Chapter 3: What Happened to Me?
Armored Dragon Calendar Year 410 – Six Months After the Awakening
[Claude POV]
Six months since the water struck my forehead. Six months since the world cracked open and poured its secrets into my skull.
I still didn't understand what had happened to me. But I was learning to use it.
Rain drummed against the roof of Paul's house as I stepped inside, water dripping from my soaked clothes onto the wooden floor. The familiar scent of wet earth followed me in.
The familiar mixed with the warmth of the hearth. A fire crackled in the corner, its heat making my wet clothes steam.
Rudeus was kneeling in the corner, shoulders slumped in punishment posture. I'd seen this before.
Or felt like I had. The déjà vu hit hard, that certainty of recognition where none should exist.
I was getting used to it.
"Oh, did Rudy strip Sylph already?" I snickered, wringing water from my sleeves.
The words came out naturally. But part of me wondered why I was so certain that was what had happened.
I hadn't witnessed anything. Hadn't heard anyone explain.
Yet somehow I knew. Like knowing my own name, or the color of the sky.
"Welcome, Claude," Lilia greeted me with her usual formal tone while Paul's face twisted into an annoyed grimace. She moved with the quiet efficiency I had come to associate with her, already reaching for a cloth to hand me for my wet hair.
"Claude, what's up?" Paul asked.
We didn't have training scheduled today, so his confusion was understandable. He was leaning against the doorframe to the kitchen, arms crossed over his broad chest.
Even relaxed, he carried himself like a fighter. The stance was one I had been trying to copy in my own training, that easy readiness that spoke of years of combat experience.
"I brought some spare clothes and snacks from my mom." I motioned to the small package tucked under my arm, grateful that the oilcloth wrapping had kept the contents dry.
"Got caught in the downpour on the way. Anyway, were Rudy and Sylphy just doing adult things?"
I gave Paul a knowing sidelong glance.
The look on his face was worth the risk of getting hit. A mixture of embarrassment and indignation that made him look far less like a legendary swordsman and far more like a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
"What do you mean by that side glance? Damn, it seems like I need to train you harsher," Paul growled, the vein in his temple visibly throbbing.
I had learned to watch for that vein. It was an excellent indicator of when I had pushed too far.
I couldn't help myself. The opportunity was simply too perfect.
"What... Who doesn't know about your perverseness in the village?
The traveling merchants already spread your tales far and wide."
"Who is the bastard spreading rumors about me?! I'll hack him to pieces!"
Paul snarled, deliberately turning away from Zenith's piercing stare. I could see him shrinking under her gaze, the feared swordsman reduced to something approaching a scolded puppy by his wife's silent disapproval.
You're the one who boasted in front of them, you fool. It was entirely his fault for bragging about his exploits to any merchant who'd listen while drunk.
The man couldn't hold his liquor worth anything, and his tongue loosened faster than his judgment when ale was involved. I truly didn't pity whatever was coming to him later.
Zenith's look promised a long conversation once the children were out of earshot. Paul seemed acutely aware, finding sudden fascination with a spot on the ceiling.
"Anyway, what happened?" I asked, glancing toward Sylphiette hiding behind Zenith and Lilia.
Her green hair peeked out as she clutched at Zenith's dress, her small hands bunching the fabric. She looked embarrassed rather than frightened.
Whatever had happened, it hadn't traumatized her.
The past six months had been grueling. Training under Paul left my body aching in ways I hadn't known were possible, and the constant exhaustion of pushing my limits had become as familiar as breathing.
Every muscle I owned had complained at some point. Every joint had protested the demands I placed upon it.
My hands had blistered, healed, and blistered again until the calluses finally formed permanent armor against the training sword's grip. My legs trembled through endless stance work until they only ached.
Paul was a demanding teacher, but not a cruel one. He pushed me hard because he saw something in my determination that warranted pushing, or perhaps he simply enjoyed having someone to train who actually wanted to learn, unlike his son who preferred magic to the sword.
Aside from combat lessons, I helped my parents at the smithy. The rhythm of metal striking metal had become part of my daily life, though my hands still bore fresh calluses from the work.
The forge's heat had become comfortable rather than oppressive, and the weight of the hammer had grown familiar in my grip.
My reading, writing, and arithmetic were progressing well enough. Mother had taken to testing me at random moments, asking me to read signs or calculate prices.
I passed these tests more often than not, though I sometimes slipped and used knowledge I shouldn't possess, mathematical concepts that wouldn't exist in this world for centuries, if they ever came to exist at all.
But my swordsmanship was still lacking. In training, I was still clumsy.
My conscious mind couldn't translate the knowledge trapped in my skull into proper movement. I stumbled through forms that should have been elegant, fumbled techniques that my hands seemed to remember but couldn't quite execute.
In a structured practice session, I was barely better than Law, the self-proclaimed village tough guy who happened to be Sylphy's father.
But under pressure, everything changed. When Paul caught me off-guard with a serious strike, my body moved before my mind could.
Perfect blocks. Precise counters.
Movements borrowed from someone else's lifetime.
The gap between my conscious skill and those instinctive reactions terrified me. It was like having a library full of books I couldn't read, the information was there, tantalizingly close, but locked behind barriers that only stress and danger seemed to break.
I was still better than Rudy in a straight sword fight, at least. It had been two months since I'd beaten him.
Though I'd never win if he used his magic. The air would crackle with energy whenever he practiced, a reminder of the power he commanded, so easily.
Watching Rudeus cast spells was humbling in a way that nothing else was. He barely seemed to try, yet fire and water and wind bent to his will, as though they had been waiting for his permission.
His mana pool was vast beyond reason. His control was refined beyond his years.
If we fought, he'd crush me before I could close the distance.
I'd also been dabbling with magic myself. A water squirt here.
An ember there. A small rock or a gentle breeze.
Nothing impressive, but at least I could use every element at a basic level.
The incantations came easily enough, and I had memorized dozens of spells, in the past months. But casting them was another matter entirely.
My mana reserves were modest, perhaps slightly above average for my age, but nothing compared to Rudeus or even Sylphiette.
There was also another benefit. I'd been increasing my mana through training with Rudy.
Before sleeping each night, I exhausted my mana completely and slept like the dead. The results weren't as impressive as what Rudy and Sylphy achieved.
But I wouldn't complain as long as there was improvement.
Progress was progress, no matter how slow.
"Damn you, Claude, why did you never tell me Sylphy is actually a girl?" Rudy suddenly accused, pointing a finger at me from his punishment corner.
His voice cracked slightly with indignation, and his face was flushed with embarrassment.
"Eh, I never told you?" I feigned innocence, keeping my expression carefully neutral.
'Truth was, I had deliberately withheld that information.' But he should have figured it out himself.
The signs were obvious enough.
"You never did!"
"Heck, where have you seen a boy this cute? Are your eyes merely decoration?"
I gestured toward Sylphiette, who squeaked and hid further behind Zenith's dress. "I mean, look at her.
Look at her face. Look at how she moves.
How could you possibly think—"
"I thought she was a pretty boy!" Rudeus shouted, his cheeks flushing an even deeper red.
"There are pretty boys! It's a thing!"
"Hah, such a stupid excuse..." I shook my head in exaggerated disappointment, then turned to Zenith, whose serene face showed hints of amusement.
Her eyes sparkled with barely contained laughter.
"See, Zenith? Like father, like son... you need to discipline Rudeus. Otherwise, you'll create Paul number two!"
The words hung in the air for a moment. I saw Paul's eye twitch.
Saw him measure the distance between us. Saw him decide it was worth the effort.
Paul's fist came down on my head before I could dodge.
The impact rattled my teeth and sent stars dancing across my vision. He had pulled his strength, of course he had, he wasn't trying to kill me, but it still hurt enough to make my eyes water.
"Getting old, Paul?" I taunted through the pain, rubbing the growing bump on my skull.
"That was slow. Really slow. A grandmother could have dodged that."
"Damn, you cheeky brat..."
His hand raised again, and I danced back out of reach, grinning despite the throbbing in my head.
Laughter filled the room, and everyone forgot once Rudy apologized to Sylphy. I rubbed my head while staring at Paul, still smarting from the hit.
The man really didn't know his own strength.
"Who hits a child this hard? What a sore loser... Zenith, heal me..."
The warmth of Zenith's healing magic flowed through my skull, soothing the throbbing pain. The sensation was always strange, a tingling heat that spread through the injured area, knitting tissue and easing inflammation with gentle efficiency.
She was a remarkable woman. I often wondered how she fell for Paul, and chose such a humble life.
She had been a renowned healer, a member of an adventuring party, that had traveled the continent. Now she ran a small clinic, in Buena Village, treating farm injuries and childhood illnesses.
But her work was valuable to the village, and that was what mattered. Every life she saved was one more person who might survive what was coming.
Later, walking home through the drizzle, my thoughts turned to the knowledge that haunted my dreams.
Disaster was coming. I didn't know how I knew, but the memories in my head were fractured, incomplete, contradictory, painful to piece together.
Yet some things felt absolute. Some endings felt inevitable.
A great catastrophe would tear this village apart and scatter people I cared about across the world, lost and suffering. Some would die. Some would wish they had.
I had tried to understand the source of this knowledge, tried to trace back the memory fragments to their origin. But they slipped through my mental fingers like water, leaving only impressions.
Is this what feelings are? Certainties without explanations.
Rain pattered on my shoulders as I walked, a cold reminder of mortality. I was just a child, just a boy with strange knowledge and stranger instincts.
What could I possibly do against whatever catastrophe was approaching?
Seven years, maybe eight. That was how long I had before my world ended.
It would shatter. Scatter. The distinction mattered and I couldn't say why, but the memories insisted on precision.
The world would not end, it would break apart and the pieces would fall in unexpected patterns.
So what could I do about it? I couldn't prevent the disaster itself because the fragments were clear that whatever was coming was beyond my power to stop.
But I could prepare. I could strengthen the people around me and give them the tools to survive.
Village gossip spread faster than wildfire and I had learned this quickly.
Information, no matter how small, became the primary source of entertainment here. Whether it was Paul's womanizing or Somar's mother's suspected infidelity, all these things circulated with remarkable efficiency.
Every whisper at the well reached every ear in the village within a day. Every rumor shared at the tavern became common knowledge before the sun set.
It was both terrifying and useful. Terrifying because nothing stayed secret, useful because I could exploit that network.
I could use that network.
Earlier that month I began circulating stories about slave merchants, their methods, their preferred targets, the routes they traveled.
I attributed the information to traveling merchants who passed through, and nobody questioned why a child would be interested in such dark topics.
The key was seeding the information naturally. A question asked here, a worried observation made there. Children were expected to be curious and I played that role carefully.
"Did you hear what the merchant said?" I would ask one of the village mothers.
"He said slavers have been spotted on the northern road."
Or I would mention to Father, loudly enough for others to overhear,"The blacksmith in the next village said they took three children last month. Grabbed them right off the road."
Within weeks, methods for identifying and dealing with slave merchants became common knowledge. Parents arranged to teach their children defensive tactics and the village even hired adventurers to conduct training sessions.
I attended those sessions, of course, learned things I already knew while pretending to be surprised at information that felt worn and familiar.
The deception was necessary because a child who knew too much would draw uncomfortable questions.
My information campaign continued with stories about slave merchants in other kingdoms and on other continents, what commodities they preferred and which routes they frequented.
Fear was a powerful motivator. Fear of losing children made parents attentive to any suggestion that kept them safe.
It was manipulation, I knew that. Deliberate exploitation of their fears to achieve my goals.
But if it kept even one child alive, when the disaster came, then it was worth the ethical cost.
Beyond the propaganda, I trained every morning before dawn, running the village perimeter.
Twice around was enough to leave me gasping with my lungs burning and my legs screaming for rest, but I pushed through. Then I found a branch for pull-ups and tested it under my weight.
The physical conditioning was brutal and the knowledge in my head whispered of battles I wasn't ready for, skills I didn't possess yet, enemies that would tear me apart if I faced them now.
Sometimes when I pushed my body past its limits, strange things happened.
My stance would shift without conscious thought, settling into positions that felt practiced despite being new. My grip on the training sword would tighten in patterns that didn't match what Paul had taught me, and instincts would flare to guide my movements in ways that left me disoriented when they faded.
It was as though someone else was using my body, someone who knew things I hadn't learned yet.
The sensation terrified me but also gave me hope. If this other knowledge existed in me, maybe I could access it on purpose and grow strong enough to matter when the disaster came.
I emerged from the river after my morning bath, the cold water having washed away the sweat of training. The sun had risen above the horizon and cast long shadows across the grass.
Birds were singing in the trees and the air carried the fresh scent of morning dew.
Sylphiette skipped toward Paul's house, her green hair catching morning light. Guilt twisted in my chest when I saw her, guilt for how I had treated her before and relief that she was recovering, along with determination that she would survive what was coming.
"Isn't it too early to head to your beloved?" I called out.
She jumped, looking around frantically before spotting me. She let out a sigh. "So it's Claude. You frightened me."
She had remembered the warnings about slavers, becoming instantly vigilant at an unexpected voice. That alertness might save her life someday.
"Hmmm, spring has come for Sylphy, huh."
"Uuu, don't tease me, Claude. It's not like I think that way!
I mean, it's not like I don't like Rudy..." Her voice trailed off into rambling, her cheeks flushing pink.
I watched her struggle with her words. My chest tightened.
She was so young. So innocent.
So unaware of the storms gathering on the horizon.
"Anyway, I'm going to Rudy's! Do you want to come along?"
"Nah, not going to disturb you lovebirds. And unlike you jobless kids, I have work with my father at the smithy."
"You're so cheeky," she grumbled, but she was smiling.
I grinned at her retreating back. Things had changed between us since that day in the clearing.
She still watched me with cautious eyes sometimes, waiting for the bully to return. But the fear was fading, replaced by something that might eventually become friendship.
One more person who might survive because I had chosen to be different.
At the smithy my father was already at work, the heat from the forge washing over me as I entered. The familiar rhythm of hammer on metal filled the air and I took my place at the smaller anvil he had set up for me.
The forge's glow lit the walls orange with coal smoke and hot iron, smells I'd grown to love. This was my second home.
"You were up early again," Father said without looking up from his work. His hammer fell in steady rhythm, shaping the glowing metal with practiced precision.
"I was training."
He grunted, which could have meant anything, but I caught the slight curve of his lips hidden beneath his beard. He was proud even if he didn't say it.
Father wasn't a man of many words and communicated in grunts and nods, in the quality of the tools he made, in the care he took with every piece of metal that passed through his hands.
But I had learned to read his silences and understand the meaning behind his minimal responses.
The work was hard but I found myself settling into it with ease. My hands moved with a certainty that didn't quite match my experience, shaping the metal in ways that felt instinctive rather than learned.
Sometimes the hammer would strike at an angle I hadn't planned, finding the metal's grain with precision that surprised me. Sometimes my hands would adjust the workpiece without conscious direction, sensing imperfections I couldn't see.
Sometimes Father paused to watch me work with a puzzled face. He never asked about the strange skill that occasionally possessed his son's hands, and maybe he was afraid of the answer.
I was afraid of it too because I didn't know where this knowledge came from or whose memories I was borrowing, whose skills were bleeding into mine.
The presence in my head offered no explanations, only capabilities that emerged when I needed them most.
But I kept working. Kept training.
Kept planting seeds of preparation throughout the village.
Seven years. Maybe eight.
That was how long I had to become strong enough to make a difference.
It would have to be enough.
◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆ AUTHOR'S NOTE ◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆
Want to read ahead? We have 10+ advance chapters available at eternal-lib com!
◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆