[Claude POV]
Slash!
The monster's body separated beautifully as my sword cleaved through it—head and torso parting ways as crimson blood fountained into the air. I watched dispassionately as it collapsed, already mentally cataloging its useful parts.
I still vividly remember the day I delivered Rudeus' letter to Paul's home. The memories bring an amused smile to my face even now.
"What?! How dare he send a letter back and ignore me!" Paul had bellowed, his face flushing with indignation. He was genuinely angered that Rudeus had seemingly forgotten their promise.
I'd rolled my eyes dramatically. "Hey, shut it, Paul! It's a letter addressed to me, not you! So it's all good!" I shouted back, enjoying the way his expression soured further.
He continued grumbling afterward, desperately trying to win the argument. It was almost pitiful—the man couldn't even succeed in a debate against his own son, yet somehow expected to triumph against me?
In your dreams, Paul Greyrat.
"If you don't want to hear me read it, go outside! I'll read it to my mothers-in-law first!" I taunted, throwing a conspiratorial wink toward Lilia and Zenith who were attempting—and failing—to hide their amusement.
"What do you mean, 'mothers-in-law'?! Damn it, I won't hand my daughters to you!" Paul spluttered, though he made no move to actually leave the room.
"I don't even need your approval," I shot back with a smirk. "Look at your wives—which one of them had their parents' approval when you took them?"
Paul paled at my statement, genuine despair washing over his features. I'd struck a nerve there.
Setting aside my jokes—both he and Rudeus always acted like rabid dogs whenever I teased them about Aisha and Norn—the content of the letter was actually quite entertaining. That clever little brat had written:
"Claude is cunning. It's his idea, not mine. If you want to get mad, please do so at him. Not me, father."
Why did this supposedly mature reincarnator suddenly blame me? For someone allegedly old inside, he could be so childish.
The rest of the letter detailed how unruly Eris was and praised the excellence of the beast-woman maids in the household. He carefully omitted how the master of the house blatantly slept with those same maids—a detail far worse than anything Paul had done.
Rudeus also recounted how his planned lesson for the unruly Eris had backfired spectacularly, transforming into an actual kidnapping when the house's butler seized the opportunity to abduct the young lady.
"What a stupid kid..." Paul had murmured, fighting back tears after his boisterous laughter subsided.
"No surprise he's your son, Paul," I'd added, unable to resist another jab. "I can see the traits you passed down, especially his perverted mind..."
"You better prepare your backside for a beating later, you bastard," Paul growled, glaring intensely though he remained seated.
I felt a momentary flicker of apprehension at his glare—Paul was formidable when truly angered—but I also sensed relief behind his threatening tone. How interesting. Was he actually insecure about Rudeus being too perfect? That was... unexpected.
Despite Rudeus being at the Boreas estate for only two months, the first incident he'd caused had made his parents sweat bullets.
They alternated between laughing at the young lady's childish behavior and marveling at how much Ghislaine had improved under Rudeus' tutelage.
They must have known the swordswoman for some time to be so surprised by her transformation.
The letter concluded with gratitude directed toward me:
"Thanks, Claude, your idea paper was helpful. I can create better study sessions for Eris and Ghislaine... I hope you all take care of yourselves and stay healthy. From Rudeus Greyrat."
The relief on their faces as I read those final lines was palpable. Even Paul looked satisfied that his decision to send Rudeus away hadn't been so terrible after all.
Since then, Rudeus has sent several more letters addressed to me. I occasionally share them with the family during training sessions, and it's unexpectedly become an event the entire Greyrat household eagerly anticipates.
Sylphy sometimes listens in with them, but I leave her be...
She should understand that the Boreas Greyrat family will eventually be destroyed by the Notos Greyrat branch.
I've always thought the story would be more interesting if Rudeus infiltrated the Notos family and dealt with them directly, especially considering Zenith's prestigious connections in Millis. But that's not my concern to manage.
Days passed peacefully as I divided my time between teaching my father and handling specific commissions myself.
I kept my service fees high, as I had little desire to become a full-time blacksmith.
Unlike me, my father genuinely loved the craft and was grateful for my instruction. He was a sincere, humble man who never let pride or machismo interfere with learning. I admired that about him.
Returning to the present, I find myself deep within the forest, dispatching monsters as part of my training regimen. My capabilities have grown significantly—I've reached the upper intermediate realm in all sword styles, while simultaneously developing beginner-level time-space magic and middle-intermediate proficiency in all elemental attributes.
My beginner time-space magic allows me to craft more sophisticated spells. Unlike Rudeus, who focuses on teaching fundamental spells, I prefer developing my own magic and categorizing them according to power levels.
This approach applies primarily to time, space, and several other attributes.
This method accelerates my progress and expands my spell repertoire. With my ability to perceive the mana flowing through the surrounding environment, replicating and adapting spells comes naturally to me.
The world brims with oddities, yet simultaneously offers answers to countless questions. I need only continue my research to better comprehend its secrets.
My meta-knowledge provides a framework that facilitates uncovering the world's mysteries.
I examine the slain monster's corpse thoughtfully. "This one can be useful," I murmur, activating my Storage spell—an original creation that uses mana to form an ethereal space capable of housing physical objects.
Though modest in size—a 3×3×3 meter cubic room—it offers more capacity than any backpack when properly organized.
"Dismantle," I intone, channeling mana precisely. The spell meticulously separates the monster's innards and meat, leaving bones and skin perfectly intact. Professional butchers would marvel at the technique, though its practical limitations are significant—the larger the monster, the more mana required.
Currently, cow-sized beasts represent my upper limit, though fortunately, larger monsters rarely venture into this forest.
The spell demands exceptionally fine mana control—comparable to threading mana through a needle's eye.
Despite the sophisticated magical theory behind it, the result is essentially sophisticated manual labor.
As I finish processing the monster, something unusual catches my attention overhead. An orb has appeared in the sky.
I activate my mana eyes, immediately detecting the ominous energy surrounding the sphere. "I wonder how to count the timer..." I mutter, gazing upward.
Beyond the orb, I glimpse a flying castle soaring through the clouds. Is that... Laputa? The name stirs a memory, and I suddenly recall where I've seen this before.
Of course! It belongs to the legendary figure from the old tales—the armored Dragon King, Perugius Dola.
It's almost ironic that the calendar has commemorated his name since he defeated Demon King Laplace, despite him being among the youngest of the world's superpowers.
Today should be K415—the 415th year of the Armored Dragon King calendar.
The orb's appearance means the teleportation incident will occur in approximately 417, though the exact timing remains unclear. Knowing the current year provides some context—like grasping a straw rather than clutching at clouds.
Five more years until the cataclysm.
I wonder: will I survive the coming apocalypse, or will I be swept away in its tide? At the very least, my preparations should help protect the villagers.
I can only hope.
[(Narration) NARRATOR POV]
Clang! Bang!
Swords clashed violently, sending sparks flying as the metallic symphony of combat filled the air.
Spectators watched in awe as the two figures darted about the training grounds, their movements almost too fast to follow.
Though Paul was holding his own, his opponent's strategic mind made victory increasingly elusive.
'Claude has grown up... his Sword God style is the first to reach the advanced stage,' Paul thought grimly while defending against the child's relentless barrage.
Claude's combination of attacks presented a formidable challenge. He effortlessly wove magic spells of various elements between strikes from three distinct sword styles, transitioning between them without breaking his stance or rhythm.
To call it simply "using three different styles" would be inaccurate. Claude's movements flowed so naturally that distinguishing between techniques became nearly impossible.
Sometimes he would strike with the aggressive precision of the Sword God style before seamlessly shifting to defensive maneuvers characteristic of the Water God style, all while incorporating elements of the Northern God style to maintain unpredictability.
Most remarkably, these sophisticated techniques were being executed by a ten-year-old boy. Watching Claude's fluid transitions between styles illuminated the next evolution in Paul's own swordsmanship.
Paul had been enlightened by his own disciple.
"Wow! How dare you steal your disciple's movements!" Claude accused, noticing Paul incorporating elements of his technique.
"What's wrong? I don't see any problem with it," Paul replied casually, deflecting a spell aimed at his chest.
"You're so shameless," Claude retorted while launching another strike. "Does this mean you're actually my disciple now? Or are we both masters and disciples to each other?"
"Ha! I don't think you've actually learned anything from me!" Paul shot back, parrying the blow with practiced precision.
Boom!
A deflected fireball soared skyward before exploding brilliantly, creating an impromptu fireworks display that captivated their youngest spectators.
"Wow! It's so pretty!" Two-year-old Aisha exclaimed, clapping her tiny hands enthusiastically.
"Pretty!" echoed little Norn, reaching upward as if trying to grasp the sparkling lights.
The duel between Paul and Claude continued for several more exchanges before Paul finally claimed victory with his newly adapted movements.
"Damn, although they're similar, your movements differ slightly from mine," Claude observed, analyzing how Paul had improvised upon his techniques.
"Of course they do," Paul explained, catching his breath. "I can't use magic like you can, and as an adult, my body moves differently. I had to adapt."
"Well, be thankful to me for helping you improve! Hahaha!" Claude laughed.
Paul could only chuckle in response before heading toward his family. Before he could reach his daughters, however, they ran toward Claude, begging him to create more of the spectacular fireworks they'd witnessed earlier.
Claude relented, producing three different magical displays that sent the children jumping with joy.
Claude was undeniably brilliant—perhaps even a genius by most standards. Yet, for all his talent, he wasn't perfect.
In his single-minded pursuit of power and combat ability, he had neglected broader knowledge and language skills—limitations that would eventually hinder him.
Two years prior, Claude had awakened his third incarnation's memories. Unlike the recollections from his previous lives, these new memories haunted him nightly—endless visions of death pursuing him relentlessly, terrifying the young boy to his core.
At just ten years old, Claude had responded by focusing intensely on developing himself steadily, and his progress had largely proceeded according to plan.
His first and second incarnations had taught him how to strengthen his mind and body, while this third set of memories revealed the true dangers lurking in this world.
Technically speaking, his first two incarnations had revealed nothing specific about this reality. It was the third that finally helped him understand he existed within a world previously known to him as fictional—the setting of a story he had once read.
However, his young mind struggled to properly archive and index these fragmented memories.
It had taken months, even years, to fully comprehend what they entailed and differentiate between them.
During this period, Claude hadn't been idle.
Beyond dealing with the slave traders who plagued the region, he had established his own network of allies—people he had helped who would surely return the favor when needed.
The group he'd formed primarily focused on thwarting slave traders, but the recent addition of an asphalt road had unintentionally played into their hands.
More slavers now fell into Claude's traps and found themselves at his mercy.
Unlike legitimate merchants who traveled openly on main roads, illegal slave traders preferred to operate in the shadows, moving as quickly as possible to avoid detection.
The newly constructed asphalt road was a blessing for them—horses could traverse it faster, and carriages suffered less jostling.
While they might avoid using the road during daylight hours, traveling at night seemed the perfect solution.
Little did they realize that hidden in the darkness, their predator was waiting.
It was remarkable, really. Claude's "underlings" were all adults—people far older than their supposed leader.
Yet they chose to serve under a child without demanding payment or reward. For them, it was simply repayment for the freedom Claude had granted them.
Acutely aware of their precarious position in society, these former slaves eagerly undertook any task Claude assigned.
Among them, one man with exceptional interpersonal skills had naturally emerged as the head of what Claude jokingly referred to as the "Communication Division."
Their primary responsibility? Maintaining contact with Claude and organizing schedules so he could train these freed slaves in magic, swordsmanship, or share the "otherworldly knowledge" they would need to survive the approaching calamity.
Claude never explicitly mentioned where this knowledge came from, but the results of his teachings were undeniable.
Concealing such operations from the watchful eyes of adults in the village presented a constant challenge.
The Communication Division excelled at projecting normalcy, diverting suspicion with practiced ease.
Their funding came entirely from monster carcasses Claude processed and valuables recovered from defeated slavers—a self-sustaining operation that required no external support.
This level of organization was unthinkable for an ordinary ten-year-old. But Claude was far from ordinary, and the network he was building served a purpose beyond immediate gains.
Whether this fledgling group would evolve into something greater remained uncertain—first, they would need to survive the coming disaster that haunted Claude's dreams.
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