[Nightmare POV]

"WAAAAAAAAAAA!"

The scream of anguish echoed through the dank, fetid air of the underground chamber, bouncing off stone walls slick with moisture and things best left unmentioned.

The boy—no, the broken shell of a boy—clutched a tiny, lifeless body to his chest.

Blood soaked through his tattered clothing, some his own from the deep gashes across his torso, some from the small figure he cradled.

The toddler's face, still round with baby fat, was frozen in an expression of confusion rather than fear. Death had come too quickly for the child to understand it.

The surrounding area resembled a slaughterhouse. Viscera splattered across stone floors, crimson handprints smeared along walls, and the sickly-sweet copper scent of blood saturated the air so thickly he could taste it with every ragged breath.

As his wails subsided into choked sobs, the boy rose mechanically, movements stiff and jerky like a poorly operated marionette. With the child's body pressed against his chest, he shuffled through the carnage toward the only clean space in this nightmare—a small alcove set apart from the main chamber.

There, illuminated by wan light filtering through a crack in the ceiling, stood rows of crude tombstones.

Each stone bore crude etchings: a name and a death date. Not one marked a life longer than five years. Dozens of stones, dozens of tiny graves, each representing a failure. His failure.

"I failed... I'm failing again... Ah..." The boy's voice cracked, barely audible now as his bloodshot eyes searched listlessly for his digging tool.

Finding the rusted spade, he began to dig mechanically, each thrust into the earth accompanied by a wince as his wounds pulled open further.

Blood dripped steadily from his body into the growing hole, mixing with the dirt to form a dark mud. Eight meters down he dug, far deeper than necessary for such a small body, as if trying to ensure that the horror of what happened would stay buried with the child.

With trembling hands, he lowered the toddler's corpse into the grave, arranging the tiny limbs with heartbreaking tenderness. For a moment, he paused, searching his empty pockets.

"No flowers this time either," he whispered. "I'm sorry."

He refilled the hole, each shovelful of dirt feeling heavier than the last. When the grave was complete, he didn't bother to fashion another marker. He knew which child this was. He would remember.

Exhausted beyond measure, he collapsed beside the fresh grave. His injuries gaped open, muscle and sinew visible through torn flesh. The boy made no move to tend to them. Perhaps he wished to join the children he had failed to protect.

Blood pooled beneath him, spreading across the previously clean sanctuary, desecrating this final place of peace. The scent, potent and alluring to the denizens of the dungeon, began to draw attention.

First came the scuttling sounds. Then scraping claws. Glowing eyes peered from darkness as creatures sensed weakness and opportunity.

They approached cautiously at first, then with growing boldness as they realized the boy offered no resistance. Teeth sank into flesh. Claws tore at already mangled skin. The boy's eyes remained open, staring upward, a single tear trailing down his temple as his vision dimmed.

His final thought wasn't of pain or fear, but of regret so profound it transcended the boundaries of his fading consciousness.

I couldn't save them. Not even one.

And so ended another iteration of Claude.

[Claude POV]

I woke with a silent scream lodged in my throat, my nightshirt soaked through with sweat. The familiar ceiling of my room in Buena Village came into focus as I fought to control my breathing.

These dreams—no, memories—had become less frequent over the years, but they never lost their vivid intensity. My hands trembled as I pressed them against my face, half-expecting to find blood there.

It's been rare lately, these fragments from other lives. It's been several years since the first memories infiltrated my consciousness, making themselves at home in my mind like uninvited guests who refuse to leave.

Unlike Rudeus, I'm not reincarnated. I didn't die in another world and wake up with full awareness in this one. I'm something the memories call a "Miko"—a convergence point for parallel experiences, collecting fragments from other versions of myself across what I can only describe as a multiverse.

When did I first realize what I was? About two years ago, when I began noticing the incongruities in what I remembered. Impossible contradictions, like recalling watching an anime called "Mushoku Tensei" while simultaneously leading a journal club meeting. I couldn't possibly have done both at once, yet I remembered each with equal clarity.

At first, I thought I was going mad. I was only five when the memories began trickling in, too young to properly process what was happening. After two years of mental sorting, cataloging these foreign recollections, I started to understand the pattern.

I had memories of being a civil servant in a world with skyscrapers and automobiles. Memories of being an anime fan who knew this world as a fictional story. Memories of studying combat techniques that didn't exist in this world. Memories of psychology principles from an academic system that has no equivalent here.

They are mine, but not strictly mine. Like echoes from paths not taken—or rather, paths taken by other versions of me.

From what I can piece together from my fragmented knowledge, a Miko is someone capable of receiving memories from alternate versions of themselves, usually when those alternates face death or extreme trauma. It's as if their consciousnesses seek refuge, and I'm the unfortunate harbor.

What does that mean for me, for this world?

It means there's a multiverse. And in this tapestry of realities, the version I know from the anime—from the memories of one of my alternates—seems to be the "prime" timeline. This world I inhabit is a variation, a branch where events might unfold differently.

But one constant remains across every version of me whose memories I've received: they all died during or after the teleportation incident. Some sooner, some later, but none survived long.

The fastest to perish was the one who had watched Mushoku Tensei, armed with knowledge but not the physical capability to survive. Then the one who knew fighting techniques but lacked magical training. Then the psychologist who understood trauma but couldn't heal bodies.

As days pass, more memories filter in while others fade. I can't hold them all—the human mind wasn't designed for multiple lives' worth of experiences. But one thing remains burned into my soul, etched so deeply that I doubt even death would erase it.

Their regret. Their grief. Their failure.

Across every timeline, every version of me failed to save the people of Buena Village. Every Claude watched children die, families torn apart, lives destroyed. And their collective anguish became a weight I carry, a burden that moves my body even when my mind would rather surrender.

I believe that's why I exist in this form. The power of a Miko manifests from the accumulated regret of my alternates, a cosmic chance to break the cycle. In all other worlds, the teleportation incident was a fixed point, an immutable sacrifice of human lives. But perhaps in this iteration, with the combined knowledge of multiple versions of myself, I can create a divergence.

At least, that's what I tell myself on the good days.

On bad days, when the nightmares are fresh and the memories blur together, I wonder if I'm just delaying the inevitable. If I'm destined to join my alternates in failure, adding another layer of regret to burden some future version of myself.

I dragged myself from bed, splashing cold water on my face from the basin. In the polished metal mirror, dark circles beneath my eyes betrayed my troubled sleep. I looked older than my years, the knowledge of multiple lifetimes weighing on a child's frame.

Time for the morning routine. No matter how exhausted I feel, the training must continue. We have so little time left.

"Move! Move those bodies!" I shouted, clapping my hands as a group of toddlers scrambled across the village green.

What looked like innocent play—children chasing each other through the dewy morning grass—was actually calculated training. Tag builds endurance, improves reflexes, teaches pursuit and evasion tactics. For children too young to hold weapons, learning to run—and run well—might mean the difference between life and death when the displacement happens.

While the youngest played their "games," I turned my attention to the older children. These ones, closer to my age and some even older, required a different approach.

"Is that all you've got, Philip?" I taunted, easily sidestepping his wild swing. "My grandmother could hit harder, and she's been dead for years!"

The boy's face flushed crimson with rage and embarrassment. Good. Anger makes for sloppy technique, but it builds determination. And determination keeps you alive when skill fails.

I continued dodging his increasingly desperate attacks, allowing one to graze my shoulder just closely enough to make him believe he was improving. His eyes lit up with newfound confidence.

This was my method—push them to their limits, humiliate them just enough to spark defiance, then give them a taste of progress to keep them coming back. For those who refused to engage, who tried to avoid my challenges? They learned quickly that there was no hiding in Buena Village. I would find them, drag them into the open, and force them to fight back or suffer worse consequences.

Some might call it bullying. Perhaps it was. But when I close my eyes and see those tiny graves from my nightmare, I know that a few hurt feelings now pale in comparison to what awaits the unprepared.

Besides, I made sure the parents turned a blind eye. A few enchanted tools here, some specially crafted trinkets there... small bribes to purchase their silence. Most understood on some level that their children were growing stronger, more capable. They might not know why, but they appreciated the results.

One month. That's all the time I had left to prepare these children.

I couldn't make them warriors—not fully, not in the time remaining. But I could ensure that every child over seven could at least fend off a goblin. The younger ones needed to run fast and far without tiring. Even these small advantages might tip the scales of survival in their favor.

As Philip finally collapsed in exhaustion, I helped him to his feet with a rare smile.

"Better," I admitted, the closest thing to praise I ever offered. "Tomorrow, we'll work on your footwork."

His panting transformed into a weak grin, and I felt the familiar twist of guilt in my stomach. These children looked up to me now, in their strange way. They hated and admired me in equal measure, never suspecting that my cruelty masked desperation.

Would any of my efforts matter? Could I change what every other version of me had failed to prevent?

Between training sessions, I worked tirelessly at my forge. Each dagger I crafted received increasingly complex enchantments as my skill improved. Protection against rust. Edges that retained sharpness longer. Subtle weight adjustments to improve balance. Nothing flashy or obviously magical—such things would only make the weapons targets for theft—but practical enhancements that might give their bearers precious seconds of advantage.

I distributed these weapons to the older children, teaching them basic maintenance and proper grips. Some parents objected to their children carrying blades, but I silenced their concerns with more bribes and half-truths about "ceremonial importance" and "coming-of-age traditions" I'd invented wholesale.

More important than physical training or weapons was instilling the right mindset. Caution. Suspicion. A healthy distrust of strangers that might save their lives when displaced to unknown lands.

"Never accept help without looking for the trap," I lectured them during one training session. "Every gift has a price. Every smile hides teeth."

To test their vigilance, I developed rudimentary disguise spells. I would approach them in different forms—a traveling merchant, a lost pilgrim, a wounded soldier—offering sweets or toys in exchange for "small favors." Those who fell for my ruses received painful (but educational) lessons. Those who recognized me despite my disguises earned rare praise and extra training.

Harsh methods for children so young, but necessity rarely accommodates innocence.

As I watched them train that morning, sweat soaking through their simple clothes, determination hardening their once-soft features, I felt that familiar mixture of pride and sorrow. They were becoming stronger. But would it be enough?

I hope so, I thought, feeling the weight of countless other Claudes' regrets pressing down on me. I truly hope so.

[Narrator POV]

"...I hope my letter arrived safely, and please take care of Mother, Lilia, Aisha, and Norn too... Paul, you better take care of my little sisters well, or I will smack you in the head! Yours truly, Rudeus."

Claude finished reading the letter with a flourish, a mischievous gleam in his eyes as he watched Paul's reaction.

"Hey, I didn't read the last part before!" Paul protested, reaching for the parchment with an annoyed expression that barely concealed his amusement.

The Greyrat family's living room was warm and cozy that evening, illuminated by several oil lamps that cast a golden glow across the gathered faces.

Zenith sat in her favorite chair by the window, her delicate fingers working methodically at a piece of embroidery. Lilia stood nearby, little Aisha balanced on her hip while Norn played quietly with wooden blocks on the floor.

The scene was one of domestic tranquility—a stark contrast to the anxiety that had been gnawing at Claude's insides for months.

cut - continued in the next chapter

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