[NARRATOR POV]
The fourth incarnation—Claude.
He bore no surname, carried no bloodline that might elevate him above the masses. Perhaps he possessed some skill in the kitchen, but countless others could prepare meals that surpassed his own humble efforts.
Swordsmanship eluded him, as did most other pursuits that might grant a person distinction in this world.
He was ordinary in every conceivable way—a normal youth living through extraordinary times, trapped in circumstances far beyond his control.
Within the hierarchy of the Water God Style dojo, Claude occupied an ambiguous position. He wasn't Isolte's servant in any formal sense, nor did he hold any official rank within the dojo's structure.
He remained, fundamentally, a civilian whose fate had become inexplicably intertwined with forces greater than himself.
Even his parents had departed to assist Paul Greyrat in his desperate search for those lost to the Metastasis.
They had chosen duty over family, leaving Claude with nothing to anchor him except the crushing weight of obligation.
The debt he owed to Isolte's saving grace was the only chain that bound him to this path. Without her intervention, his bones would have been nothing more than another addition to the mass grave at the mining site—just another nameless casualty of the teleportation disaster that had shattered the world.
In most tales, such circumstances would trigger what scholars called the suspension bridge effect—the rescued developing romantic feelings for their savior.
The heightened emotions of near-death experiences often blurred the lines between gratitude and love.
But Claude's response had been different. Where others might have felt passion bloom, he experienced only an overwhelming sense of subservience, as if his very existence now belonged to another.
A life she saved. I'll dedicate everything I have to ensuring she receives the best I can offer.
Such devotion would be any woman's dream—to possess a companion so utterly committed to her wellbeing and happiness.
The arrangement should have been mutually fulfilling, a partnership built on profound gratitude and genuine care.
Yet Isolte remained as emotionally underdeveloped as spring grass.
Romance held no appeal for someone whose every waking thought centered on sword improvement, on pushing past the boundaries that confined lesser practitioners.
The pursuit of mastery consumed her so completely that she had no mental space for matters of the heart.
With Claude as her constant companion, she felt secure and genuinely enjoyed their time together. But enjoyment and love were entirely different creatures, and she possessed neither the experience nor inclination to distinguish between them.
Claude, for his part, cared for her with the devotion of a monk tending a sacred flame, but without even a spark of romantic passion to warm his dedication.
Because both remained so thoroughly innocent in matters of love, neither questioned the strange equilibrium of their relationship.
To outside observers, Claude appeared to be nothing more than Isolte's personal attendant—a squire attending to his knight's needs.
During their travels, Claude had noticed others whose gazes lingered on Isolte with obvious romantic interest.
The knowledge didn't inspire jealousy or possessiveness. Instead, he found himself quietly observing these admirers with the detached curiosity of a scholar studying an interesting phenomenon.
The gatekeeper in Ars—Doga, if Claude remembered correctly—had been particularly smitten. The man's infatuation had driven him to train with desperate intensity, pushing himself beyond normal limits in hopes of becoming worthy of Isolte's attention.
Claude had heard later that Doga's efforts bore fruit. The former gatekeeper had achieved North Saint rank, creating such a stir that the Asura Kingdom had elevated him to Royal Knight status.
It was a remarkable transformation, born from the power of unrequited love.
Unfortunately, Claude would never learn whether Doga's devotion would eventually win Isolte's heart.
His own time was rapidly approaching its end, and the future belonged to others.
Would Doga succeed in his courtship, or would Isolte's singular focus on swordsmanship render all romantic gestures meaningless?
Such questions would remain unanswered, mysteries that would die with this incarnation of Claude's consciousness.
[4th Incarnation Claude POV]
They claimed the Holy Land of the Sword was where the world's most exceptional swordsmen gathered—a place where talent concentrated like precious metals in a rich vein of ore.
The reputation wasn't undeserved. Here, Saint-ranked practitioners were more common than beginners in the Ars Capital.
Masters who would be legends in any other location were merely part of the everyday landscape.
But rather than a gathering of noble warriors, this place felt more like an asylum for the martially obsessed.
Every single day, without exception, someone was engaged in combat. The sensible practitioners knew when to yield, when to acknowledge defeat before serious injury occurred.
Unfortunately, the sensible ones were vastly outnumbered by those who had abandoned sanity in pursuit of improvement.
Blood was as common as morning dew here. Combatants fought until they were drenched in crimson, their clothes torn and flesh pierced.
Some bore wounds that would have been fatal anywhere else—deep punctures that went clean through their bodies, testament to the ferocity of their dedication.
The North Style practitioners were particularly terrifying to watch. They would literally impale each other with their signature weapon-throwing techniques, treating potentially lethal injuries as acceptable costs for marginal improvement.
As one of the few sane individuals present, I found their behavior genuinely frightening. Was this truly the path of the sword, or had I somehow wandered into the wrong place entirely?
"Hey, Claude! Don't stand there—that's where the lunatics practice! Come here!"
Oh. I really am in the wrong place.
"Coming!"
I later learned that this madness had method to it. Warriors who felt themselves approaching a bottleneck would deliberately risk their lives, believing that mortal danger could shatter the barriers holding them back.
They could afford such recklessness because the Holy Land employed saint-level healers capable of mending almost any wound short of death itself.
More importantly, the Sword God Gal Farion personally monitored the training grounds. Any technique that threatened instant death would be intercepted by either him or one of the Emperor-ranked swordsmen under his command.
Their reflexes were so refined that they could distinguish between dangerous and lethal attacks in the space between heartbeats.
How such precise intervention was possible remained beyond my comprehension. The mechanics of their perception and reaction times defied logical explanation.
What I did understand was that Touki—battle aura—was perhaps the most remarkable force I'd ever encountered.
The way it enhanced physical capabilities and allowed for superhuman feats bordered on miraculous.
Despite the chaotic environment, Lady Isolte had quickly found her social circle among the other prodigies.
"I'm clearly the winner!" Isolte's voice carried across the training ground, her competitive spirit fully engaged.
"Absolutely not! Since I defeated you, the victory belongs to me!" Nina Farion's retort was equally passionate.
"But I won against Eris!" Isolte countered.
"And you lost to me!" Nina shot back.
The three young women had been engaged in this circular argument for hours. Lady Isolte, who had managed to defeat the renowned Sword Saint Eris Boreas Greyrat. Nina Farion, daughter of the Sword God himself, who had bested Lady Isolte but fallen to Eris. And Eris, whose wild combat style had proven effective against Nina but insufficient against Isolte's refined technique.
Since each had defeated one of the others, determining a definitive ranking had become an exercise in futility. They'd repeated their three-way tournaments countless times, but the results remained frustratingly inconsistent.
"Well, let's leave them to their debate and attend to our own training, Jino."
"Right, let's go..."
Jino Britts was another oddity in this place—someone whose talent was undeniable but whose passion burned too low to fuel true greatness.
He possessed remarkable natural ability, reaching the peak of advanced rank in all three major sword styles with what appeared to be minimal effort.
His problem wasn't lack of skill but lack of drive. Without the burning desire that pushed others to transcend their limits, he remained forever on the threshold of Saint rank.
He possessed Touki, but it lacked the intensity that separated true masters from merely skilled practitioners.
I envied him even as I pitied his wasted potential. At least he had something to waste.
My own talents were embarrassingly mundane. Four years of dedicated sword training had yielded intermediate proficiency at best—a level that talented children could achieve in half the time.
Age had made learning the fundamentals more difficult, my body too set in its ways to easily adopt new movement patterns.
What I had improved during my time here were my cooking and cleaning abilities. If there was a tournament for domestic skills, I might actually have had a chance at victory.
Pathetic.
My days followed a comfortable routine: morning conversations with Jino, evening meal preparation for Lady Isolte, and countless hours of inadequate sword practice in between. It was a peaceful existence, almost pleasant in its predictability.
Until the day everything changed.
"A dungeon..." Jino's voice was barely a whisper, but the horror in his tone made my blood freeze.
The structure had appeared without warning—a massive stone edifice that hadn't existed the previous day.
Ancient symbols covered its surface, glowing with an unsettling light that hurt to look at directly.
From within its depths emerged creatures unlike anything in our world's bestiary. They moved with unnatural grace, their bodies radiating energy that felt fundamentally wrong—not mana, not Touki, but something else entirely. Something that made the air itself taste of copper and despair.
The monsters fell upon the Holy Land like a plague of nightmares, their alien power cutting through even Saint-ranked defenders as if their years of training meant nothing at all.
The screaming began almost immediately.
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