Chapter 1: The Miko's Awakening
Armored Dragon Calendar Year 410 – Claude, Age 5
The morning air carried the familiar sounds of Buena Village waking. Roosters called from wooden coops.
The distant rhythm of hammer on anvil echoed from my father's smithy. Wood smoke drifted from chimneys, mixing with the scent of dew-soaked earth.
I kicked at loose pebbles on the dirt path. I watched them scatter into tall grass.
The sun had barely crested the eastern hills. The sun painted weathered thatch roofs in soft gold.
It was the kind of morning that should have filled me with simple joy. Instead, my stomach churned as we approached the forest edge.
"Come on, Claude! We're gonna be late!"
Somar jogged ahead, sandy hair bouncing with each eager step.
Mike trudged beside me with less enthusiasm. His clean clothes and soft hands marked him among the village's fortunate children.
Where Somar and I bore the calluses and dirt stains of those who worked alongside their parents, Mike's family could afford to keep him focused on learning.
"What's the rush anyway? It's just that weird girl again," Mike muttered, kicking at a stone.
His words hit like ice water. We'd done this before.
Cornered Sylphiette, when she wandered too far from the village center, thrown pebbles and called her names until she ran away crying. It was what boys our age did to those different from ourselves, wasn't it?
So why did the thought of it make me feel sick?
The forest clearing came into view as we crested a small hill. Ancient oaks spread gnarled branches like protective arms over the grassy space below, their leaves rustling with whispered secrets.
Birdsong echoed from the shadows, thrushes and larks weaving melodies that spoke of peace.
Sylphiette sat beneath the largest oak, her distinctive emerald hair catching sunbeams like captured starlight. Her small fingers worked with practiced delicacy, weaving flower stems together into something beautiful.
Her movements spoke of hours spent in solitary creativity.
"There she is," Somar whispered, crouching behind bushes heavy with morning dew. "The weirdo."
I watched Sylphiette smile at her handiwork. Just a kid making flower crowns.
What was so bad about that?
Before I could voice my growing discomfort, Somar was already moving. "Hey, pointy-ears!"
Sylphiette's head snapped up, her large green eyes widening with the primal fear of prey spotting predators. The flower crown slipped from her fingers as she scrambled to her feet.
"We told you not to come here!" Mike added, scooping up a handful of small pebbles.
"This isn't your place!"
The first pebble sailed through the air.
Thwack.
It struck her shoulder hard enough to make her stumble backward, a small cry escaping her lips. Tears already formed in her eyes.
"Stop it!" she pleaded, her voice barely a whisper.
Somar was already scooping up mud from the stream bank, grinning with mean satisfaction. The mudball arced toward her face.
It never reached its target.
A ball of water appeared out of nowhere, catching the mud mid-flight.
Splash.
The water hung in the air for a second, perfectly round, impossibly still, then shot straight at my face.
The impact was gentle.
But the moment it touched my forehead, something inside my mind shattered like glass under a hammer.
Pain struck like lightning through my skull—white-hot, blinding, absolute. I clutched my temples as the world fractured into a thousand bleeding pieces, each one screaming memories that weren't mine.
Crimson eyes gleaming in darkness, hungry and pitiless. Horn-like protrusions slick with blood—my blood. Teeth finding flesh and bone, tearing, rending.
Crack. Snap.
The sounds echoed through memory.
I had died like this. Fifteen times? More? The number slipped away like water through fingers.
A blade singing through air. Not my blade. Claws ripping through my arm in a shower of gore.
Children scattered around me, small bodies broken, voices silenced forever because I was too weak, too slow.
Flames danced around small hands, beautiful and deadly. Fire feeding a massive frame as a fist descended—crunch—crushing ribs to splinters, driving the air from lungs that would never breathe again. Darkness closed in, followed by despair so complete it had no bottom.
I gasped, the cool morning air suddenly stifling. The familiar sounds of the forest faded into distant hum as my vision blurred with tears I didn't remember shedding.
Monster blood in my mouth. They felt bitter and wrong.
My own screaming, had that been me? Someone had screamed until their throat tore, and the sound echoed through corridors made of bone.
Moving pictures flickered through my mind. A story featuring the very people who stood before me in flesh and blood.
But how could I know a story about real people? How could I remember watching something that was happening to me?
The images kept coming. Without order nor logic. They weren't memories, not exactly—more like echoes, broken pieces of lives that couldn't all be mine, but felt like mine anyway.
I saw myself older, standing in ruins. A sword in my hands, heavy and familiar. Despair crushing my chest as everything I'd fought for crumbled anyway.
My head pounded. Nausea rolled through my gut in waves.
"Three people gathering together to bully one. You're the worst!"
The voice cut through the chaos. I looked up through my tears to see a small boy with brown hair, pointing a tiny wooden staff in our direction.
He couldn't have been older than me, but his eyes... those weren't a child's eyes.
They were tired.
Rudeus Greyrat. The name surfaced from nowhere, dragging other things with it.
This kid was supposed to be some kind of genius. And he was hiding something, I knew that too, somehow.
But how could I know that?
"So, you're that kid from the knight's place!" Somar's voice cracked with fear poorly disguised as bravado.
"Get out of our way!"
Another water sphere formed near Rudeus, larger than the first. Somar hurled more mud while Mike joined with desperate enthusiasm.
The clearing filled with sounds of splashing water and wet earth. But I heard none of it clearly.
The memories continued their relentless assault. Each fragment brought new confusion, new questions without answers.
'Which memories are mine? Which deaths were real?'
I saw versions of myself drowning in the swirling chaos. One watching animated figures on a glowing screen.
One standing amid ruins with blood on his hands. One small and confused, trying desperately to reconcile impossible memories with an innocent present.
"Which death was real?" I whispered to the morning air, words torn from my throat by despair I didn't fully understand.
"Which life had meaning?"
Without understanding why, I began to cry. Not just for confusion, but for children whose names I somehow remembered, for battles fought with skills I'd never learned, for deaths that felt more real than this sunlit morning.
The tears came in heaving sobs that shook my small frame. Through my blurred vision, I saw scenes playing out like nightmares made manifest—a blade in my hand, moving with deadly precision until it failed, flames dancing at my command until they turned against me, my own voice pleading with creatures that had no mercy.
The mudball fight ceased as everyone turned to look at me.
"I couldn't save them," I whispered, and the words carried weight from failures that stretched across lifetimes. "Again and again, too weak."
"Are you okay?" Sylphiette's voice was soft, concerned.
She had moved closer. I was lost in visions, her earlier fear apparently overcome by worry for a boy who had come to torment her.
I looked up at her through my tears, seeing both the frightened child she was now and scattered fragments of other possibilities—her emerald hair streaming with blood as darkness claimed her, her gentle smile fading as monsters closed in, her voice calling my name as I failed to reach her in time.
They were all real. Every death, every failure, every moment of helpless watching as everything burned.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, words tumbling out before I could stop them. "I'm so sorry, Sylph."
The nickname felt natural on my tongue, though I had no memory of ever using it before. Sylphiette's eyes widened.
No anger. Just confusion, and maybe, if I was lucky, the start of forgiveness I didn't deserve.
The weight of knowledge I didn't understand pressed down on my shoulders. I knew what was coming.
A great disaster that would scatter this peaceful village to the winds. I knew the paths these children would walk, the pain they would endure.
But knowing and preventing were different things entirely.
"How boring. Let's head back," Somar muttered, his enthusiasm dampened by my breakdown and Rudeus's display of power.
"What are you doing there, Claude? Let's head back!"
Mike's command carried the authority of someone desperate to return to normalcy.
I pushed myself to my feet. My hands were still shaking.
Dirt on my clothes, forest smell in my nose, real things. Present things.
I clung to them.
"See ya later, Sylph," I called over my shoulder as I followed the other boys back toward the village. Her eyes followed me with gentle curiosity that seemed to see more than they should.
I shuddered and forced myself to focus on the present. On this chance to maybe get it right.
The walk back passed in a blur of half-remembered conversations and fragmented sensations. My mind felt like shattered glass, reflecting different versions of reality.
All of them ending in failure. All of them ending in death.
Somar's mother was waiting for him in the doorway, her eyes glinting with something predatory as she raised her hand and delivered a sharp slap across her son's face. Crack. The sound rang out like a whip.
"You little monster! Bullying that poor child! What will people think of our family?"
I watched the scene unfold with a mixture of present confusion and impossible knowledge. She would drag Somar to Paul's house.
I knew this somehow, though I couldn't explain why.
Our cottage looked exactly the same as always. Humble timber walls weathered gray by years of rain and sun.
A thatched roof that needed repair. Small windows letting in just enough light to chase away the shadows.
But even these familiar sights felt strange now, overlaid with memories of this same house consumed by light.
Inside, the scent of my mother's cooking filled the air. Root vegetables and herbs simmered in an iron pot over the hearth, filling our small home with warmth.
"Claude?" My mother looked up from her work, concern creasing her weathered features. "You look pale, dear. Are you feeling well?"
I wanted to tell her about the memories flooding my mind, to explain the impossible knowledge that now filled my head, to warn her about the disaster that would tear our family apart. But how could I make her understand something I didn't comprehend myself?
"I got into trouble today," I said instead. "We were bullying Law's daughter."
The disappointment in my parents' eyes hurt worse than any physical punishment. They were good people, my mother and father—simple folk who worked hard and tried to do right by their neighbors.
My father set down his eating bowl with deliberate care. "Claude, why would you do such a thing? We raised you better than that."
The words cut deep. But they also sparked something else in me, something that felt both natural and foreign. If I carried this burden of knowledge, I had to use it.
I needed to become stronger, more capable, if there was any hope of changing the disasters I could see approaching. In the memory fragments, I had been strong—a sword master whose blade could cut through anything, a mage whose flames could melt steel. Yet strength alone had never been enough.
"I know it was wrong," I said carefully, letting genuine remorse color my voice. "That's why I want to make it right. I want to learn to protect people instead of hurting them."
My mother's expression softened slightly, but my father remained skeptical. "And how do you plan to do that, son?"
"I want to learn swordplay. From Paul Greyrat. He's the best fighter in the village, and if I'm going to be strong enough to protect people, I need proper training."
It was a calculated gamble, relying on my parents' respect for Paul's abilities and their desire to see me channel my aggression into something constructive. The words felt both natural and rehearsed, as if I'd said them a hundred times before in other lives. I held my breath as they exchanged glances.
Sword forms flickered through my head. My body didn't know them, but somewhere in those fractured memories, someone did. If I could learn to use that, maybe I'd have a chance.
Finally, my father nodded slowly. "If Paul is willing to take you on, and if you promise to apply yourself properly, then we'll consider it. But this had better not be just another childish whim, Claude."
I felt a surge of triumph but quickly suppressed it. The first step had succeeded, but I was still far from my goal.
The next morning, I set out early to find Paul during his patrol. The sun was still low on the horizon, painting the world in shades of gold that made even the humblest cottages look touched by magic.
I found him near the eastern gate, checking the simple wooden barrier that marked the boundary between safety and the wild lands beyond.
"Hey, Paul!" I called out, forcing a cheerful tone though my stomach churned with nervous energy.
Paul turned at my voice, his hand resting casually on his sword pommel. He was a handsome man, the kind of features that belonged in heroic tales rather than rural guard duty.
"Oh... hey kid, who are you again?"
"Hey, you didn't even remember me!" I said, trying to sound hurt while fighting back a grin. "I'm one of the kids your son got into trouble with yesterday."
Paul's cheek twitched. "Mouthy little thing, aren't you?"
I pressed my advantage. "You're not Somar, and I heard Mike was taken somewhere else. So, you should be Claude."
Paul's finger snapped as the memory clicked into place. "Heh, so you do remember stuff," I said with a cheeky grin.
"So, what is it, kid?"
I drew in a breath and spoke with all the determination I could muster. "Can you teach me swords?"
Paul's eyes widened slightly as he reassessed me. "Why?"
"Because I know I will need to know them," I said, and something in my voice made him take notice. "I couldn't do anything to help when your son confronted us yesterday. I was weak, and weakness helps no one."
Paul studied me for a long moment. "You want to take revenge? Against my son?"
The question caught me off guard. I could see his hand drift toward his sword hilt, the protective father emerging despite his casual demeanor.
I decided to take a calculated risk. "Yep, can you help me do it?"
The absurdity of my small frame threatening his prodigy son hung in the air. For a moment, I thought I had miscalculated.
Then his mouth fell open, and I realized he was more dumbfounded than angry. A heartbeat later, he threw back his head and laughed—a rich, genuine sound that echoed off nearby houses.
He pounded my back with enough force to make me stagger.
Thump.
The impact nearly knocked the air from my lungs. "Sure, I'll teach you till you can beat Rudy! I don't expect you to do it, though, since my son is a genius."
I grinned. He had taken the bait exactly as I hoped. But now came the dangerous part—I needed to say more, to plant ideas that might matter later.
"Look at you, showing off about your son," I said with a playful eye roll. "But everyone says you're mean to Rudeus 'cause you don't get his magic stuff."
The words hit their mark. I saw it in the way his shoulders tensed, the way his smile faltered for just a heartbeat. Paul's expression shifted, becoming more serious. "What do you mean by that?"
I shrugged, trying to look like any kid repeating village gossip. "People talk, you know? They say you want him to be like you with swords and stuff. But he's better at magic. Mom says that's like trying to make a fish climb a tree."
Paul was quiet for a long moment, his jaw tightening. Then he nodded slowly.
"You're sharper than most kids your age, Claude. Alright, I'll teach you. But if you're serious about learning swordplay, you need to understand that it's not a game. Training will be hard, and I won't go easy on you just because you're young."
"I understand," I said, and meant it.
"Good. We'll start tomorrow at dawn. Meet me at the training ground behind my house, and don't be late."
As I walked home that evening, the setting sun painting the village in shades of gold and crimson, I reflected on what I had accomplished.
The first step in my plan had succeeded. I had secured training from one of the best swordsmen in the region, planted seeds that might prevent future conflicts, and begun the process of becoming someone capable of changing fate itself.
But the memories continued to swirl in my mind like leaves in a whirlwind, fragments of lives I might have lived, possibilities that felt more vivid than my present.
That night, as I lay in my narrow bed listening to the sounds of the village settling into sleep, the nightmares began in earnest.
Fields of blood and ash flooded my mind, stretching to horizons that had no end. Screams of the dying—thousands upon thousands of voices crying out in languages I shouldn't know. Failure after failure after failure, each one heavier than the last, until I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but drown in the weight of it all.
Creatures with crimson eyes closing in from every direction, their teeth reflecting my terror like mirrors of death. A massive fist descending, blotting out the sky—thud—crushing the breath from my lungs, shattering bone, ending everything in an instant that lasted forever. Children calling my name as darkness claimed them, their voices growing fainter and fainter until only silence remained, vast and terrible and absolute.
The village consumed by light, faces I loved twisted in agony as I stood helpless while everything burned.
I woke with tears on my cheeks and my parents hovering over me, concern etched deep in their weathered faces. They couldn't understand what was happening to me, but they held me until the shaking stopped, whispered comfort until I fell back into uneasy sleep.
"Which one is the real me?" I whispered into the darkness.
No answer. Just the ache of knowing things I shouldn't, phantom pain from deaths I'd never experienced, and a growing certainty—cold and sharp—that I would need every fragment, every scrap of impossible understanding, if there was any hope of saving the people I loved from what was coming.
Tomorrow would bring the beginning of my training, the first step on a path toward salvation or a failure more complete than those I remembered.
But whatever the answer, I would be ready. I had to be.
◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆ AUTHOR'S NOTE ◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆
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