[CLAUDE POV]
The morning light filtered through the ornate windows of Reida's private study, casting intricate shadows across the polished wooden floor.
I sat across from the Water God Reida Reia and her granddaughter Isolte, the weight of my decision pressing against my chest like a physical thing.
"You see, I'm actually a Miko—someone who can perceive fragments of potential futures."
The words hung in the air like dropped stones, creating ripples of tension that spread through the room. C, my ever-present shadow, nearly choked on his tea.
"Wha... Master!" His composure, usually unshakeable, cracked completely. "You can't just—"
"There's no point in hiding it anymore," I interrupted, meeting Reida's calculating gaze. "After all, you were already aware something was different about me, weren't you, Teacher?"
Reida set down her porcelain teacup with deliberate precision, her movements carrying the fluid grace that marked all true sword masters. Even in this simple gesture, decades of training showed through.
"I suspected," she admitted, closing her eyes as if organizing her thoughts. "Though I confess, I'm surprised you chose this moment to confirm it."
I shrugged, trying to project a casualness I didn't feel, and began arranging the breakfast dishes on the low table between us. "I refuse to lie to my teacher. Or to my future wife."
The last words were deliberately provocative. Isolte's face flushed crimson, her hands clenching into small fists as she glared at me with a mixture of embarrassment and indignation.
Even in moments like these, seeing her flustered brought a warmth to my chest that helped chase away the cold weight of destiny.
"You—! We haven't even—" She sputtered, unable to complete the thought.
"Fascinating," Reida interjected smoothly, though I caught the slight upturn at the corner of her mouth. "Then please, enlighten me about what the future holds."
Here it was—the moment I'd rehearsed in a dozen different memory fragments. Each version had required a different approach, a different balance of truth and necessity.
I met her gaze directly, letting some of the burden I carried show in my expression. "The future I perceive isn't omniscient sight or divine revelation. What I see are fragments—pieces of timelines where versions of myself die within several years of key events."
Reida's eyebrow rose slightly. "You seem remarkably calm about discussing your own death, child."
Because I've seen it so many times it's lost its sting, I thought but didn't say. "Think of it this way—imagine you could glimpse through the eyes of yourself in parallel worlds, seeing their experiences and failures. That's closer to my reality. These aren't fixed futures, but potential ones. Roads that can be traveled or avoided."
The explanation felt inadequate, but how do you describe the sensation of memories that aren't yours, of carrying the weight of lives unlived and deaths unavoidable?
How do you explain the crushing responsibility of knowing that every choice ripples across not just one timeline, but dozens?
"The inconsistencies in my knowledge come from this fragmentation," I continued. "Sometimes the memories contradict each other. Sometimes they're incomplete. But they've allowed me to prepare for what's coming."
"Such as the Metastasis incident," Reida said quietly.
"Yes." The word carried years of planning, sacrifice, and desperate hope. "Everything Mike and I built—Arbalest, the rescue operations, the infrastructure we've established—it all stems from glimpses of a world where we failed to act."
Where hundreds of thousands died. Where families were destroyed. Where children became slaves and parents became corpses.
I began explaining the structure we'd built, piece by piece. Reida listened with the focused attention of someone accustomed to strategic thinking, occasionally asking pointed questions that revealed the depth of her understanding.
"This idea of using freed slaves as your core personnel," she mused, "training them while giving them purpose in searching for others like themselves—it addresses both practical and psychological needs. Quite sophisticated for someone your age."
"Mike deserves most of the credit for the organizational structure," I admitted. "His merchant background and practical thinking shaped how we approach logistics and expansion. I provide the... strategic foresight."
"And the enchanted items that fund everything," Isolte added, her earlier embarrassment replaced by keen interest. "Those communication mirrors, the storage boxes you use as bargaining chips with merchants—you created all of those yourself?"
"The foundation comes from knowledge fragments," I said carefully. "But adapting them to our world, making them practical—that required significant experimentation."
And failures. So many failures. Memory fragments of explosions, of enchantments that drained the life from their users, of devices that worked once and never again. Each iteration built on the corpses of previous attempts.
"So Division A handles direct rescue operations under Ghislaine's training," Reida continued, her analytical mind dissecting our structure. "Division B manages resources and funding through legitimate business channels. And Division C..."
"Coordinates everything. They're our nervous system," I finished. "Information flows both ways—from the field teams back to headquarters, from headquarters out to teams that need support or redirection.
Without them, we'd be dozens of separate groups with no unity of purpose."
"Seven thousand active members," Isolte breathed. "All loyal to you personally rather than the organization."
"Loyalty built on shared purpose and genuine care for their welfare," I corrected. "These aren't mercenaries or conscripts.
They're people who've lost everything and found new family in our ranks. The slaves we've freed, the survivors we've rescued—they stay because we offer them something worth fighting for."
Reida's expression had grown increasingly thoughtful. "Your projections suggest over ten thousand members within four years. That's not just a rescue organization—that's a private army with international reach."
"Is that excessive?" I asked, though I suspected I knew her answer.
Both women exchanged glances, and I saw something like understanding pass between them.
"Claude," Isolte said gently, "do you understand the scope of what you're describing?"
I understand it better than you could imagine, I thought. I've seen what happens when we have too few people, too little reach, too slow a response time. I've seen the mass graves.
"I understand that this world is vast," I said instead. "That the Metastasis event scattered people across multiple continents. That slave traders and opportunists are moving faster than any traditional rescue effort could match. If we want to minimize casualties, if we want to reunite families, we need to match that scope."
"A noble goal," Reida observed. "And an ambitious one for someone so young."
"Thank you for the compliment, Teacher."
The week since our arrival in Milshion had been productive beyond my most optimistic projections. The training regimens I'd developed, drawing from Fred's psychological insights and modern martial arts concepts, were already showing results among the former slaves.
My own progress under Reida's tutelage had been equally dramatic—the Cloud Style was evolving, incorporating Flow techniques that I'd barely grasped conceptually just days before.
The conversation was reaching its natural conclusion when I felt it—a sudden, violent spike in mana concentration that made my Touki flare instinctively. Across from me, Reida's eyes snapped open, her own senses registering the same disturbance.
We moved as one, years of training compressed into fluid motion. Through the window, the source became immediately apparent—a massive drake hovering above the courtyard, mana particles swirling around its opened maw like a miniature storm.
The fireball forming between its jaws pulsed with enough destructive force to level half the building.
This wasn't in any of my memory fragments.
The thought struck me with cold clarity as we rushed toward the courtyard. Either this was a completely new development, or my fragments had never extended this far into this particular timeline.
For the first time in years, I was operating without foresight.
The sensation was terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure.
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