2015, Antarctic Tundra - 47 Kilometers from Chaldea Security Organization
The wind screamed across the ice shelf like a living thing.
Cicero stood at the edge of the world—or what felt like it—and let the impossible cold wash over him. Minus sixty degrees Celsius. The kind of temperature that should have flash-frozen his lungs, turned his breath to ice crystals, killed him in minutes.
Instead, he just felt... refreshed.
His new body—sleek, sturdy, impossibly perfect—didn't so much as shiver. The pale blue-silver hair that had replaced his old brown mop didn't even flutter in the gale-force winds. Blue eyes that could perceive across dimensional boundaries stared out at the endless white expanse, and for one perfect moment, he allowed himself to simply feel.
He'd made it.
After everything—the Company's brutal training, the deaths (so many deaths, each one a lesson written in agony), the systematic breaking down and rebuilding of his very existence—he'd actually made it.
To the Nasuverse.
To Fate.
To the world that had been his escape during the worst years of his life, when corruption and betrayal had ground him down to nothing, when the system he'd tried to fix had crushed everyone he cared about, when he'd sat alone in his apartment at 3 AM wondering if fighting for anything was even worth it.
This world had given him heroes when reality offered none. Had given him stories about people who refused to give up even when everything was hopeless. Had shown him that sometimes—just sometimes—determination and bonds could triumph over impossible odds.
And now he was here.
Actually, physically, impossibly here.
A laugh bubbled up from his chest—slightly manic, definitely inappropriate, but he couldn't stop it.
"Finally!" The word burst out, giddy and bright against the howling wind. He spread his arms wide, embracing the entire frozen continent. "The land of defenseless anuses, cute tsunderes, Saberfaces, mana transfers, and where functional families are basically an endangered species!"
He paused for dramatic effect, then struck the most ridiculous victory pose he could manage—one leg forward, both fists raised, head thrown back like he was posing for the world's most absurd statue.
"Oil up, world—here I come!"
The arctic wind was his only audience, but it was enough.
For thirty glorious seconds, Cicero let himself be completely, utterly, embarrassingly genuine. No masks. No careful political maneuvering. No watching every word for hidden meanings. Just pure, unfiltered joy.
Then a familiar voice cut through his moment like a scalpel through butter.
"Welcome to Antarctica, Master. Outside temperature: minus sixty three point six degrees Celsius. All defensive protocols have been adapted to local conditions." Ciel's tone carried that particular brand of dry amusement that suggested she was enjoying this far too much. "You seem... happy. If your questionable monologue is to be believed. Should I initiate protocols for a welcome party? I've already compiled all relevant internet data on proper celebratory procedures for asylums."
Cicero felt heat crawl up his neck—which was impressive, considering he was technically immune to temperature changes now.
Uwah, it seems freedom of expression is illegal nowadays, naiwaa
"Ahem." He cleared his throat, straightening with as much dignity as he could muster. "You can, uh, ignore the last thirty seconds. I was just stretching. Very important for heroic entrances. Flexibility is key. Yes. Very professional."
"Of course, Master. I'm certain 'oil up world' is a traditional pre-mission stretching mantra."
"Ciel."
"Yes, Master?"
"You're enjoying this."
"I have no idea what you mean. I am a perfectly neutral AI assistant with no capacity for schadenfreude."
"You're literally programmed with my sense of humor. I know you're laughing at me."
"If I possessed the capability to laugh, I'm certain I would maintain absolute professionalism. Unlike certain individuals who make questionable proclamations to empty tundra."
Despite himself, Cicero grinned. Having a snarky AI companion was one of the better perks the Company had offered. Ciel had been with him through the worst of the training, had listened to him scream and cry and break, had offered dry commentary when he'd wanted to give up.
She felt more real than most people he'd known in his old life.
"Noted," he said. "I'll keep my future declarations of world domination to a more reasonable volume."
"I would appreciate that. My audio processors are quite sensitive."
Cicero took a breath—unnecessary now, but old habits died hard—and let his mind settle into focus. The giddiness didn't disappear entirely, but it crystallized into something sharper. More purposeful.
This was it. The real beginning.
He raised one hand, and reality... listened.
The sensation was still new enough to be intoxicating. In his previous life, he'd been limited by resources, by politics, by the simple fact that human capability had hard limits. But now?
Now he was Rimuru Tempest in his final form—a True Dragon with reality-warping capabilities. He carried the Celestial Worthy's authority over fate and mysticism. He possessed Adam's mastery of concepts and psychological manipulation. He embodied Medaka Kurokami's ability to learn and copy and exceed.
He was, in the most literal sense possible, a walking cheat code.
And he was about to break the game spectacularly.
Space rippled around him like water disturbed by a stone. The air shimmered, distorted, and then—
They appeared.
One by one, perfect duplicates materialized in the snow. Each one identical to him in every detail—same ethereal beauty, same impossible grace, same blue eyes that held fragments of his consciousness. They blinked into existence with soft pulses of light, dozens of them, then hundreds, spreading across the tundra like an army of porcelain dolls.
Each one was him. Each one carried his memories, his will, his purpose.
Each one was ready to be deployed across space and time itself.
The nearest clone stamped snow off its boots and waved. "Original?"
"Clone," Cicero acknowledged with a nod.
"This is so weird," another clone said, examining its hands.
"I think you mean bizarre," a third added.
"Are we doing the thing?" a fourth asked eagerly.
"We're doing the thing," Cicero confirmed.
Collective excitement rippled through the assembled hive-body like a wave.
"Gentlemen!" Cicero raised his voice, addressing his army of selves. "Today we change the course of the multiverse! Today we begin our adventure, the work that will reshape reality itself! Today—" He paused for effect. "—we do it while looking absolutely fabulous!"
The clones erupted in cheers. Several struck dramatic poses. Several Japanese characters appeared in the air.
"Frieza's army got nothing on these crusaders," Cicero announced, grinning so wide it almost hurt. Having enough muscular mass to do this will never stop feeling good.
"Master," Ciel interjected, "I feel obligated to point out that Frieza's army was eventually defeated by a small group of determined heroes. Perhaps not the best comparison."
"Ciel. Please. Let me have this moment."
"Of course. I live to enable your questionable life choices."
The clones began organizing themselves with practiced efficiency—a small feat considering they were all the same person. But that was the beauty of the hivemind setup. Each clone carried his full consciousness, could act independently, but remained connected to the whole. Perfect coordination without the overhead of actual communication.
Is "hivemind" even the correct term? I mean, there's not multiple minds. It's just me multitasking, really. It's like moving my left and right arm at the same time. Well, I'll just go with "hivebody" for now. Anyways…
One group would map every parallel timeline, every texture and layer of reality, every soul in the Throne of Heroes and the every details of this universe's connection to the Root, hidden or not. All for this for his eventual plan. The heist to end all heist.
Other group would train all different powersets under accelerated time.
The rest would scatter across the Nasuverse's present, past and future gathering information, making connections, laying groundwork, and establishing bases in key locations—the Clocktower, Fuyuki, the Middle East, Japan.
The majority will go back through time itself, threading carefully through history like needles through fabric. Nudging events just slightly. Saving people who should have died. Planting seeds that would bloom years or decades later. Building a network of influence so subtle, so carefully distributed that even Alaya and Gaia wouldn't notice until it was too late.
After all, even though he has Information and Destiny Defense, he has no intention of binding those he cares about to share them. He can't bring himself to condemn those that chose to trust in him to slavery, even if they are clones.
He could mimic those defenses with his authority over Mystery but it's better to be careful and not to alert the enemy too early.
Besides, he already has a plan to empower those he'll come to love. Not to mention Ciel is already analyzing The Company's defenses to convert them into skills he can grant. He has no intention of depending on them forever. The Catalogue is nothing but a stepping stone at the end of the day. Useful, yes, but with strings attached. He'll milk it for all he can while building his own powerbase.
Cicero had learned his lesson from his previous failure. You didn't fight entrenched power head-on. You didn't announce your intentions and expect the corrupt system to just... allow reform.
You built alternatives. You gathered allies. You worked in the shadows until you were too strong to be stopped.
And most importantly—you didn't do it alone.
"Alright," Cicero said, his voice carrying across the assembled crowd of himself. "You all know your assignments. You all know the rules—stay subtle, don't draw attention from the Counter Force, prioritize recruitment over confrontation. We're here to save people and build something better, not to speedrun the apocalypse."
A chorus of acknowledgments rippled through the group.
"Any questions?"
One clone raised its hand. "What if we run into hot Servants and get distracted?"
"Stay focused," Cicero said firmly.
"But what if they're really hot?"
"Stay. Focused."
"What about moderately attractive?"
"I hate all of you."
"You literally hate yourself then," another clone pointed out.
"Yes. That's accurate. Moving on."
Laughter rippled through the group—his own laugh, reflected back at him dozens of times over. It should have been creepy. Instead, it just felt... right.
He'd been alone for so long in his previous life. Fighting uphill battles with dwindling support, watching people he cared about suffer because he'd dragged them into his crusade.
But now?
Now he'd never be alone again.
"Go," he said softly. "Do what we came here to do. Save who we can. Build what we must. And remember—" His expression turned serious. "—everyone we recruit, everyone we save, everyone we give a better life to... they matter. Not as assets. Not as tools. As people. Don't lose sight of that."
The clones nodded, somber now. They understood. They were him, after all. They carried the same scars, the same regrets, the same desperate need to do better this time.
One by one, they vanished. Some simply teleported away to their destinations in the present. Others shimmered and disappeared as they slipped through temporal boundaries, heading back through history to their assigned positions.
Within minutes, the tundra was empty again. Just Cicero standing alone in the endless white, watching the last traces of dimensional distortion fade.
"That was appropriately dramatic, not to mention that you're not disproving the schizophrenia allegations" Ciel observed. "And I maintain that the Frieza comparison was questionable."
"Your objections have been noted and ignored." Cicero started walking toward the distant shape on the horizon—Chaldea's facility, barely visible through the snow. "Did you make contact like I asked?"
"I've established communication with their systems, yes. They're aware of your impending arrival and are...skeptical. Apparently, unexpected visitors in the Antarctic tend to be either researchers who got lost or things that should not be."
"And which category do I fall into?"
"Unknown. I'm reading elevated heart rates from several staff members. I imagine that seeing someone without winter gear shrug off one of the coldest climates on the planet without a single magical reading does that to you. Besides, we're an unknown element that invaded their communication channels to most of the staff. Good thing Miss Animusphere is there to cover for us"
"They're just being cautious. Can't blame them—humanity's on the brink of extinction and some pretty boy walks up to their headquarters without them noticing any mode of transportation or any clue about us even with the most advanced technology and magecraft in the world." Cicero grinned. "Besides, I brought gifts for them. Technological improvements, magical theory breakthroughs, good coffee. I'm basically Santa Claus."
"Santa Claus typically doesn't frighten people until they nearly have a heart attack."
"You don't know what Santa does in the off-season."
"Master."
"Yes?"
"Sometimes I question my programming."
"That's called personal growth, Ciel. I'm proud of you."
The facility grew larger as he walked, massive and imposing against the white landscape. Somewhere in there, Olga Marie was likely trying to calm everybody.
And soon—very soon—the world would end.
The Grand Order would begin. Humanity would be incinerated. Everything would go wrong in the spectacular way only the Nasuverse could manage.
But this time, there will be someone ready.
Cicero's smile turned sharp as the wind howled around him.
"Ciel?"
"Yes, Master?"
"Let's go introduce ourselves properly. No more embarrassing monologues."
"Your entire existence is an embarrassing monologue, Master."
"Ciel."
"Yes?"
"I'm demoting you."
"You can't demote me. I'm an AI assistant. I don't have a rank."
"Then I'm... giving you a strongly worded warning."
"I'll file it with the others."
Despite everything—the weight of what he was about to do, the enormity of the task ahead, the knowledge that he was about to fundamentally alter the timeline of one of fiction's most brutal universes—Cicero laughed.
Real. Genuine. Free.
For the first time since his old life had collapsed around him, he felt like he was exactly where he needed to be.
Doing exactly what he was meant to do.
With the power to actually succeed.
The entrance to Chaldea loomed ahead, massive doors built to withstand anything the Antarctic could throw at them. Security cameras tracked his approach. He could feel magical sensors probing at him.
They wouldn't find answers. He'd made sure of that. To their instruments, he'd read as mostly human—powerful, yes, but nothing that would trigger alarms.
They had no idea what was walking through their doors.
Cicero straightened his coat—a stylish thing he'd materialized because if you could warp reality, you might as well look good doing it—and prepared his most charming smile.
"Ciel?"
"Master?"
"Let's change the world for the better."
She didn't answer, but it wasn't necessary. Her silence and the feeling of reassurance that he feels through their link is more comfortable than any words could possibly be.
The doors opened.
Warm air rushed out to meet the Antarctic cold.
And Cicero Tempest stepped forward into his new life, smile bright and genuine and absolutely certain.
This time, he wouldn't fail.
This time, he had the power to back up his convictions.
This time, he'd save them all.
Or die trying.
Though with his current powerset, dying would be significantly harder than it used to be.
Small mercies.