[Claude POV]
Death.
Death.
Another Death.
Once I reached my seventh birthday, new memories flooded my fractured mind. Memories where I would always meet the same fate—death. No matter how many repetitions I lived through, I was killed.
This is the story of my third incarnation, the version of me that died either torn apart by the monsters lurking within that accursed dungeon, or by my own hand when the suffering became too much to bear.
My young mind, barely beginning to grasp the concept of training, could not help but recoil at the nightmarish creatures that awaited me. The memories were visceral—skin being peeled from muscle, organs rupturing, bones splintering between massive jaws. The phantom sensations lingered even after waking.
I am scared.
No matter how impactful my first incarnation was, or how crafty my second had been, every night for a year, I relived 345 different deaths. Each one giving me fresh nightmares. The untold amount of pain and trauma reached through time to find me, making me cry out in the darkness.
"Claude! What's happened?"
Father would rush to my room whenever these nightmares struck, his calloused hands gentle as he patted my back while I shivered beneath sweat-soaked sheets. The familiar scent of metal and forge-fire clung to him, an anchor to this reality.
I couldn't speak. The words remained trapped in my throat, constricted by fear. My breathing would begin to steady under his rhythmic pats, and I'd start to emerge from the fog of terror.
But then—the sensation of being eaten alive would return, flesh giving way to fangs, my screams echoing in cavernous depths no one would hear.
Puke!
Cough!
Puke!
I couldn't help but expel everything in my stomach, acid burning my throat as my body rejected the memory of pain it had never actually experienced.
Father's brow would furrow with confusion and concern. He'd ask me questions I couldn't answer, while Mother watched from the doorway, her eyes reflecting worry in the dim lamplight. But the words remained stuck, lodged behind the knot of fear in my throat.
How could I tell them that I dreamed of a future where I was trapped in a dungeon? That I had memories of dying there, again and again? How could I explain the divine being who could appear without warning to snuff out my existence?
Who can help me?
Who can protect me?
Am I alone in this world?
Can parents, no matter how loving, shield their child from the wrath of a god? These thoughts paralyzed me, cutting off any path to seeking help, and forcing me down the road of solitude. The weight of knowledge from multiple lifetimes crushed down on shoulders too small to bear it.
By my eighth birthday, the nightmares from my third incarnation mercifully subsided. But the trauma remained, etched into my soul. Yet my other incarnations—whispers of failure and fragments of wisdom—continually reminded me to train, to persist, to survive the approaching calamity.
I couldn't stop. It wasn't only my life hanging in the balance.
The villagers—Zenith's gentle smile, Paul's gruff affection, the children's innocent laughter—all would perish if I failed. I needed to survive. I needed to find a way.
The dungeon's monsters and their poison-laced meat presented just one of many obstacles. I had no idea how long I would be trapped there, and my chances of survival seemed minuscule at best. Even so, I had to prepare for everything that would come.
...
..
"You bastard! Who are you? You dare to obstruct our goods delivery!"
The bandit's voice cut through the night air, rough with indignation. His companions spread out around him, their weapons gleaming dully in the moonlight as they attempted to pass through the village. They weren't merely passing through—I knew from fragmented memories what they intended to do.
I remained silent, drawing the dagger I had forged myself. The metal caught the light, a sliver of deadly intent. The weight felt right in my hand—one of the few things that did.
With footwork practiced to the point of exhaustion, I moved. Not with the clumsy motions of a child, but with the precision born of memories from lives never lived in this timeline. The first bandit's eyes widened in shock as I slipped past his guard, my blade opening his throat in a clean slice. Warm blood sprayed across my face, metallic and familiar.
One by one, they fell. Some managed to swing their weapons, grazing my arms or legs, but my smaller size and unexpected skill threw off their aim. When the last one collapsed, I stood among them, chest heaving, their blood mingling with mine on the forest floor.
After ensuring they were all neutralized, I approached the cage where they kept their captives. The lock gave way easily to my blade.
They huddled inside, men and women with vacant expressions. Their eyes reflected nothing but despair, spirits broken by violence and captivity. I recognized that emptiness—I had felt it in another life.
"From now on, your lives are mine," I declared, my child's voice strangely authoritative in the stillness. "Don't think of anything but following my orders. Trust me and do as I command."
They stared through me, unseeing. This wouldn't do. I needed fighters, not hollow shells.
I moved closer and began striking them, calculated blows to their bodies—painful but not damaging. I continued until someone fought back, until someone showed a spark of the will to live.
For those who remained passive, I continued my assault until another captive intervened to protect them. That was what I needed—the instinct to protect, the responsibility for another's life.
Finally, a man lunged at me, eyes blazing with newfound rage. I stepped back, allowing the moonlight to fall fully upon me. Surprise registered on their faces as they realized their tormentor was merely a child, younger than many of them.
"While you're despairing about your fate," I said, my voice cutting through the night, "another person is currently facing the same thing you do, or even worse. This is not the time for you to fall into despair."
My words—a child younger than them—reverberated in the clearing. I could see confusion and shame warring on their faces.
"I'm not here to save you; I have nothing to do with your life! Everything is in your hand; stand up for yourself!" My voice rose, carrying conviction I didn't entirely feel. "Do me good, and get your life back yourself!"
I turned my back to them deliberately, a test. The worst possible moment to turn away from potential enemies—but I needed to know if they could seize opportunity.
A loud thud made me look back. More than half of them had fallen to their knees, not in defeat, but in supplication. Their eyes held something new—purpose, however fragile.
"Train us," one of them said, voice hoarse from disuse. "Make us strong enough to never be captured again."
I regarded them silently, masking my relief behind a calculating stare. This was how I gained my first loyal subordinates—not through kindness, but through cruel necessity. Another piece falling into place for the battle that was coming.
In my mind, fragments of memory whispered of the teleportation disaster that would rip through this world. Of the demon continent and its horrors. Of a god who played with lives like pieces on a board.
I would need these people. And they would need the harsh truth I offered—that salvation comes only to those who fight for it.
As I led them away from the cage that had held them, I felt the weight of their lives adding to the burden I already carried. But I would bear it. I had to.
For I had died too many times to fear failing again.
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