Chapter 48.2: Holy Millis
Armored Dragon Calendar Year 418 – Claude, Age 13
[Claude POV]
The imposing architecture of Milishion rose around us as we passed through the main gate. Whitewashed buildings gleamed in the sunlight, their spires reaching toward the heavens like prayers made manifest.
Incense hung in the air,sweet, cloying, oppressive,mingling with ordinary smells: sweat, livestock, commerce.
I found myself withdrawing inward. Consciousness sorting through memory fragments that didn't quite belong to me.
In one timeline, this place had been a site of profound disappointment for Rudeus. In another, it represented a turning point where paths diverged irrevocably.
The contradictions pressed.
"Hey, Claude, what are you doing..."
Rudeus's voice seemed to come from far away, despite him walking beside me. I ignored him, mind preoccupied with the inevitable confrontation that awaited.
Paul would be here. They would fight.
Some things seemed fixed across all timelines, immutable despite my interventions.
There were numerous things I wished to change,butterfly wings I longed to set in motion,but the weight of causality pressed down like a physical burden.
I can't.
The thought manifested with crushing certainty. The main timeline exerted a gravitational pull that was nearly impossible to escape.
Even with my foreknowledge and careful manipulations, the story clung stubbornly to its ordained path.
There would be variations,ripples caused by my presence,but the fundamental course remained largely unchanged.
Rudeus continued speaking. His words an unintelligible buzz against the roar of conflicting memories in my mind.
His expression shifted from curiosity to concern as I remained unresponsive.
Finally, when his insistent voice threatened to draw unwanted attention from passers-by, I reached out and clamped my hand over his mouth.
My fingers pressed against his face with more force than necessary. A physical manifestation of internal frustration.
"What..." I snapped, irritation bleeding into my tone.
Rudeus pried my fingers from his mouth, eyes widening slightly at my uncharacteristic aggression. "We've arrived at the inn already!"
I blinked, reality reasserting itself around me. We stood before a modest establishment, its wooden sign swinging gently in the breeze.
Two stories tall with whitewashed walls yellowing with age. Small diamond-paned windows reflected the late afternoon sunlight.
Focus. Stay present.
I chided myself silently. I needed to maintain awareness of my surroundings rather than obsessing over Geese's presence.
The fragments of knowledge his association with the Human God stirred within me.
Geese wasn't a threat at this moment,quite the opposite. He would be an invaluable source of information regarding Zenith's eventual location.
My irrational aversion to him could jeopardize our mission if I allowed it to dictate my actions.
Eris pushed past us with characteristic impatience, her red hair catching the sunlight like copper flame. Ruijerd followed close behind, his tall form and distinctive green hair drawing wary glances from passers-by.
The stigma of the Superd race was evident even here, in hushed whispers and averted gazes.
I released Rudeus, watching as he hurried to catch up with Eris. They disappeared into the inn's shadowed interior, leaving Geese and me momentarily alone outside.
"You two are close," Geese observed, a knowing smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.
I shrugged, feigning nonchalance despite the tension coiling within me. "Well, he's my childhood friend, after all."
"There's no way I will be far from him."
"Not many childhood ties can last. You know..."
Geese's expression softened with genuine nostalgia.
"Even my party members lived their own lives after the party disbanded." A shadow of melancholy crossed his features.
Genuine emotion from a man I knew to be duplicitous in other timeline fragments.
"Well, that's what life is," I replied, surprised by the philosophical tone that emerged unbidden. "Partings will be another kind of bond by themselves."
"As long as you still maintain a good relationship with each other. You can still meet and greet new people along the way."
"Won't that be more amusing..."
Geese studied me with new interest, head tilted slightly. "Hahaha, I sometimes doubt you were a child, like Rudeus and Eris."
His words struck uncomfortably close to the truth. I wasn't merely a child, I was a convergence point of multiple lives, a collection of fragments assembled into an approximation of coherent identity.
"Want to try being sent to a dungeon for months, survive there..." I asked, tone deliberately light despite the weight of the memory. The Nightmare Dungeon had tested me beyond endurance, forcing adaptation and growth that no child should undergo.
"Hah, no thanks," Geese replied with a chuckle that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Surely, I would die on the first night."
I studied him as we finally entered the inn together. He was genuinely pleasant in many ways, affable, intelligent, resourceful.
In another life, another circumstance, I might have welcomed his friendship without reservation.
He was someone nice—I knew that. But someone like him was easily used.
And wasn't that the true tragedy... Good people, manipulated by forces they couldn't comprehend.
Pawns moved across a cosmic chessboard by divine hands that cared nothing for individual suffering.
As we entered the common room of the inn, with its low-beamed ceiling and smell of stale beer, I resolved to moderate my antipathy toward Geese. Practicality demanded cooperation.
Regardless of my instinctive aversion to his connection with the Human God.
Some battles couldn't be fought yet. Some knowledge was best kept hidden behind a facade of ordinary childhood friendship.
For now.
Milishion was a city designed to impress.
The architecture spoke of centuries of accumulated wealth and faith. White stone buildings rose in ordered rows, their facades decorated with religious iconography that gleamed in the afternoon sun. Spires reached toward heaven, topped with golden symbols of the Milis faith.
The streets were clean,cleaner than any city I had visited,and the people moved with the purposeful efficiency of citizens who believed their home was blessed.
I walked through the Adventurers District, taking in details with practiced efficiency. Guard patrols at regular intervals, weapon shops with quality merchandise, the massive silver dome of the Adventurers Guild Headquarters dominating the skyline.
And everywhere, the subtle signs of social stratification. Nobles in fine clothes, merchants in practical garments, commoners in simple attire.
Each group occupied their designated spaces, interacting across boundaries only when commerce demanded it.
Inside me, something processed the environment.
Something methodical catalogued power structures. Church controlled official authority. Merchant guilds controlled commerce. Adventurers Guild mediated between both. Three-way balance, with the Church holding primary influence.
Something wary scanned for threats. Too many guards. Too many eyes. Combat here would be problematic.
Something quieter noted the atmosphere. Pretty city. Clean streets. But underneath—fear, maybe. Beautiful surfaces often hid ugly foundations.
I acknowledged each impression and continued walking.
The contact point was a tea house near the market district.
Unremarkable from the outside,a modest establishment with faded awnings and worn wooden tables. The kind of place that attracted regular customers rather than curious visitors.
The kind of place where conversations could happen without attracting attention.
I entered and took a seat near the back. Ordered tea.
Waited.
The operative found me within ten minutes.
She was middle-aged, dressed in the practical clothing of a merchant's assistant. Her face was forgettable,deliberately so, I suspected.
The kind of face that blended into crowds without leaving impressions.
"Report."
The briefing was comprehensive.
Arbalest had established a significant presence in Milishion over the past months,while I had been trapped in the Demon Continent, while Mike had been building from the Central Continent side. Twelve operatives worked full-time in the city.
Another thirty contacts provided information and services on a contract basis.
"We've tracked approximately ninety percent of the Metastasis victims from the Fittoa region," Mira said, producing a folder of documents. "Of those, roughly fifteen percent are confirmed dead."
"The rest have been located, though not all have been contacted."
Ninety percent tracked. Fifteen percent dead.
The numbers settled into my awareness with cold weight. Every percentage point represented people.
Families torn apart. Lives ended or irrevocably altered by an event I had failed to prevent.
"The death rate," I said. "Could we have prevented more..."
"Some." Mira's voice was carefully neutral. "We lacked personnel in the early days. By the time we had resources to deploy, many victims had already succumbed to their circumstances. Monsters, bandits, slavers. The usual dangers for displaced individuals."
"And the ones we saved?"
"Grateful, mostly. Some have joined operations. Others have returned to whatever remains of their former lives." She paused. "Mike has done well, Commander. The organization wouldn't exist in its current form without his efforts."
I nodded. Mike had always been competent.
The months of separation had apparently refined that competence into leadership. The ability to build and direct while I was occupied elsewhere.
"What about Paul Greyrat? Has he been located?"
"In the city, yes. He's been coordinating search efforts independently. His methods are... aggressive."
"That sounds like Paul."
"He's made enemies. Some of them powerful."
Mira's expression shifted slightly, concern, carefully controlled. "There may be complications when you encounter him."
"I'll handle it."
The Arbalest safe house was located in a quiet residential district.
Three floors, modest exterior, unremarkable neighbors. The kind of building that attracted no special attention,which was, of course, the point.
Inside, the atmosphere shifted. Maps covered one wall, pins marking locations across multiple kingdoms.
Stacks of reports filled a table, organized by region and date. Communication equipment,magical and mundane,occupied a corner station.
Mike was waiting.
He looked older. Tired in ways that went deeper than physical exhaustion. The weight of managing an organization had carved new lines into his face, added gray to his hair, changed his posture in subtle ways.
But his eyes were the same. Sharp, calculating. The eyes of someone who had learned to see patterns and possibilities.
"You made it," he said.
"Obviously."
"Obviously." He smiled,the first genuine warmth I had seen since arriving.
"It's good to see you, Claude. The reports are one thing. Having you here is another."
"The organization has grown."
"It had to. The circumstances demanded it."
He gestured toward the map wall. "Three kingdoms with permanent presence now. More pending. Supply lines spanning the continent. Intelligence networks that reach into places I never imagined we'd access." He turned back to me. "All from a handful of dungeon survivors. All from a vision you created." His voice carried pride, or gratitude. "I just filled in the details."
We spent the next hour reviewing operations. The scope of what Arbalest had become was genuinely impressive,transportation networks, information gathering, rescue operations, commercial ventures that funded everything else.
A shadow organization that touched nearly every aspect of regional commerce without anyone noticing its true extent.
"There's something else," Mike said when the operational review concluded. "Something I've been arranging."
"Go on."
"Training. For you specifically."
He produced a letter, sealed with a symbol I didn't recognize. "I've made contact with the Water God."
"Reida Reia. She's agreed to train you."
The Water God. One of the seven great powers.
A master who had lived for decades, who had refined her art beyond anything normal swordsmen could achieve.
"How..." I asked.
"Negotiation. Compensation. And a bit of curiosity on her part." Mike's smile turned slightly smug. "She's heard rumors about you. The young Sword Saint who survived the great Dungeon, the boy who fights like someone three times his age. She wants to see for herself."
"When..."
"Tomorrow. There's a dojo she maintains for private instruction."
"I've arranged an introduction." He paused. "She has a granddaughter, Isolte Cruel. Also a practitioner of the Water God style. They travel together."
A granddaughter. My age, presumably.
Another factor to consider.
Inside me, something stirred with varied reactions.
Something interested pushed forward. A sword master willing to teach. Valuable. Don't waste it.
Association with the Water God provided political cover. Training accelerated skill development. The granddaughter was a variable—complication or opportunity, depending on approach.
And from somewhere deeper, a different sensation stirred. A fragment of memory—a face never seen in this life. Warmth, longing, loss.
I pushed the sensation aside. Whatever it was, it could wait.
"Tomorrow," I agreed. "Arrange the meeting."
◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆ AUTHOR'S NOTE ◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆
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