[NARRATOR POV]
Armored Dragon Calendar, K418.
Claude is quite delusional.
It is true that he doesn't understand the rules on mastery classification that differentiate between classes above the Saint Grade.
For each style, they had a different type of mastery name for their title.
For example, a sword god needs to be strong enough to defeat the current sword god to have the title.
But, for the water god style, one needed to master all the techniques in order to be called a water god.
Then there's the North God.
Leaving aside the technique god that we haven't heard of all this time, and the living Dragon god, there aren't any clear rules for becoming a North God because only immortal swordsmen from the Kalman lineage have held the North God ranks in the history of the novel.
However, anyone can be referred to as a North God if the majority of people believe they are.
Funny, right?
Every god's title had a different point for one to reach the title standard.
Which means the fact that Claude classified his other styles by himself is quite delusional.
He can only rank it based on the way Garus, the North Sword Saint, and Paul classified themselves.
Why am I suddenly explaining this? It's because of Claude's 4th memory.
In this memory, he learned more about the fighting styles of all the people this 4th version interacted with.
Unlike the other 3 versions, this fourth one actually had more "experience" in regards to these kinds of things.
Did it mean that the 4th version is another prodigy in the other style version?
No, he's the most normal Claude of all the versions we've met until now.
It can be said that he's one of the closest main timelines to where Claude died in Metastasis.
Then again, how would we know?
Claude's Miko ability is a big mystery by itself. It's still unknown what this ability can do and what it can't do.
For now, Claude has summarized that he can receive the other Claude's memories, but all of them came from a dream.
They are like pieces of puzzles that Claude needed to gather and solve piece by piece, making it hard for him to retrieve the needed memories.
Not all of the memories can be recovered as they don't have eidetic memory. All he can recover is the memory where the sender deeply wishes to share it with Claude.
Right now, Claude is still in the City of Crime.
Filling in for the missing Somar, who took his leave to visit his parents' graves. At that time, they exchanged information with each other. While Claude did bury Somar's parents himself, and had placed them in a safe location with proper markers and protective wards.
The same couldn't be said for Claude's parents.
As a smith, his father should have been able to survive longer than most—his expertise with tools and defensive enchantments should have given them an advantage.
But his mother was just an ordinary woman, a kind-hearted seamstress who had never wielded anything more dangerous than a needle. Despite all the enchanted defensive items Claude had crafted for them, despite the emergency provisions he'd hidden in their home, despite every precaution he could think of... luck had abandoned them.
And it seemed Claude's parents were among the unlucky ones in this tragedy.
When the Metastasis struck, they had been stranded in the middle of a miasma-filled forest on the Demon Continent—a place where the very air was poison to human lungs.
Trapped without any way to escape, the tracking beacon Claude had given them had been damaged beyond use.
Not even their bodies remained in the area when the search team finally located their last known position. Only scattered bones, his father's enchanted smithing tools, and his mother's favorite enchanted sewing kit could be scavenged from what little remained.
Claude's hands trembled slightly as he reviewed the report C had given him earlier that morning.
The parchment detailed everything in clinical, efficient language—wind patterns that had carried the miasma deeper into their refuge, estimated survival time based on the protective charms found at the site, the condition of the remains when discovered three weeks after the initial search began.
Three weeks. They had survived for three weeks in that poisoned hellscape before...
He set the report down carefully, his jaw clenched tight. The weight of carrying memories from multiple timelines meant he could remember other versions of his parents—ones who had lived, ones who had died differently, ones he had managed to save.
But those memories only made this loss cut deeper. In some timelines, he had been there. In others, he had prepared better contingencies. In this one—his timeline—he had failed them completely.
The irony wasn't lost on him. All his knowledge, all his preparation to prevent the Metastasis, and he couldn't even save the two people who mattered most to him.
Meanwhile, Somar had headed to the Great Forest and was given the task of creating a hub with Claude's disciples in the Dedoldia tribe while also training them in espionage.
Although Somar couldn't be said to be the best in this line of work, he was a great leader who could command the group effectively.
As Claude cleaned up the operation and organized the group more efficiently, he and C implemented one reform after another, snuffing out any spy sent by other groups while keeping potential double agents at bay.
"This place became better after two weeks, huh, right C?"
"Yes sir, I never thought there'd be this many things that needed to be fixed in this group. It's fortunate that we can tie up some loose ends."
"Somar did well considering his circumstances. It's not like he received the same training you all did. The fact that he managed to keep things running while dealing with his own grief shows real leadership potential. Somar is still fourteen—not an age where anyone should have to be perfect under such pressure."
C simply stared at the boy in front of him, who seemed to do everything with calculated precision despite the pain he could see flickering behind his eyes.
Even if he wanted to deny his statement, he knew well that Somar, Mike, and Claude were different entities and couldn't be called normal.
They were exceptional in their areas of expertise, forged by circumstances that would have broken lesser individuals.
Claude stood behind them like a protective behemoth, while Mike and Somar moved steadily under his tutelage, each carrying their own burdens from the catastrophe.
Though Mike was actually quite a prodigy himself. C and the others couldn't really see this now since Mike used Claude as cover to appear more normal while he analyzed and catalogued information about Arbalest's operations.
Mike was more of a schemer than a merchant.
Though perhaps the distinction was meaningless—successful merchants were schemers by necessity.
These two weeks were enough for Underground A to fortify their standing in the City of Crime.
This allowed their surveillance network to improve dramatically.
The Millis Continent was crucial to Arbalest because Underground A served as their "eyes and ears" in the region.
This was Arbalest's information network operating from the shadows.
With this foundation, given more time, Arbalest could create a better foothold in both the Central Continent and the Millis Continent.
It would enable them to fortify their foundation in this world.
"We just don't have a world-class power to help us develop further," Claude said, his voice carrying the weight of strategic calculation masking deeper exhaustion.
C nodded at the remark, recognizing the practical reality they faced.
With a world-ranked person under their banner, they could move more safely—the reputation of world-class power was something that made even kingdoms think twice before acting.
Although even without one, they could still become a formidable entity by themselves. They still required a deterrent to make others afraid of crossing them.
"Anyway, has there been any report on the target?"
"Yes, the target has been sighted moving through the city, but she appears to be younger than the intelligence drawings suggest."
"That's expected. The drawings depict the target three years from now, after all. Let's arrange a meeting with the target."
"That would be problematic, sir."
"Why?"
"The target is being accompanied by someone extremely powerful. Our operatives can't get close enough for a standard approach."
"I see. That changes things." Claude's expression shifted, calculating new angles. "In that case, we'll need a more direct introduction."
As he said that, C accompanied Claude as they moved toward the target's location, both understanding that this encounter would require a completely different strategy.
"Why did you bring me here, grandma?"
"You need to understand the world, child. This place is the best location for you to learn that not everything in this world exists in simple black and white." Reida Reia, the current Water God, walked calmly through the crowded streets beside her granddaughter, Isolte Cruel. "The complexities of human nature are written in every shadow of this city."
The Water God was one of the legendary sword styles known throughout the world. As the current Water God, Reida Reia saw Isolte as her chosen successor and taught the girl with careful attention to both technique and wisdom.
She didn't wish her successor to be blinded by naive ideals of justice or paralyzed by the existence of necessary evils.
The City of Crime was filled with sights that troubled Reida's heart—she would prefer her granddaughter never witness such darkness.
But for Isolte to understand what the world truly was, to develop the judgment necessary to wield the Water God techniques responsibly, exposure to this reality was essential.
She had undergone the same harsh education when her own master brought her here alongside her fellow disciples years ago.
What made the Water God Sword style unique was that its inheritor didn't need to be the strongest fighter.
Among all her fellow disciples under the same master, Reida hadn't been the most powerful. Several had surpassed her in raw strength and speed.
But her ability to learn the final, most esoteric techniques their master taught—that had been the turning point, allowing her to become the inheritor of the Water God title.
"I won't ask about your progress with Flow, but what about the Five Secret Arts? Have you made any headway?"
"I'm sorry, master. I haven't progressed with them as well as I should have."
The Water God Sword Style was built upon two foundational elements known to sword masters worldwide:
Flow: The basic counter-attack technique that could be applied to all techniques of the Water God Style. This technique, once mastered, was said to be able to return any attack directed at the user. Though it was considered a basic technique and not one of the Five Secret Arts, the school considered it the backbone of the style and the most crucial foundation to master.
The Five Secret Arts: The collective name for five undisclosed ultimate techniques of the Water God Style. Even mastering just one of these arts was extraordinarily difficult, and when at least three had been perfected, the individual qualified to inherit the Water God title.
"I see. Continue polishing your Flow technique. Once you truly understand its depths, the intricacies of the Five Secret Arts will begin to reveal themselves naturally."
"I understand, Master."
While the pair of master and disciple continued their educational walk through the city's darker districts, Claude suddenly appeared before them with a carefully composed smile, C following at a respectful distance behind him.
Reida's eyes immediately sharpened. Based on her extensive experience reading people and situations, the young man standing before her radiated an Touki of controlled danger.
This was someone who commanded respect through more than mere politeness.
She had encountered enough truly dangerous individuals to recognize the signs.
"Water God, Reida Reia." Claude's voice carried formal respect tinged with something deeper—perhaps desperation carefully masked as confidence. "I have taken a particular interest in your granddaughter and wish to request the opportunity to court her properly. Would you be willing to consider granting me that chance?"
The request hung in the air between them, loaded with implications that went far beyond simple romantic pursuit. In the City of Crime, such direct approaches to legendary figures rarely came without ulterior motives.
But something in the young man's eyes suggested his intentions, whatever they were, ran deeper than mere political maneuvering.
Isolte's hand instinctively moved toward her sword hilt, while Reida remained perfectly still, evaluating this unexpected encounter with the calculating mind that had made her a legend.
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