Chapter 46: The City of Crime

[NARRATOR POV]

The acrid smoke of burning incense mingled with less savory scents as Claude navigated the narrow streets of what was once called the most lawless settlement on the continent. Chains clinked softly in the distance, punctuated by the occasional bark of auctioneers hawking their human wares.

"This place has improved beyond my expectations," Claude observed, his voice carrying a note of genuine surprise as they passed the slave market district.

"Underground A's shadow conquest has brought order to chaos," C replied, matching Claude's measured pace. "Before their influence spread, you'd witness slaves executed in broad daylight for the most trivial infractions."

"I'm aware of the previous conditions," Claude murmured, his words barely audible above the ambient noise of commerce and desperation.

Several weeks had passed since his departure from Rudeus and Paul, each day bringing new intelligence and deeper understanding of the post-Metastasis landscape. During this period, another fragment of his future had crystallized—not through prophetic vision, but through the agonized plea of an alternate self facing imminent death.

The Wailing Point had delivered another dying wish.

"Another premonition, Master Claude?" C asked, noting the subtle tension in his leader's posture.

"No. This time, it's an obligation that must be fulfilled."

C nodded without requiring further explanation. Within Arbalest's inner circle, Claude's identity as a Miko with precognitive abilities had become common knowledge. The revelation that their leader could glimpse potential futures had bolstered the organization's confidence immeasurably—few things inspired loyalty like knowing your commander possessed divine guidance.

Of course, the reality was far more complex and burdensome than they realized.

"Have you established contact with Somar?"

"I believe that won't be necessary, sir," C replied, gesturing toward a cloaked figure ahead who was signaling them with subtle hand gestures from Arbalest's coded communication system.

"The former Buena Village children have developed impressive operational discipline since the Metastasis separated us," Claude noted with something approaching pride.

C suppressed a chuckle at the observation. He would never forget the Spartan conditioning those children—and indeed, all Arbalest members—had endured under Claude's instruction. Even seasoned adults, hardened by years of slavery and abuse, had emerged from Claude's training claiming their previous sufferings felt like gentle massages by comparison.

Yet despite the brutality—or perhaps because of it—not a single trainee had died during the regimen. Claude had pushed them to their absolute limits while ensuring they received proper nutrition and recovery time. The shared ordeal had forged bonds stronger than blood between the survivors, creating an organization unified by mutual respect and hard-earned trust.

"What about Ash?" Claude inquired as they followed their guide through increasingly convoluted back alleys. "The reports indicate he's joined Arbalest with some kind of companion animal."

"He's operating as a courier across multiple continents, sir. We've lost contact temporarily, but he's reliable about checking in according to schedule."

"Good. I'm developing new enchantment items to facilitate long-distance communication. When completed, coordinating our operations will become significantly more efficient."

"I look forward to seeing your innovations, sir."

Their conversation continued as they navigated the labyrinthine route to their destination—a journey that consumed far more time than direct travel would have required.

"This approach seems unnecessarily time-consuming," Claude commented as they rounded yet another corner.

"They're maintaining operational security against potential surveillance, sir."

"Excessive caution can become a liability if it impedes efficiency."

A voice materialized from the shadows behind them with practiced stealth. "Current circumstances necessitate such measures. It's been too long, Claude."

"Two years since our last meeting, Somar," Claude replied without turning, though C startled visibly at the unexpected voice.

The transformation in Somar was remarkable. Gone was the pudgy village boy Claude remembered; in his place stood a lean, hardened young man whose features had sharpened with responsibility and constant vigilance. While not conventionally handsome—perhaps on par with Prince Zanoba—he carried himself with the confidence of someone who had carved out territory in one of the world's most dangerous cities.

As they progressed deeper into the building, Somar provided a tactical briefing on areas still beyond their organization's influence.

"What's preventing you from expanding into those territories?" Claude asked, studying the crude map Somar had sketched.

"World-class opposition."

"I see."

Below the seven Great Powers recognized across the continents, numerous smaller but still formidable forces maintained their own spheres of influence. While lacking the legendary status of figures like the Sword God or Dragon God, these entities remained far beyond what ordinary people could challenge.

"Which specific power are we discussing?"

"Unknown."

C looked confused by the seemingly evasive answer, but Claude nodded in understanding. Somar's rapid ascension to control the criminal underworld of an entire city was already an extraordinary achievement for someone of his background and training. The idea that he could simply continue expanding until he controlled everything was naive at best, suicidal at worst.

Even now, Claude estimated his own capabilities. At full strength, utilizing every weapon, magical technique, trap, and Cloud Style innovation at his disposal, he might match Ruijerd Superdia in single combat. Perhaps.

The Superd warrior could be considered Emperor-level in spearmanship, a rank that transcended the more common classifications most warriors aspired to reach. The gulf between Saint and King rank was already vast; the distance from King to Emperor defied casual measurement.

Claude possessed the potential to eventually reach God-rank mastery, given sufficient time and proper training. But how much time? Years? Decades? And could he ever surpass the legendary Technique God who stood at the absolute pinnacle of martial achievement?

"How long before you can identify this opposing force?"

"I won't be investigating them," Somar replied firmly.

"Why not?" Claude fixed him with an inquiring stare.

"Our mission focuses on protecting and locating Metastasis victims. I'm not ambitious enough to paint a target on our backs by provoking world-class powers. They tolerate my control of the underground because I don't encroach on their interests. Pushing further would be like yanking the tail of a sleeping dragon—I'm not that foolish."

"Wise restraint," Claude acknowledged, recognizing the truth in Somar's assessment.

He refocused on the immediate objective that had brought him to this city.

"Understood. Halt Underground A's territorial expansion and concentrate resources on victim recovery operations. I also need you to locate this individual."

Claude produced a carefully detailed drawing from his jacket and placed it on the table between them.

"Who is she?" Somar asked, studying the portrait of a young woman whose refined features and bearing suggested noble birth.

"Someone I've been contracted to rescue. She hasn't arrived in this city yet, but she will. When that happens, secure her safety immediately."

Claude settled into his chair with the deliberate movement of someone preparing for a more difficult conversation.

"Now," he said, his voice dropping to a quieter register, "tell me about my parents' graves and where I can find them."

The air in the room seemed to thicken as the true purpose of Claude's journey finally emerged. Behind his strategic planning and organizational efficiency lay a son's need to pay his respects to the parents he'd failed to save—a pilgrimage that no amount of alternate timelines' memories could prepare him to face.

Somar's expression softened with understanding as he recognized the weight of grief his old friend carried beneath his composed exterior.

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