[Claude POV]
I watched as Geese sneaked around, distracting the Holy Beast's guard with practiced movements. The dog's alertness faltered under his expert misdirection.
I could have warned the creature, perhaps, but what would be the point? My task was clear—extract the material I needed and move on. The dog wasn't my concern.
The dungeons weighed on my mind as I worked the forge. The heat billowed against my face, sparks dancing in my peripheral vision each time hammer met metal.
The rhythmic clanging echoed through the smithy, a stark contrast to the whispers of memory fragments that never truly left me.
Down in those dungeons, smithing had been a struggle without proper tools. I'd been forced to improvise, gathering discarded scraps to craft makeshift weapons against the poisonous creatures that stalked the shadows.
Every encounter had been a desperate calculation—attack patterns observed, weaknesses exploited, all while battling the disorientation of conflicting memories.
Kuro's memories proved especially useful in those moments. A fragment from one of my parallel selves who had perished there. His death played vividly in my mind—too vividly. Every floor I descended in that dungeon triggered another piece of his final moments, the memory washing over me with such clarity that I could taste the copper of his blood, feel the burning of poison in veins that weren't truly mine.
The memory brought a chill despite the forge's heat. I wiped sweat from my brow with the back of my hand, leaving a streak of soot across my skin.
I've taken to keeping a diary lately, attempting to arrange the jumbled memories crowding my consciousness. The pages filled quickly with notes distinguishing this Claude's experiences from the fragments of others.
Unlike some protagonists in stories I recalled from across my convergent memories, I possessed no overwhelming advantage. This wasn't like Rudeus with his reincarnation advantage—I had no Laplace factor to magnify my mana capacity or accelerate my learning. I'd started training my magic abilities far too late.
Yet the memories themselves were valuable in their own way. The academic knowledge from my non-NEET alternates had proven particularly useful—physics principles applied to magic theory, mathematical precision in enchantment formulae.
A discordant clang interrupted my thoughts. One of my disciples presented his work—a misshapen lump of metal that barely resembled a blade.
"What kind of shit is this?" I growled, gesturing at the unidentifiable craft. "Do it over."
Teaching these beastmen the art of smithing was tedious, but it served a purpose. Each mistake they made was an opportunity to evaluate my own knowledge, to consolidate the fragments into something cohesive I could pass on.
The task anchored me to the present, stopping me from drifting too deeply into memories that weren't entirely mine.
Without my realizing it, lost in the routine of hammer and anvil, the rainy season had come to an end.
The sword felt alive in my grip, its edge gleaming with the faint blue light of my mana. I circled Ruijerd cautiously, my eyes enhanced with magic to track his movements.
Despite his relaxed stance, I knew better than to underestimate a Superd warrior.
I attacked from every angle I could conceive, pushing my limits. Each time he countered with frustrating ease, I immediately followed with a spell, testing different combinations of sword and magic.
"Your way of attacking is too predictable," Ruijerd observed, deflecting another strike. "Try a different angle."
From the corner of my eye, I caught Eris pummeling Rudeus into the dirt. The red-haired girl's savage training methods hadn't changed—a memory fragment from another timeline confirmed it, though there something felt different about this version of her. The dissonance made my head throb momentarily.
Eris suddenly turned toward us, her gaze heated and intent. She breathed heavily, a smug look crossing her face as she watched our exchange. Understanding her desire, Ruijerd stepped back from our spar.
"Your turn," he said simply, giving Eris the stage.
He didn't join her in attacking me but took position at the edge of our impromptu training ground, calling out instructions as we fought.
Now facing Eris, I began to understand Ruijerd's critique of my technique. My attacks were too direct—efficient for killing, perhaps, but lacking the adaptability needed against superior opponents.
My style resembled the Sword God technique: overwhelming force and continuous assault without properly reading the opponent's rhythm.
It was, I realized with some irony, exactly how Eris was attacking me now.
I shifted tactics, drawing on Water God style techniques to redirect her momentum. Flow—the principle came to me from a fragment of memory I couldn't quite place.
I diverted her attacks instead of meeting them head-on, searching for the perfect counter.
Different opponents required different approaches. A memory surfaced—not mine originally, but now part of my fractured collection—of beast warriors utilizing their innate magic.
"ROAR!" The sound tore from my throat, amplified by mana channeled through beast magic.
The sonic attack stunned Eris momentarily—long enough to end our spar with my victory. Her face contorted in frustration as she gripped her training sword tightly.
"I won't lose in our next bout!" she declared, eyes flashing with determination.
Rudeus stood nearby, shaking his head as if relieved to be momentarily forgotten. His respite was short-lived.
"Come on, Rudeus," I called, gesturing with my blade. "You're next."
The beating I gave him was methodical—painful enough to teach, controlled enough not to break. Something inside me winced at his bruises, while another part calculated exactly how much pressure to apply. The dissonance between compassion and cruelty was a familiar sensation.
After besting the beastman warrior and fighting Gustav to a standstill, I made my way to the smithy.
The rhythmic clanging of hammers and the orange glow of the forges greeted me before I'd even entered the building. The air hung heavy with the scent of hot metal and coal smoke.
The beastmen apprentices had improved considerably. I'd discovered that while they might lack combat discipline, their natural dexterity exceeded even that of dwarven smiths.
What they needed was proper direction.
These rejects—as others called them—possessed the keen eye that every craftsman desired. Their problems stemmed more from attitude than aptitude.
They tended toward hyperbole and arrogance, traits that needed careful management.
Properly channeled, that arrogance could become pride in craftsmanship—the drive to improve when they recognized their own shortcomings.
I fostered competition among them, knowing that Arbalest would benefit from additional skilled hands. My weapons cache needed replenishing, and I couldn't do all the work myself, especially with the uncertain future ahead.
Watching them work with renewed purpose brought an unexpected satisfaction. Their quirks, however, remained baffling.
"Master Claude, where's your whip?" one asked, eyes gleaming with disturbing enthusiasm. "Do you need me to make you one?"
I'd never held a whip in my life—at least not in this timeline. A fragment of memory contradicted me, then another.
I pushed the conflicting images aside, focusing on the present.
What kind of masochistic tendencies had these craftsmen developed? When I'd complained about this bizarre behavior to Gustav, he'd merely shrugged and changed the subject, clearly as uncomfortable as I was.
"Damn it, shut yer trap and go working now!" I shouted, retreating to my workstation.
As they bellowed the furnace and handed me tools, I was reminded of that strange monster tamer I'd encountered weeks ago—another memory that felt both mine and not mine simultaneously.
While hammering iron into shape, I explained the process to them. Something in their eager expressions made me uneasy—a glint in their eyes that suggested they were entertaining thoughts I wanted no part of.
I hurled the completed sword toward one particularly creepy onlooker, fixing him with my deadliest glare.
His expression of overjoyed terror told me everything I needed to know about my teaching methods.
I sighed deeply and continued the lesson, wondering when exactly I'd become this person—before remembering that in some sense, I had always been many people.
The weight of converged memories pressed against my skull as I returned to the familiar rhythm of the hammer.
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