[NARRATOR POV]
The memories of multiple lives intertwined like threads of fate within Claude's mind, each strand carrying its own weight of experience and regret.
We've previously explored the legacies of Alex Cromwell, the sword saint whose blade moved like liquid silver, and Fred Alphonse, the Fire Elemental Miko whose mastery over enchantment bordered on the divine.
Each of these existences had bestowed their particular expertise upon the Claude we've come to know.
Alex had gifted him the dance of steel, the way a blade could sing through the air with deadly precision.
Fred had bequeathed his profound understanding of enchantment and mana manipulation, knowledge that Claude had absorbed with desperate hunger.
Yet these gifts came with limitations. Though Fred might have surpassed even Rudeus in raw power, his experience couldn't be perfectly replicated.
Unlike Claude, who had learned magical fundamentals from Rudeus, Fred possessed a natural affinity with external mana that Claude simply lacked.
Fred was an elemental Miko, blessed by mana itself in a way Claude could never be.
Where Fred could directly grasp the essence of mana, bending spells to his will without apparent effort—a talent that could have elevated him to the rank of Fire Mage Emperor before the metastasis incident had he not chosen to remain in obscurity—Claude struggled against the constraints of his modest mana pool.
The peaceful life Fred had chosen over fame had been a luxury Claude couldn't afford, not with the looming specter of catastrophe haunting his fractured memories.
However, Fred's enchantment techniques were something Claude could assimilate, albeit imperfectly. It wasn't superior intelligence that allowed Claude to begin enchanting after merely examining Roxy's staff in Rudeus's possession.
No, it was the inherited knowledge from Fred, who had himself learned enchantment from a mysterious master.
This nameless teacher had appeared in the village without warning, stayed briefly, and left Fred with arcane tomes before vanishing just as suddenly.
Yet in Claude's patchwork memories, the identity of Fred's master remained an elusive shadow, a crucial missing piece that denied Claude the opportunity to seek out the same mentor.
As for Alex Cromwell, his swordsmanship had been honed through practical application rather than formal instruction. Already proficient when he first grasped a blade, Alex had refined his technique by observing the mercenaries who passed through the village.
In combat, Alex learned through blood and instinct, occasionally soliciting Paul's insights on different sword styles, but primarily developing his abilities through sparring and intuition.
The rigorous training regimen Claude now imposed on himself and others came not from Alex but from Fred—the discipline of the latter compensating for the natural talent of the former.
Together, these fragments had been enough to elevate Alex to the rank of Saint Swordsman, a title earned through necessity rather than ambition.
But there was a third Claude whose memories influenced our Claude's understanding of the world—a man whose life had been utterly ordinary until it became extraordinary through convergence.
Kuro Sadogashima.
Unlike his other selves, Kuro possessed no exceptional talents or abilities. He was merely an average salaryman in Japan, living a routine existence until his death at fifty years old. His sole distinction was his consumption of stories—web novels that transported him beyond his mundane reality.
Mushoku Tensei had been among these tales, though he was neither particularly devoted to it nor exceptionally knowledgeable about its intricacies.
He had recently watched the anime adaptation, which had rekindled fragmentary recollections of the narrative.
The circumstances of Kuro's death remained obscured—Claude's memories contained no impression of how any of his alternate selves had perished.
What distinguished Kuro from Claude's other incarnations was the nature of his awakening.
"This green-haired kid... Have I rewatched Mushoku Tensei again?" The words had escaped his lips as disorientation washed over him, the sight of the girl before him triggering recognition that transcended dimensions.
"Hey, what's wrong with you, Claude?" Somar's voice cut through his confusion, the boy's hand landing firmly on Kuro's shoulder.
Kuro turned, bewilderment etched across his features. "Claude? Are you talking to me?"
Concern flickered across Somar's face as he glanced toward another boy. "Mike, there's something wrong with Claude's head... is he sick?"
Mike's expression darkened with childish superstition. "Hm? I don't know about that. Is it that wicked Superd's curse?"
"No way," Somar declared, his young face hardening with purpose. "Let's beat her to unlock the curse!" He advanced toward the green-haired girl, malice radiating from his small frame.
"Count me in!" Mike's eager response echoed through the air.
As the boys converged on their target, Kuro remained frozen, his adult mind struggling to reconcile the surreal scenario unfolding before him. "Is this a real live version? A drama version? Why do they look so real..." he muttered, his thoughts scattered like leaves in a gale.
The moment shattered as a sphere of water materialized and struck the group, drenching them in its cold embrace. Rudeus stood at a distance, his arm extended from the casting.
The sensation of frigid water seeping through his clothes jolted Kuro into clarity. This wasn't an illusion or a dream—the chill permeating his skin was too visceral, too immediate.
"It's reality," he whispered, the realization settling over him like a shroud as he shivered involuntarily.
A sneeze erupted from him before indignation flared. "Hey! You misfired it! I didn't do anything to the green-haired kid!"
"Oh... sorry about that!" Rudeus called back, genuine apology coloring his voice.
"Wait, damn, Claude, help us!" Somar's demand pierced through the moment, desperation evident in his tone.
Mike joined in, his voice rising in frustration. "Right, why'd you just stand there and complain? Help us take revenge..."
Kuro's response came from a place of adult pragmatism rather than childish bravado. "Are you guys dumb or something? He can use magic. We're no match... retreat!" Without waiting for their agreement, he turned and fled, his feet carrying him away from the confrontation with surprising speed.
Witnessing their friend's retreat, Somar and Mike exchanged bewildered glances before following suit, hurling empty threats at Rudeus as they withdrew from the battlefield of their own making.
What transpired afterward was a divergence from the path of the other Claudes. Kuro, with his adult perspective, recognized the moral imperative to make amends.
The following day found him at the doorstep of Sylphy's father, offering a sincere apology for the actions of his companions.
Her father accepted the olive branch with gracious understanding. "I'll talk to Paul about this matter to clear up any misunderstanding with his son," he promised, relief evident in his weathered features.
"Oh, Luffy! Come here," he called over his shoulder. "Claude said he wanted to apologize."
Sylphy appeared, her slender arms cradling food intended for her father. The unexpected encounter created a moment of awkward tension before both children—one in body only—offered mutual apologies that laid the foundation for a genuine friendship.
This reconciliation soon extended to include Rudeus, forming an unexpected trio that bridged the social divisions of the village.
Mike and Somar observed this development with visible annoyance, their childish resentment simmering beneath the surface.
Yet Kuro, drawing on the social intelligence of his adult years, navigated these turbulent waters with surprising dexterity.
He carefully balanced his time between both groups, occasionally engineering gatherings that forced them into each other's company.
His days acquired a rhythm: engaging with his peers, training with the sword, and absorbing magical knowledge from Rudeus and Sylphy with the discipline of a man who understood the value of education.
"Sigh... I don't have any talent in either swords or magic..." The admission escaped him during one particularly frustrating session, his gaze traveling between his two young companions whose abilities had already far outstripped his own.
Setting aside Rudeus, whose prodigious talents were the product of years of dedicated study preceding this timeline, even Sylphy—who had begun her magical education alongside Kuro—had progressed well beyond his capabilities.
"Don't mind it, Claude... Even I can do it! You will get better..." Sylphy's encouragement was delivered with the innocent sincerity only a child could muster.
Rudeus offered nothing but a wry smile, an expression that Kuro immediately interpreted.
"Ugh, what's with that look, Rudy..." he groaned, recognizing the tacit acknowledgment of his limitations. "Anyway, thanks, Luffy..."
"No problem, Claude," she replied, her small face bright with goodwill.
Thus emboldened, Kuro persevered in his training, accepting his mediocrity with the resigned grace of one who had lived long enough to recognize his place in the order of things.
By the time Sylphy had mastered intermediate-level spells, Kuro had barely managed to cast beginner-rank magic without chanting—though he took solace in his ability to utilize all elemental attributes, a versatility that somewhat assuaged his wounded pride.
Noting Rudeus's comparative weakness in healing magic, Kuro began spending more time assisting Zenith in her clinic, absorbing her teachings with the patience his years had granted him.
"Thanks for the help, Claude," she would say, her gentle voice a balm for his frustrated ambitions.
"It's my thanks for teaching me, Teacher Zenith," he would reply, the formality of address amusing them both.
"Fufufu, it's not bad being called teacher..." Zenith's laughter would often fill the small space, a sound that reminded Kuro of simpler joys.
The years passed with glacial certainty, and Claude's skills improved by increments—magic, swordsmanship, even rudimentary smithing.
Yet his growth remained stubbornly average, a fact that grated against his awareness of what was to come.
Even at ten years old, he remained a beginner in all his pursuits. Enchantment proved particularly elusive; the mere sight of magical circles sent his young brain into confused spirals, a complexity that even Kuro's fifty-year-old consciousness struggled to untangle.
Then came the day when the orb appeared in the sky—an unmistakable harbinger of catastrophe that triggered a sudden recollection within Kuro's fragmented memories.
The metastasis event.
Panic seized him with violent intensity. He raced through the village, warning anyone who would listen about the impending disaster, his voice growing hoarse with desperation. But his prophecies fell on deaf ears, dismissed as the ravings of an overimaginative child.
Even Rudeus, to whom Claude had confessed knowledge of past events in a desperate bid for credibility, seemed to forget their conversation by the following day, carrying on as if nothing were amiss.
In a final act of desperation, Claude attempted to journey to Roa, determined to confront Rudeus with evidence he couldn't ignore.
But fate intervened in the form of an unseen hand, an inexplicable force that prevented him from taking action.
By the time awareness returned to him, it was too late. The white light of teleportation engulfed the Fittoa region, sweeping away everything in its blinding wake.
His destination was a horrifying revelation—the Dungeon of the Ancient Troll, a place where nightmares took physical form and death was merely a prelude to greater suffering.
There, amidst the oppressive darkness of underground passages never meant for human eyes, Kuro encountered a presence that would reshape not just his understanding, but the very fabric of the world itself...
...
..
The Dungeon revealed itself as a realm beyond the capabilities of ordinary mortals. Kuro's arrival was marked by an encounter with a solitary Vorpal Rabbit—a stroke of fortune so fleeting it barely registered before tragedy struck.
"What is this place?" he wondered aloud, his eyes scanning the unfamiliar surroundings before settling on the creature before him.
"What's that rabbit?" Curiosity drew him forward, but some primal instinct seized his legs, freezing him in place as realization dawned with terrible clarity.
"F*ck! That is a monster! It's not a docile thing!" The words erupted from him as the Rabbit's demeanor transformed, its teeth suddenly visible and gleaming with malevolent intent, its eyes fixed on Claude with murderous purpose.
Survival instinct took command of his body. He ran with abandon, each frantic heartbeat a desperate prayer for escape.
His lungs burned, his legs ached, but fear drove him onward until fate delivered the cruelest joke—a dead end looming before him, walls of stone offering no salvation.
Darkness claimed him soon after, his consciousness extinguished like a candle in a gale.
Then, inexplicably, he found himself standing once more before the Vorpal Rabbit, the moment of their first encounter replaying with nightmarish precision.
"Why am I here again?" The question emerged from lips still warm with life that had been stolen mere moments ago.
Understanding crystallized within him—flight was futile. With trembling hands, he drew the sword at his waist, determination hardening his features as he faced the creature that had already killed him once.
His blade slashed through the air, seeking flesh but finding only empty space as the Rabbit dodged with unnatural speed.
Before he could recover, it counterattacked, jaws closing around the hand that wielded his weapon.
"Arrgh!" Pain exploded through his nervous system as teeth shredded flesh and cracked bone. He collapsed to the ground, blood pouring from the ruined appendage while the Rabbit continued its feast, indifferent to his agony.
His screams echoed through the Dungeon's corridors, a beacon that drew more of the creatures from the shadows.
They approached with unhurried malice, their glowing eyes fixed on the writhing figure before them.
As they surrounded him, Claude felt a primal dread unlike anything he had experienced in either of his lives.
He wasn't prey to these creatures; he was meat, already slaughtered and merely awaiting consumption.
His cries subsided as he locked eyes with the horde, their gazes reflecting an intelligence that belied their bestial form.
When he attempted to flee once more, they pursued with relentless efficiency.
Pain blossomed across his body as teeth found purchase in his leg, his calf, his torso—a symphony of agony conducted by monsters that ensured he remained conscious long enough to experience the full horror of being devoured alive.
Death, when it finally came, was a mercy.
...
..
Fifteen times. That was the tally of Kuro's deaths within the Dungeon, each at the jaws of the Vorpal Rabbits, each teaching him the futility of conventional resistance.
Through this cycle of death and rebirth, understanding dawned—he was a Miko of Time and Space, fundamentally different from Alex in the nature of his power.
Where Alex had received his abilities through an act of divine intervention, Kuro's gift came from the world itself, a cosmic rejection of his death that thrust him back into existence after each demise.
Yet questions plagued him during the brief respites between resurrections. How many times could he return from oblivion? Was his rebirth infinite, a perpetual cycle of suffering, or did some limit exist, a final death from which there would be no return?
These philosophical ponderings grew increasingly academic with each painful resurrection. In the end, only one question truly mattered, consuming his thoughts with single-minded intensity:
"How can I survive in this place?"
The Dungeon seemed to listen to his desperation, its shadows deepening as if in contemplation of this creature that refused to remain dead, this anomaly in the natural order that persisted despite all logic. And somewhere in those depths, something ancient stirred, its attention drawn to the paradox of a human who died but would not stay dead—a being whose very existence represented a tear in the fabric of reality.
A being worth investigating further.
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