Chapter 78: Each on Their Own Path [Claude POV]
"Hold your sword, and slash! Always think before you bring that blade down, and leave no one alive once you're on a battlefield!"
My voice echoed across the training ground as I paced among the recruits, authority settling on my shoulders like a mantle I'd worn countless times before, or perhaps had never worn at all.
The memories blur together, fragments of leadership from lives both lived and unlived.
This world is absurdly predictable in its chaos.
No matter how many times you cut down evil, another will sprout from the shadows like weeds after rain.
All these bandits flooding into the region, still raw and recovering like scavengers drawn to carrion. Even knowing that knights patrol the periphery, they still dare to ransack villages with brazen desperation.
What truly disturbs me is my recent discovery. Some of these criminals are survivors from the Mana Calamity itself. The very people we tried to save.
"Have you discovered why they continue raiding villages despite knowing the consequences?" I asked the Fittoa region's Division I leader, my breath forming small clouds in the crisp morning air.
"Nothing concrete yet, sir..." He shifted uncomfortably, weathered hands gripping a leather-bound report. "From the interrogations, it seems they're acting purely on impulse. Driven by rage and despair."
I accepted the report, scanning the scrawled testimonies. The pattern emerged like a disease spreading through parchment. Most of these bandits spoke of pain and despair inflicted upon them by others.
Now they sought to share that suffering, to make others understand their anguish through violence.
The pages crinkled under my tightening grip.
What madness has infected the survivors? What drove them to this insanity after being rescued from the very catastrophe that should have taught them the value of life?
I refuse to believe they were always like this. They became this way after salvation, not before.
Arbalest has exhausted our resources helping Mana Calamity victims recover. We've provided food, shelter, tools, even nearly interest-free loans that are bleeding us dry.
We did everything within our power to help them rebuild...
And now we need to heal their minds as well?
A memory fragment surfaces, not mine, but from another Claude who faced similar challenges in a timeline where the nobility system collapsed entirely. His desperate attempts to maintain order while society crumbled around him. The failure lingers.
What's wrong with this kingdom? Is Sauros even managing his duties properly?
Damn it. If I'd known the psychological aftermath would be this severe, I wouldn't have allowed Mike to handle the capital situation with Ash.
Now I'm forced to personally straighten out his territory before I can focus on my own training regimen.
While I grumble internally about my mounting responsibilities, the territorial situation has actually begun stabilizing.
As the population slowly returns, most of the former regents have simply... vanished. Whether from shame, death, or cowardice, I neither know nor particularly care.
Mike continues doing everything possible to assist Sauros in quelling the noble factions in the capital, while Sauros reciprocates by handling the bureaucratic machinery needed to grant us expanded territory.
Nearly forty percent of the abandoned regent lands now fall under our jurisdiction. A bitter reward for surviving catastrophe.
Meanwhile, Sauros must dispatch envoys to neighboring lords who survived the calamity, attempting to soothe their misery and growing madness.
After all, no sane noble appreciates watching upstart newcomers acquire more territory than established houses with generations of service.
So Sauros employs other methods to placate them, methods I'd rather not examine too closely.
Arbalest teeters on the edge of bankruptcy after providing free crops and tools to Fittoa's refugees through those near-zero percent loans.
This tragedy's scope exceeded even my fragmented foresight. Though I knew the Mana Calamity would occur, I couldn't have predicted the full extent of damage it would inflict on both land and souls.
Not to mention the complications arising from the upcoming dungeon manifestations.
Another memory bleeds through. My fourth incarnation's vision of Fittoa's future. Sprawling slums where hope goes to die. The slavery market expanding like a cancer. Children sold like livestock while their parents weep helplessly in chains.
Part of me wants to abandon these people and secure my own stability. But I cannot forget what my fourth incarnation showed me about Fittoa's potential fate. The images burn behind my eyelids whenever I close them.
Slums and slavery will consume this region if left unchecked. The Notos family's foolish ambitions will create an even worse situation as they attempt to devour the weakened Fittoa territory.
They'll begin by employing mercenaries to abduct citizens for the slave trade, a practice that would eventually be stopped by their own family members, but not before inflicting fatal damage to an already broken region.
Then the dungeon manifestations will occur, piling catastrophe upon catastrophe.
Killing the Notos heir won't solve the problem, since his fate appears already written in stone. I've learned that much about destiny. Some threads cannot be cut, only redirected.
The damage, however, can be minimized.
That's why I chose this circuitous noble path initially. Though I despise being nobility myself, I can allow Mike to hold the title while I remain the actual power behind the throne.
Why must I take such a roundabout approach? I honestly don't know, but my instincts, honed by multiple lifetimes of failure, insist upon it.
A fragment surfaces. Another Claude, more direct in his methods, watching his plans crumble because he moved too quickly, too obviously. The lesson echoes across timelines. The longest path is often the only one that reaches the destination.
The mana in my surroundings has grown thick as honey, viscous with power. I can sense that this world will ultimately recover from its wounds.
The ambient mana now carries the same density as the dungeon where I was once trapped.
The mana concentration has increased at least fivefold since the Calamity. In exchange for tragedy, we've received a blessing of sorts.
Using this enriched environment as my foundation, I've managed to expand my mana capacity to Saint level.
I now stand as both a dual-class Magic Saint and Sword King, yet once again I've hit a plateau. My mana refuses to increase further, leaving me trapped at the lower Saint rank.
It's an achievement few can claim. I know Rudeus's mana capacity has likely reached King grade by now, which means I cannot afford complacency.
Instead, I must focus on improving auxiliary skills like speed casting and chantless magic.
I need to unleash spells instantaneously in combat. And what better target exists than fleeing bandits?
"Rock Bullet!" The spell formed without conscious thought, mana shaping itself into deadly purpose.
CRACK
The bandit leader tried to dodge, but my casting speed has improved dramatically. The compressed stone projectile struck his leg with a wet crack, bone and flesh separating as he collapsed screaming.
"Capture him and begin interrogation," I commanded my subordinates, watching blood pool in the dirt. "Apply healing magic while transporting him to camp. Keep him conscious."
"Yes sir!" The ten-man unit leader snapped to attention, directing his soldiers to secure our prisoner.
While Mike assists Sauros in the kingdom's capital, I serve as his territorial substitute, training newly recruited soldiers and guards.
It's an amusing contradiction. I am simultaneously his superior and subordinate. Even so, a head knight must swear to protect his lord, and though I've never truly seen Mike as my master, I won't renounce my promise to safeguard him.
He's my closest friend. I cannot allow harm to befall him.
Before acquiring these convergent memories, I might not have valued such bonds. But my fourth incarnation's experiences are carved deep into my consciousness.
His relationship with Jino Brits was something I'd envied across the dimensional void. A connection built on mutual sincerity and trust.
From him, I learned that authentic relationships require vulnerability from both parties.
Though my fourth incarnation left me no practical knowledge of analytical theory, weapon mastery, or world lore, he provided an equally valuable lesson in kindness and loyalty.
Concepts I'd forgotten while struggling to survive, or perhaps had never truly comprehended until now.
By this point, I've begun recognizing how these incarnation memories affect me and developed methods for managing their influence.
My sanity has been balancing on a knife's edge longer than I care to admit. I didn't even realize how strangely I'd been behaving until Ash pointed it out with characteristic bluntness.
After securing the territory's borders, I need to return to my hidden workshop within the manor. There, I've constructed a printing mechanism to inscribe the complex enchantments required for spatial storage items.
It's hardly revolutionary technology since I must personally initiate each cycle, but at least the machine handles the repetitive inscription work automatically.
Once the device completes its engravings, I inspect each piece for errors before sending them to Arbalest's hired enchanters for activation, then placing the finished products in Ars's daily auctions.
The machine produces maybe three items daily. Nothing extraordinary, but it frees me from the mind-numbing repetition of manual inscription work.
While I focus on territorial management, Mike does his utmost in Ars alongside Ash. Meanwhile, Paul continues coordinating through Milshion with Somar, rescuing displaced people while building Arbalest's intelligence network.
According to our reports, Ruijerd has yet to decide about joining Arbalest officially. He's currently wandering the Central Continent, staying in a village whose residents invited him after he saved them from local threats.
Part of me envies his freedom to simply help people without considering political ramifications.
Eris and Ghislaine have begun their pilgrimage toward the Holy Land of Swords, while Rudeus, still traumatized by Eris's sudden departure, has joined the Adventurers' Guild to begin searching for the still-missing Zenith.
Guilt surfaces. Another timeline where I might have prevented their separation entirely, kept them all together and safe. But those are paths not taken, failures that belong to other versions of myself.
The sun climbed higher as I continued my patrol, boots crunching against frost-hardened earth. The training grounds stretched before me, a flat expanse where new recruits learned the difference between swinging a sword and wielding one.
"Form up!" I barked, watching the soldiers scramble into formation. Some moved with practiced efficiency, veterans of the subjugation campaigns. Others stumbled, their movements betraying inexperience that could prove fatal in actual combat.
They need more time. Time we don't have.
The increased mana density attracted monsters with alarming frequency. What had once been a quiet region now teemed with creatures drawn to the magical residue like moths to flame. Each wave grew stronger, forcing us to adapt or die.
"Today's drill: synchronized defense against aerial assault." I gestured toward the sky, where clouds drifted lazily across pale blue expanse. "When the wyverns come, and they will come, you need to respond as a unit. One mistake, one gap in formation, and your comrade dies."
The recruits shifted nervously. Good. Fear kept soldiers alert.
"Shield wall formation!" I called, and they moved with reasonable coordination. Shields locked together, spears angled upward, archers taking position behind the defensive line.
I walked along the formation, examining each soldier's posture, the angle of their weapons, the spacing between individuals. Small adjustments here and there, a shield raised slightly higher, a spear angled more acutely, a stance widened for better stability.
"Remember," I said, my voice carrying across the field, "monsters don't follow human logic. They attack when hungry, when territorial, when the mana concentration drives them mad with bloodlust. Your survival depends on discipline, coordination, and the willingness to protect the soldier beside you."
A memory surfaced. A combatant's experience fighting in the great wars, watching comrades fall because someone broke formation, because panic overrode training. The lesson had been paid for in blood across multiple timelines.
I wouldn't let history repeat itself here.
"Begin the drill!"
The next two hours passed in a blur of simulated combat. I conjured earth golems as stand-ins for monsters, forcing the recruits to respond to threats from multiple angles. Some adapted quickly, their natural talent shining through. Others struggled but persevered, determination overcoming lack of skill.
By the time I called a halt, every soldier was drenched in sweat despite the cool morning air.
"Dismissed. Rest, eat, and prepare for afternoon patrol duties."
They dispersed with obvious relief, limping toward the barracks and the promise of hot food.
I remained on the field, alone with my thoughts.
The Division I office felt smaller than usual when I returned, as if the walls were slowly closing in. Reports covered every surface. Intelligence from the capital, economic projections, casualty lists from recent monster encounters, psychological evaluations of the bandits we'd captured.
Each document represented a problem demanding solutions I wasn't certain I possessed.
"Lord Claude," the Division I leader entered without knocking, his face grave. "We've received word from the western border. Another village was hit last night. Seven dead, fifteen injured, granary burned to ash."
I closed my eyes.
"Survivors?"
"Twenty-three, relocated to the refugee camp. But sir..." He hesitated, and I knew what was coming. "They're asking why we can't stop these attacks. Why the knights aren't protecting them."
Because there aren't enough of us, I wanted to scream. Because the territory is too large, the threats too numerous, the resources too limited. Because I'm one man trying to hold back an avalanche with a wooden shield.
But I couldn't say that. Leaders didn't admit helplessness, even when helplessness was the only honest answer.
"Double the patrols along the western approach," I said instead, my voice steady despite the churning in my gut. "Coordinate with Division G to identify high-risk villages and prioritize their defense. And send word to Mike. We need additional funding for more recruits, even if it means taking on debt."
"Yes sir. There's one more thing..." He placed a sealed letter on my desk. "This arrived via courier from Milshion. Priority seal."
I broke the wax and unfolded the parchment, recognizing the handwriting immediately, the neat, deliberate script of our Milshion contact.
Claude,
Paul's search efforts have yielded results. Zenith's location confirmed, trapped in the teleportation labyrinth beneath the Begaritt Continent. Alive but in stasis. Rescue operation will require significant resources and personnel.
Paul requests Arbalest support. Ruijerd has agreed to join the expedition. Recommend deploying additional assets.
Also: Rudeus is in bad shape. Eris's departure hit him harder than expected. He's functional but withdrawn. Monitoring situation closely.
Will await your orders.
—C
I read the letter three times, processing the implications.
Zenith alive. That was the critical piece. But the Begaritt Continent's teleportation labyrinth was notoriously deadly, a twisted maze where space itself bent and folded, where rescue parties vanished without trace.
Mounting such an expedition would require resources we barely had. Personnel we couldn't spare. Time that might cost lives here in Fittoa.
But it was also an opportunity. Success would cement Arbalest's reputation, forge stronger bonds with Paul and potentially Rudeus, and demonstrate our capability for large-scale operations.
Failure, however, would destroy us financially and politically.
"Prepare a response," I told the Division I leader. "Authorization for limited Arbalest support, funding and intelligence only, no personnel beyond those already committed. Paul can coordinate with the Adventurers' Guild for additional manpower."
"Understood. Shall I—"
"And send word to our Milshion contact. Tell him to keep close watch on Rudeus. If the boy shows signs of breaking, intervene. We need him functional."
The leader nodded and withdrew, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
Each of us walks our own path now, scattered like seeds on the wind.
Rudeus searching for his mother, carrying the dual burdens of family obligation and romantic heartbreak.
Eris pursuing strength in the Holy Land of Swords, believing herself inadequate despite possessing talent most could only dream of achieving.
Paul assembling a rescue party, driven by guilt and desperation to save the wife he'd failed to protect.
Ruijerd wandering between villages, seeking to restore his people's honor one good deed at a time.
Mike navigating the political cesspool of the capital, using noble games to secure our position.
And me, trying to hold together a fractured territory while preparing for threats most couldn't even imagine.
The Dead End party was finished. That chapter of our lives had closed, leaving only memories and the uncertain promise of future reunions.
Would we all survive to see each other again?
My fragmented memories showed multiple timelines, some where we reunited stronger than before, others where death claimed us one by one until only scattered survivors remained.
Which path were we walking now? I couldn't tell. The future had become murky, obscured by the changes I'd already introduced, the ripples spreading outward from every decision I made.
Part of me wanted to gather everyone together, force them to stay close where I could protect them. But I knew that was impossible. Each person had to walk their own road, make their own mistakes, forge their own strength.
All I could do was try to minimize the casualties along the way.
Night fell over the Fittoa region, stars emerging one by one in the darkening sky. I stood atop the manor's highest tower, looking out across the grassland that had once been a thriving territory.
Somewhere out there, Rudeus was grieving. Eris was training. Paul was planning. Ruijerd was helping strangers. Mike was scheming. Each of them facing their own battles, their own demons.
And I was here, trying to prevent the future I'd seen, the slums, the slavery, the endless cycle of suffering that would consume this region if left unchecked.
"Will we meet again?" I asked the empty air, my voice swallowed by the wind. "As allies? As friends? Or will we be scattered so far that reunion becomes impossible?"
No answer came, only the lonely whistle of wind through the tower's stones.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges, more bandits to hunt, more recruits to train, more reports to read, more decisions that could save or doom the people depending on me.
As the sun disappeared beneath the horizon, the sky going pale and cold at the edges, I allowed myself one moment of weakness.
"Until we meet again," I whispered to the gathering darkness. "Stay alive. All of you. Just stay alive."
Then I turned from the view and descended back into the manor, back into the endless work that waited for no one's grief or doubt.
◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆ AUTHOR'S NOTE ◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆
Want to read ahead? We have FREE 10+ advance chapters available at eternal-lib.com! You can also open more chapters ahead by getting the coins for free by playing an arcade and doing daily login!
do you also know that you can get a daily points and get a free unlock for the premium chapters? try it, the site's still ad-free!
◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆