[Claude POV]
The terrain here isn't good...
A thought floated through my mind, less a conscious observation and more an echo from another memory, another version of me who had walked these same cold stone passages. My boots scraped against the rough dungeon floor, each step sending tiny dust motes dancing in the sparse light.
As expected, I've arrived here again.
The realization settled in my chest like a stone. Not just arrived—returned. The distinction mattered. In one fragmented memory, I died here.
In another, I never made it this far. In yet another, I survived only to wish I hadn't. The memories overlapped, contradicted, but all ended in failure.
As I treaded the path cautiously, the gleaming eyes of monsters pierced the darkness around me. Their gazes tracked my movement, hungry and patient.
They knew these tunnels better than I ever could. To them, I was just another meal wandering into their domain. Their breathing—raspy, wet sounds that echoed off the walls—raised the hair on my neck.
I couldn't push away the nauseating wave of nostalgia that washed over me. The fear and dread that had haunted countless versions of me sought out my soul once more, as familiar as an old friend and twice as deadly.
The cold, stale air of the dungeon interior carried the coppery tang of blood—some of it fresh, some of it ancient—and the musty scent of decay.
Yes.
I had once again arrived at the dungeon where I died.
Or rather, where one version of me had died. The distinction grew increasingly meaningless as I delved deeper into these cursed halls.
The memory flooded back unbidden, as vivid as if I were living it rather than remembering it—or remembering someone else's memory of it.
That day, the light of teleportation had appeared so suddenly. While subjectively it feels like forever in my fractured recollections, I know objectively that things happened in an instant.
That blinding white light had teleported everyone it touched and left nothing in its path. I could feel my body being disintegrated, molecules separating, consciousness splintering.
Through eyes that weren't quite mine anymore, I watched the bodies of my parents being decomposed by the same light. Their faces—frozen in confusion and terror—were the last thing that version of me saw before everything went dark.
I hope they're safe. The thought came automatically, though I knew better than to trust hope. Hope was a luxury for those with ignorance.
I had too much knowledge—fragmentary and incomplete though it was—to indulge in such comforts.
Once I awoke after the teleportation, I found myself here, in this dungeon again. The place where my memory of the future had ended horribly for so many versions of myself.
Until now, I never knew the name of this dungeon since there's no future where any version of me escaped this place alive.
However, the Mushoku Tensei storyline I glimpsed through my fractured memories told me more about the outside world than any one version of me could have learned firsthand.
Since I already knew what would happen in the future, I understood that I would likely be the only one who dies here. The others—Paul, Zenith, Rudeus, the villagers—would be scattered across the wilderness or on other continents and kingdoms.
There's also Zenith, who would eventually be stuck inside the mana stalactite, her consciousness trapped for years.
The thought made my stomach twist. In how many timelines had I failed to prevent that fate? Too many to count.
I exhaled slowly, my breath visible in the cold dungeon air.
I could only be grateful for my fast-learning ability—another quirk of being a Miko, I supposed.
Fragments of skill and knowledge from other versions of me sometimes surfaced when I needed them most. Not always reliable, but better than starting from scratch.
As I moved forward, monsters continued to attack relentlessly. Some skittered on multiple legs across the ceiling.
Others lurched from shadows with gnashing teeth. I dragged the weapon box I'd created before the teleportation event, its weight slowing my progress as I carved a path forward, leaving a trail of viscous monster blood in my wake.
The metallic smell clung to my clothing, marking me as a predator to some creatures and prey to others.
The weapon box was an enchanted container I'd created to store all the weapons I'd forged, along with the whetstone, anvil, and hammer, within a single space.
Since my personal storage space couldn't hold that many items, I only kept essential condiments and materials inside it.
Although I could have made the weapon box smaller in dimension, its weight remained the same regardless.
This box of three by five meters wasn't really a box at all, but more like a coffin—an apt comparison given my circumstances.
Weighing more than a ton, it made my movements painfully slow. Each inch of progress required significant effort, the scraping sound of metal against stone announcing my presence to every creature in the vicinity.
However, what choice did I have? I couldn't abandon it here, surrounded by monsters in all directions.
The enchanted weapons inside might be the only thing keeping me alive.
As expected, my body—enhanced through rigorous training and perhaps something more from my Miko nature—could manage dragging over a thousand kilograms of weight while simultaneously wielding my sword against the dungeon's denizens. The strain made my muscles burn and joints ache, but pain was an old companion by now.
I sat atop the weapon box and stared toward the stairs leading downward, allowing myself a moment's rest.
I didn't know why these stairs headed deeper rather than toward the surface, but from what my fragmented memories entailed about this dungeon, I could deduce that there was something fundamentally wrong about this place.
My knowledge of this dungeon from the Mushoku Tensei storyline was frustratingly incomplete. There was almost nothing substantial to guide me.
I could only count on vague recollections of Zenith's rescue when it came to dungeons in the original story.
While it remained a significant question mark in my knowledge, from texts I'd studied before the teleportation incident, I knew that dungeons were nature's creation—a god's will, perhaps. Something that existed outside the realm of human intellect.
Several artifacts could only be obtained from dungeons—powerful items that enabled their wielders to protect or destroy entire countries.
Was that why I was drawn here? Did some version of me seek such power to prevent the catastrophe, only to fail?
The distant growl of a monster interrupted my thoughts. I rose to my feet, sword already in hand.
Garr.
A creature lunged from the darkness.
Slash.
My blade met resistance, then cut through.
Ping!
Metal scraped against the stone wall as I overextended.
Boom!
The monster's body hit the floor with a wet thud.
Once I had rested enough, I moved forward and methodically dissected the monster I'd killed. With clinical detachment, I separated edible portions from toxic ones, using knowledge pieced together from multiple lives.
I cursed my own oversight. I'd been so stupid not to include food and water supplies inside my weapon box.
Instead, I had been forced to drink monster blood and eat their meat raw to stave off thirst and hunger those first few days.
They tasted foul! The memory of that first desperate swallow made me gag even now.
"Ugh..." I groaned, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. If only I had a clean source of water...
It had been three days since I arrived here. The trail left by dragging the weapon box had grown thinner as I passed one floor after another.
The box itself had become lighter as weapons broke beyond repair, and I could only discard them, unable to fix them without proper facilities.
It was only later that I realized I could create water using magic and drink from it, then make fire to cook the monster meat. Such a simple solution, yet it had eluded me for days.
I was so stupid... It took me seven days to realize this basic application of magic, during which time my stomach had ached horribly from the raw meat and tainted blood. Another failure to add to my collection.
As I prepared to continue my descent, I couldn't help but wonder if this dungeon would be where my story finally ended, or if it was just another chapter in the endless cycle of a Miko's existence.
[Mike POV]
"It's already been a month, and you said that we've yet to find all the Buena Villagers and our merchant group?" I asked, pinching the bridge of my nose as I examined the reports scattered across the makeshift command table.
My eyes burned from lack of sleep, and the constant stream of bad news was doing nothing to improve my mood.
The scout—a young man who had once been one of my caravan guards before Claude's training transformed him into something more—shifted uncomfortably.
"Y-yes, sir," he replied, his voice cracking slightly. "We're still searching."
I exhaled slowly, measuring my response. "I was already expecting this, but I'm counting on you to continue the effort." The weight of leadership—a burden Claude had unceremoniously thrust upon me in his absence—pressed down on my shoulders.
"We've found about seventy percent of the Buena Villagers and forty percent of our merchant group," the scout continued, his eyes fixed on a point just past my shoulder.
"With more than ten percent casualties," I concluded grimly. "Even with all that preparation, we still couldn't save everyone." I stared at the maps and lists of names, some crossed out, others with question marks beside them. "So be it. Continue the search. The tracking monitors should be used more extensively."
It had taken considerable effort to gather my wits after the teleportation incident. Even with Paul and the help of others, our search for survivors remained incomplete.
It was thanks to Claude's brutal training regimen that more children had survived than might have otherwise. His harsh methods, which I had questioned at the time, now seemed justified by their results.
But even so, there were still those who had been captured by slavers in the chaos.
Until this day, Claude's whereabouts remained unknown. The tracking monitor he carried had gone silent after the teleportation event. I tried not to think about what that might mean.
The casualties of this tragedy were beyond counting. The Roa Region had vanished in the blink of an eye, leaving nothing but scorched earth and confusion in its wake.
While the world descended into utter chaos, the Kingdom's nobility searched for a scapegoat rather than solutions.
Thus, Sauros Boreas Greyrat became their chosen sacrifice.
He was still missing, though, so they had put the execution on hold until he could be found. Or rather, until we revealed his location to them, since he was currently our "guest."
"UNTIL WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO LOCK ME IN HERE?" The bellow came from the adjacent tent, making me wince.
Gods, that old man is noisy. I massaged my temples, feeling the beginning of yet another headache.
"Can you shut up, old man?" I called back, my patience wearing dangerously thin.
"JUST RELEASE ME ALREADY! YOU'RE THINKING BACKWARD! YOU INGRATE!"
I glanced toward the guarded tent where we kept Lord Sauros. Should I just let this pompous noble be executed?
I wondered. It would certainly solve one problem, even if it created others. I mean, could we even save him from being executed in the first place?
Claude had left no clear instructions regarding Sauros's fate beyond "keep him alive," which was proving more difficult by the day.
I didn't understand why Claude thought to save him at all. It wasn't as though he had expressed any particular attachment to the old man or his family.
But Claude's plans often operated on levels I couldn't fully grasp—moves in a game where I could only see a fraction of the board.
A scapegoat was ineffective in addressing the actual disaster, but the Kingdom needed one to maintain the illusion of control. I couldn't deny that political reality.
From what I had learned through Claude's lessons and my own observations, the Boreas branch of the Greyrat family was significantly more honorable than the Notos family.
Not everyone was terrible, Claude had emphasized, though some were worse than others.
I sighed deeply, feeling the weight of decisions I never asked to make.
What kind of trouble had I gotten myself into? The noble world was something I had always avoided.
Counting money was simpler, more straightforward. I had always preferred to stay away from politics and its inevitable complications.
"Just cover his mouth with something," I instructed the guards. "He's too loud, for god's sake."
"MMPH! MMPH!" The muffled protests continued, but at a more tolerable volume.
"If possible, continue your search," I told the scout. "Attempt to retrieve more tracking monitors from our deceased comrades..." The words tasted bitter in my mouth. These weren't just "comrades"—they were friends, employees, people I had traveled with for years.
"Yes, sir!" The scout bowed slightly before departing.
Since when had my merchant group transformed into something resembling ninja operatives? This was Claude's doing—his influence reshaping ordinary merchants and villagers into something more suited to his grand designs.
Claude... you'd better return as soon as possible, I thought grimly. I can't deal with all this shit alone.
The night air carried the scent of campfires and fear. Somewhere in the distance, a child was crying. We had saved many, but would it be enough? Without Claude's guidance, I wasn't sure what our next move should be.
I stared at the maps again, trying to see patterns where perhaps none existed.
[NARRATOR POV]
While others were busy thinking of ways to save their scattered comrades, Rudeus was currently contemplating how to enter the city safely without endangering his small party. The young boy—physically a child but mentally much more—frowned as he considered their options.
"Ruijerd's hair was strikingly hated by others," Rudeus mumbled, glancing at the tall, imposing figure of their Superd companion.
The sunlight gleamed off Ruijerd's distinctive green hair, marking him as clearly as a beacon to any who might fear his kind.
"Sorry," Ruijerd replied, his voice deep and solemn. Though his expression remained stoic, there was genuine regret in his eyes—not for who he was, but for the complications his presence caused.
"Nah, there's nothing to be sorry about," Rudeus assured him. He turned his attention to the red-haired girl who had wandered some distance away. "Eris! Stop playing around. You'll get missed if you're playing too far!"
"I'm not a kid!" Eris snapped back, her cheeks flushed with indignation. "Damn you, Rudeus!"
Rudeus had already attempted using dye on Ruijerd's hair, which had succeeded temporarily, confirming his theory that the hair color itself triggered the curse that caused others to fear and hate the Superd race.
It was the same reaction Eris had displayed during their first meeting—the mere sight of Ruijerd's green hair had terrified her so thoroughly she'd lost control of her bladder.
The notoriety of the Superd from the war four hundred years ago remained alive in cautionary tales and bedtime stories used to frighten children.
Despite Ruijerd's honor and kindness, his race's fearsome reputation preceded him wherever they went.
"Even though Ruijerd is this kind, how could they hate him?" Rudeus wondered aloud, genuinely perplexed by the disconnect.
"Said the one shaking in fear when she found him at first," he added pointedly, glancing at Eris.
"Hmph!" Eris responded by smacking Rudeus soundly on the head before turning away with her nose in the air.
As she scanned their surroundings, her expression shifted to surprise. "Whoa! That's also another way to deal with your curse, huh!"
Rudeus turned to see what had caught her attention. Ruijerd had taken the most direct approach to their problem—he had shaved his head completely, eliminating the distinctive green hair that marked him as Superd.
"...is it alright, Ruijerd?" Rudeus asked, concerned about the warrior's decision to sacrifice such a fundamental part of his identity.
"This is nothing," Ruijerd replied with quiet dignity. "We can easily head out to the city with this, right?"
"Indeed, it'd be easier for us to enter the city and live as adventurers," Rudeus agreed, already calculating their next steps.
"Okay, let's move and go back to Roa!" Eris exclaimed, her enthusiasm bubbling over at the prospect of finally returning home.
"Chill, Eris," Rudeus cautioned, knowing the journey ahead remained long and fraught with dangers.
It had been some time since they had encountered Ruijerd, the Superd warrior who carried an ancestral spear and the weight of his people's bloody history.
Throughout the human territories, the Superd were considered nightmares made flesh—entities feared by people because of their ancestors' actions during the Laplace War centuries ago.
Although Rudeus had heard childhood stories about green-haired demons that feasted on children, he had dismissed them as fairy tales meant to scare youngsters into obedience. However, despite his confidence in his magical abilities, he had quickly realized that he could not survive alone in the Demon Continent's hostile environment.
In a moment of desperation or fate, Rudeus had received a prophetic dream from an entity calling itself Human God, who instructed him to trust the person he would meet upon awakening. Though skeptical of this self-proclaimed god, Rudeus had approached Ruijerd with caution, evaluating the Superd warrior through his own observations rather than blind faith.
Later, after learning of Ruijerd's tragic past and witnessing his honorable character, Rudeus had come to trust him completely. As the last warrior of his decimated race, Ruijerd bore the collective hatred of the world's people—a burden he carried with stoic dignity.
Ruijerd had become both protector and teacher to Rudeus and Eris as they journeyed together. Their mission had evolved to include returning kidnapped children back to the Fittoa region, as many refused to accept help from a Superd out of ingrained fear.
No settlement welcomed them with open arms. They had been barred entry from multiple cities, facing prejudice at every turn. Overcoming these obstacles had taken time and ingenuity, but they had ultimately succeeded where many would have failed.
As they continued their journey, Rudeus's thoughts remained fixated on returning Eris safely to her home. This self-imposed responsibility weighed so heavily on him that it narrowed his perspective, preventing him from considering the broader implications of the teleportation catastrophe.
In the month he had traveled with Ruijerd and Eris, Rudeus had never paused to thoroughly analyze the teleportation incident that had scattered the people of Fittoa across the world. His focus remained on the immediate goal rather than the larger mystery.
The tragedy had left countless casualties throughout the Fittoa Region of the Asura Kingdom. Unknown to Rudeus, others were working to piece together this puzzle from different angles, driven by knowledge he did not possess.
And in a dungeon whose name remained unknown, a man called Claude—a Miko with fractured memories of multiple timelines—fought his own battle against fate, burdened with knowledge that might save them all, if only he could escape to use it.
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