This was my moment. I drew in a breath and spoke with all the earnest determination I could muster, knowing that everything depended on this request.

"Can you teach me swords?"

The directness of my request clearly surprised him. Paul's eyes widened slightly, and I could see him reassessing me, trying to figure out what kind of child would make such a bold request.

"Why?" The question was simple, but I could hear the genuine curiosity behind it.

"Because I know I will need to know them," I said, and something in my voice made him take notice. "I couldn't do anything to help when your son confronted us yesterday. I was weak, and weakness helps no one."

It wasn't the complete truth, but it wasn't a lie either. I had been weak in that moment—weak with confusion and the overwhelming flood of memories. But more than that, there was something driving me, an urgency I couldn't fully explain.

Paul studied me for a long moment, his eyes searching my face for something I wasn't sure I understood. Finally, he spoke.

"You want to take revenge? Against my son?"

The question caught me off guard with its bluntness. I could see his hand drift instinctively toward his sword hilt, the protective father emerging despite his casual demeanor.

I decided to take a calculated risk, sensing somehow that Paul appreciated boldness over deception.

"Yep, can you help me do it?"

The absurdity of my small frame threatening his prodigy son hung in the air between us. For a moment, I thought I had miscalculated, that he would be offended by my presumption. Then his mouth fell open slightly, and I realized he was more dumbfounded than angry.

A heartbeat later, he threw back his head and laughed—a rich, genuine sound that echoed off the nearby houses. He pounded my back with enough force to make me stagger, though I could tell he was holding back his true strength.

"Sure, I'll teach you till you can beat Rudy! I don't expect you to do it, though, since my son is a genius," Paul said, his voice rich with smugness and paternal pride.

Perfect. He had taken the bait exactly as I had hoped. Now came the dangerous part—something was telling me I needed to say more, to plant ideas that might matter later.

"Look at you, showing off about your son," I said with a playful roll of my eyes. "But everyone says you're mean to Rudeus 'cause you don't get his magic stuff."

The words hit their mark. Paul's expression shifted, becoming more serious as he considered what I had said. Something about his reaction told me this mattered more than I understood.

"What do you mean by that?" he asked, his tone carefully neutral.

I shrugged, trying to look like any kid repeating village gossip. "People talk, you know? They say you want him to be like you with swords and stuff, but he's better at magic. Mom says that's like trying to make a fish climb a tree."

Paul was quiet for a long moment, processing what I had said. Finally, he nodded slowly.

"You're sharper than most kids your age, Claude. Alright, I'll teach you. But if you're serious about learning swordplay, you need to understand that it's not a game. Training will be hard, and I won't go easy on you just because you're young."

"I understand," I said, and meant it. Something deep inside me whispered that I would need every advantage I could get, though I didn't understand why.

"Good. We'll start tomorrow at dawn. Meet me at the training ground behind my house, and don't be late. Oh, and Claude?" He fixed me with a serious look. "If you're really doing this to get revenge on Rudeus, you'll be disappointed. My son is special—more special than you can imagine. But if you're doing it to become stronger, to protect people instead of hurting them, then maybe you'll surprise me."

As I walked home that evening, the setting sun painting the village in shades of gold and crimson, I reflected on what I had accomplished. The first step in my plan had succeeded, but it was only the beginning. I had secured training from one of the best swordsmen in the region, planted seeds that might prevent future conflicts, and begun the long process of becoming someone capable of changing fate itself.

But the memories continued to swirl in my mind like leaves in a whirlwind—fragments of lives I might have lived, possibilities that felt more real than reality itself.

That night, as I lay in my narrow bed listening to the sounds of the village settling into sleep, the nightmares began in earnest. I saw fields of blood and ash, heard the screams of the dying, felt the weight of failure crushing down on me like a physical burden.

I saw Vorpal Rabbits closing in, their crimson eyes reflecting my terror as teeth tore flesh from bone. I felt the Ancient Troll's massive fist descending, crushing the breath from my lungs as flames flickered uselessly around my broken body. I heard children calling my name as darkness claimed them, their voices growing fainter with each repetition until only silence remained.

I saw the village consumed by light, saw faces I loved twisted in agony, saw myself standing helpless as everything burned. Over and over, the same failures, the same deaths, the same crushing weight of being too weak when it mattered most.

I woke with tears on my cheeks and my parents hovering over me, concern etched deep in their weathered faces. They couldn't understand what was happening to me, but they held me until the shaking stopped and whispered prayers to gods whose names I couldn't remember.

"Which one is the real me?" I whispered into the darkness, but there was no answer.

Only the weight of knowledge I shouldn't possess, the phantom pain of deaths I'd never experienced, and the growing certainty that I would need every fragment of memory, every scrap of impossible understanding, if there was any hope of saving the people I loved from the disasters I could see approaching like storm clouds on the horizon.

This is something that I would know in the future, but today...

A Miko had been born—not in the traditional sense of a shrine maiden, but in the ancient, forgotten meaning of the word. A vessel of memory, a bridge between what was and what could be. A seer of things unseen, carrying the burden of knowledge across the boundaries of time and possibility.

The water that had struck my forehead had been more than simple magic. It had been a catalyst, awakening something that had slumbered in my bloodline for generations untold. The convergence of mana and moment had shattered the barriers between parallel possibilities, allowing memories from other versions of myself to bleed through into my consciousness.

I was not a reincarnator in any traditional sense. I was something else entirely—something both more and less than a soul reborn. I was a nexus point where multiple streams of possibility converged, carrying within my small frame the weight of countless deaths, endless failures, and the desperate hope that this time—this time—I could change everything.

The village of Buena slept peacefully around me, unaware that their fate now rested in the hands of a six-year-old boy who carried the memories of futures that must never come to pass. Tomorrow would bring the beginning of my training, the first step on a path that would either lead to salvation or to a failure even more complete than the ones I remembered with agonizing clarity.

But tonight, I could only lie in darkness and wonder which version of myself would prove strong enough when the moment of truth finally arrived. The memories whispered their secrets in the space between sleeping and waking, and I listened with the desperate attention of someone who knew that every fragment of pain, every echo of death, might be the key to preventing a catastrophe that had already happened in worlds that must never be.

Time would tell which Claude would emerge from the convergence of possibility—the viewer, the survivor, or the child. But whatever the answer, I would be ready.

I had to be.

The alternative was unthinkable.

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