[NARRATOR POV]
The meeting room of Arbalest's Milshion Branch carried the weight of accumulated tension, maps and intelligence reports scattered across the polished oak table like battle plans before a siege.
Afternoon light filtered through tall windows, casting geometric shadows that seemed to shift with each piece of troubling news.
Claude sat at the head of the table, his fingers drumming a steady rhythm against the wood—a habit that had developed since the memories began converging more frequently.
The sound echoed in the relative silence as Charles prepared to deliver his report, the rustle of parchment seeming unnaturally loud.
"From our intelligence network in the Shirone Kingdom," Charles began, his voice carrying the practiced neutrality of someone who had delivered too many grim reports. "Rudeus has found himself in... complications."
"What?!" Paul's chair scraped violently against the floor as he shot to his feet, his hand instinctively moving toward where his sword would normally rest.
Charles barely glanced at the outburst, his weathered face maintaining its stoic expression as he continued reading from the report.
Claude watched Paul's reaction with a mixture of understanding and frustration—fragments of other timelines whispered of similar moments, other fathers' fears, other desperate searches for lost children.
The weight of those parallel failures pressed against his consciousness like stones in his chest.
"The Shirone Kingdom," Charles continued once Paul's breathing had steadied, "may be small, but it's weathered two centuries of existence—impressive for this world where history is measured in millennia."
Claude found himself nodding along, though part of him wondered if this knowledge came from the reports or from memories that weren't quite his own. The distinction had become increasingly blurred lately.
"Four hundred years ago, the Great War swept away nearly every human nation except Asura and the Holy Milis Kingdom. The southern regions remained a wasteland of constant conflict until the Dragon King Kingdom established control three centuries past. Even now, venture too far north and you'll find yourself in active war zones."
Charles paused, letting the historical context settle before continuing. "The Shirone Kingdom's survival secret? They bent the knee to the Dragon King Kingdom early and thoroughly. Calling it an alliance is generous—they're vassals, much like Kikka and Sanakia. Survival through submission."
Ash leaned forward, his analytical mind already working through the implications. "So when the Metastasis struck Asura, the Shirone royals dismissed it as someone else's problem?"
"Precisely," Reida interjected, her voice carrying the bitter wisdom of someone who had observed noble politics for decades.
She lifted her teacup with deliberate grace, the porcelain catching the light. "Vassals often mirror their masters' worst traits—the Dragon King Kingdom's nobility has always been... insular. And Shirone, with their Miko bloodline, considers themselves divinely chosen. Other kingdoms' misfortunes are simply proof of their own superiority."
Behind Reida, Isolte maintained her stoic silence, though Claude caught her brief glance toward Paul. The Second Sword Saint of the Milshion Branch was too lost in his own anxiety to notice the attention.
"Easy, Paul," Claude said, his voice carrying more authority than his years should have allowed. "Ruijerd is with them. That alone should give you some measure of peace."
"Easy for you to say," Paul snapped, then immediately looked ashamed at his outburst. "It's been over a year since Lilia and Aisha disappeared into that place. Now Rudeus is imprisoned there too. What in the seven hells is actually happening?"
The question hung in the air like an accusation. Claude felt the familiar twist in his stomach—the same sensation he'd experienced when he failed to prevent the Metastasis, when all his knowledge and preparation hadn't been enough.
In this timeline, as in others, he was always one step behind, always arriving too late.
"The report ends there," Charles said with deliberate slowness, clearly enjoying Paul's mounting frustration.
"What do you mean it ends there?" Claude's voice sharpened. "Did our intelligence network simply stop writing?"
Charles made a show of checking his pocket watch. "The follow-up should arrive in five... four... three..."
On cue, the meeting room door opened with barely a whisper. A courier slipped inside, placed a sealed letter on the table, and departed just as silently.
The efficiency spoke to Arbalest's growing coordination—small victories in a world that seemed determined to spiral toward chaos.
"Ah, perfect timing," Charles said, breaking the seal with theatrical slowness. Paul's hands clenched into fists, and Claude could practically hear the man's teeth grinding.
"Damn it, Charles! Just read the bloody report!"
Charles chuckled—a sound like gravel in a stream—and unfolded the parchment. "Very well. It appears our concerns were... premature."
He cleared his throat and began summarizing. "The situation has resolved itself in typical Rudeus fashion. Prince Zanoba, the Shirone Kingdom's Miko, had indeed been causing considerable property damage throughout the capital. However, upon learning that Rudeus was the craftsman behind certain... artistic figurines... the prince apparently shifted from captor to devoted admirer."
Paul buried his face in his hands. "Of course he did. Of course my son resolved a diplomatic crisis through his obsession with dolls."
"Hey now," Vera said from behind Paul, her voice warm with barely suppressed laughter. "At least he's consistent."
Charles continued with evident amusement. "According to our sources, Prince Zanoba has not only released all prisoners but has also offered Rudeus a workshop and full royal patronage for his 'divine artistic gifts.'"
The absurdity of it drew genuine laughter from several members around the table. Even Claude felt his mouth twitch upward, though the expression felt foreign on his face.
When had he last found genuine humor in anything?
The meeting room door opened again, and Norn's distinctive blonde head peeked around the frame. "Claude, I heard you've found news about Aisha. Is she safe? Oh—" Her eyes widened as she took in the crowded room. "Please excuse the interruption."
She retreated quickly, leaving an awkward silence in her wake.
"She didn't even ask about me," Paul said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of accumulated regrets.
"Focus, Paul," Claude said, not unkindly. "We have operational matters to discuss."
He stood, the chair scraping against the floor as fragments of strategic planning from multiple timelines crystallized into actionable intelligence. "Shirone Kingdom requires our attention, but not for the reasons we initially assumed. The country's position makes it strategically valuable—too many high-ranked adventurers, too much wealth flowing from dungeon clearances, and too little oversight from any central authority."
Claude moved to the map mounted on the wall, his finger tracing routes across the continent. "Ash and I will travel to Shirone directly. We need to extract Lilia and Aisha while they're under Arbalest protection, and establish a more permanent presence there. The kingdom's proximity to both the Dragon King Kingdom and the northern conflict zones makes it an ideal intelligence hub."
He turned back to the room. "Charles, you and Paul will continue recovery operations here in Milshion before advancing to the Demon Continent. Focus on the living—we can't resurrect the dead, but we can still save those who remain."
Reida nodded approvingly from her position near the window. "A sound strategy. What of our primary target?"
"Ah yes," Charles said, rifling through another set of papers. "Division A has located your mystery man. Amusing how easy it was to find someone whose mere presence can inspire terror in seasoned warriors."
Claude felt a chill run down his spine. Even without Charles specifying who they meant, fragments of memory provided context—shadowy figures from timelines where he'd arrived too late, where stronger powers had intervened with devastating consequences.
"His companion?"
"Still with him. Masked female, never leaves his side. They've been traveling steadily eastward."
"Understood." Claude's voice carried finality. "Ash and I depart for the Central Continent via Charizard. Estimated travel time is four weeks."
As the meeting began to wind down, Reida suddenly spoke up. "Claude, I have a request."
"Of course, teacher. What do you need?"
"I want Isolte and myself included in your mission to Shirone."
The request caught Claude off guard. Behind Reida, Isolte's expression remained carefully neutral, but Claude caught the slight tension in her shoulders.
He studied his former instructor's face, noting the determined set to her jaw that he remembered from his training days.
"May I ask why?" Claude said carefully. "Your expertise would certainly be valuable, but I assumed you'd prefer to remain here coordinating our broader operations."
Reida set down her teacup with deliberate precision. "There are aspects of the Shirone situation that may require... specialized attention. The Miko bloodline isn't merely ceremonial, and if Prince Zanoba has taken such an interest in Rudeus, it suggests forces at play beyond simple artistic appreciation."
Claude felt another fragment of memory stir—something about royal bloodlines and hidden powers, about the price of convergent memories and the weight they carried.
The sensation was like trying to remember a dream upon waking, substantial but just out of reach.
"Very well," he said finally. "Your insight would be welcome. We leave at dawn."
As the meeting dissolved into smaller conversations and preparations, Claude remained by the map, his eyes tracing familiar routes while his mind wrestled with unfamiliar knowledge.
In other timelines, other versions of himself had made different choices, pursued different paths. Some had succeeded where he had failed. Others had failed even more catastrophically.
The Metastasis had been his greatest failure—all that knowledge, all those memories, and he still hadn't been able to prevent the disaster that scattered families across continents.
But perhaps that failure had taught him something the other Claudes had never learned: that perfection was impossible, but progress remained achievable.
He would find Lilia and Aisha. He would help rebuild what had been broken. And maybe, just maybe, he would finally create a timeline where the convergent memories brought hope instead of regret.
The afternoon shadows had grown longer while he stood lost in thought, and the meeting room had largely emptied.
Only the maps remained, marked with routes and possibilities, waiting for tomorrow's journey to begin.
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