed something fundamental in my understanding of Touki manipulation. Emperor Rank, which typically required decades of dedicated training and natural talent that appeared perhaps once in a generation, seemed achievable within the next few years.

But even Emperor Rank wouldn’t be enough. The memories of alternate selves who had tried and failed whispered warnings about the true scope of what was coming.

Some threats required more than individual power—they demanded institutional authority, political leverage, and resources that only came with official recognition.

Which brought me to my current headache: the necessity of legitimizing Arbalest’s operations through formal ties to the Asura Kingdom.

“No way,” Mike’s voice cut through my contemplation like a blade. “I’m not going to do it.”

I looked up from the strategic documents spread across my desk to find my second-in-command standing in the doorway with his arms crossed and an expression of absolute determination.

Behind him, Ash leaned against the wall with the sort of carefully neutral expression that meant he was trying very hard not to laugh.

“You haven’t even heard the full proposal yet,” I pointed out reasonably.

“I don’t need to. The moment you start talking about noble ranks and official appointments, my answer is no.” Mike stepped into the room, his merchant’s instincts clearly screaming warnings about the political complications I was suggesting. “Do you have any idea what kind of scrutiny comes with a noble title? The restrictions? The obligations?”

“I’m aware of the drawbacks,” I admitted. “But consider the alternatives. We’re operating in a gray area that works fine for small-scale mercenary operations, but we’re growing beyond that scope.

When the undead crisis hits, we’ll need official authority to coordinate with military forces, requisition supplies, and operate across international borders without being labeled as invaders.”

Ash finally spoke up from his position by the wall. “He’s not wrong, Mike. We’ve already had three separate kingdoms send ‘diplomatic inquiries’ about our activities. They’re getting nervous about how much influence we’re accumulating.”

“Exactly my point!” Mike threw his hands up in exasperation. “Power breeds trouble, and we’re already walking a tightrope. Adding official political ties will just give them more ways to control us.”

The irony wasn’t lost on me. Here we were, a group that had systematically accumulated more real power than most noble houses, and every one of us was allergic to the formal recognition that would make exercising that power easier.

But the truth was more complex than simple preference. Arbalest’s strength lay in our autonomy—our ability to operate across borders, make decisions quickly, and adapt to changing circumstances without bureaucratic interference.

The moment we officially tied ourselves to any single nation, we’d become a political asset to be managed rather than an independent force.

“The royal family wants us under their direct control,” I continued, studying Mike’s increasingly stubborn expression. “They’ve been monitoring our activities, and they’re smart enough to recognize the threat we represent to the traditional power structure. If they can’t control us through official channels, they’ll find other ways to limit our influence.”

“So let them try,” Mike shot back. “We’ve handled political pressure before.”

“Not like this.” I leaned back in my chair, calling up memories from alternate timelines where similar situations had played out. “When people finally understand the true size and capability of Arbalest, they’ll realize we’re not just another mercenary company. We’re a private army with international reach and resources that rival small kingdoms. At that point, they’ll either try to co-opt us or destroy us.”

The room fell silent as the implications sank in. Ash straightened, his expression growing more serious.

“You’re talking about pre-emptive legitimization,” he said slowly. “Make ourselves part of the system before they decide we’re a threat to it.”

“Exactly. And if we’re going to do this, we need someone in that position who understands our real priorities and won’t be swayed by political pressures.” I fixed Mike with a steady stare. “Someone who’s proven they can resist corruption and make difficult decisions for the greater good.”

“Flattery won’t work on me, Claude.” But Mike’s tone had lost some of its absolute refusal. His merchant’s mind was clearly working through the angles, considering costs and benefits.

“It’s not flattery, it’s assessment. You’ve been handling our diplomatic and trade relationships for years. You understand the political landscape better than anyone else in Arbalest, and you’re the only person I trust to maintain our independence while operating within the system.”

Mike was quiet for a long moment, his internal conflict written clearly across his features. Finally, he sighed. “What exactly are you proposing?”

“Lesser nobility. Enough rank to give us official standing and access to resources, but not so high that it comes with major territorial obligations or puts you directly in line for succession disputes.” I pulled out a document I’d been drafting. “Lord Sauros has the authority to make such appointments, especially given our contributions to Fittoa’s recovery. The timing is perfect—we can frame it as recognition for humanitarian aid rather than an acknowledgment of military power.”

“And if I refuse?”

I met his eyes steadily. “Then we hope we can handle what’s coming without official backing. But Mike… the memories I carry from other timelines aren’t encouraging about our chances if we remain completely independent.”

The weight of unspoken knowledge hung between us. Mike knew about my condition as a Miko, understood that my strange insights had proven accurate often enough to take seriously.

He also knew I wouldn’t push for something like this unless the alternatives were genuinely worse.

“Damn you, Claude,” he muttered finally. “You know I can’t argue with your apocalyptic visions when they keep proving right.”

“So you’ll do it?”

“I’ll… consider it. But I want guarantees about maintaining our operational independence, and I want exit clauses built into any agreements.”

I nodded, already pulling out additional documents. “Already drafted. This is about gaining tools and resources, not surrendering control.”

Ash pushed off from the wall, grinning. “Well, this conversation went better than I expected. I thought we’d have to drag you kicking and screaming to the appointment ceremony.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Mike warned. “I haven’t agreed to anything yet. I’m just… not saying no quite as loudly.”

But his tone suggested the battle was already won. Mike’s practical nature would eventually overcome his reluctance once he’d had time to think through all the implications.

As if summoned by our discussion, a messenger arrived with news that would make the decision unavoidable.

Lord Sauros had requested a formal meeting with Arbalest leadership, and the timing suggested he had his own political pressures pushing toward some kind of official arrangement.

Whether Mike was ready or not, events were already in motion.

Three days later, I stood in the great hall of the rebuilt Fittoa administrative center, watching Mike fidget in formal clothing that he clearly found uncomfortable.

The ceremony itself was relatively simple—a few words about service to the kingdom, recognition of contributions to recovery efforts, and the formal granting of a lesser noble title.

“With the authority given to me by the King,” Lord Sauros announced in his commanding voice, “I, Sauros Boreas Greyrat, hereby appoint Mike of Arbalest to the rank of lesser noble of Asura Kingdom, with all rights and responsibilities therein.”

The words carried weight beyond their simple meaning. With that single declaration, Arbalest had gained official legitimacy within the kingdom’s power structure while Mike had acquired the political standing necessary to navigate the complex challenges ahead.

As I watched my friend accept the ceremonial documents that would change everything about how we operated, I couldn’t help but think about the conversations Rudeus would soon be having with this same man.

The wheels of fate were turning, and for once, I felt like we might be positioned to influence their direction rather than simply react to their motion.

The undead crisis was still coming. The Human God’s schemes continued to unfold in shadows. And somewhere in the distance, Orsted pursued his own incomprehensible agenda through loops of time I could barely understand.

But for the first time since my memories had begun converging, I felt like we had more than just desperate improvisation on our side.

We had legitimacy, resources, and—perhaps most importantly—the political framework necessary to coordinate a response when the world needed it most.

Now we just had to hope it would be enough.

___________________________________________

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