Breaking the Multiverse for You

Inside in the Mage's tent, the Rowdy Barracks was in full swing. Claude and Garrick were arm-wrestling for the third time, surrounded by cheering soldiers. Edran was passionately lecturing anyone who would listen about the rarity of Mage Tower mead, his words slurred but earnest.

Edran: "Do you fools even understand? This isn't just mead—it's an experience! You're drinking history, distilled by the finest mages of the imperial capital!"

Claude (mock whispering to Garrick): "I think he's had too much of that experience."

The soldiers burst into laughter, raising their mugs in toast.

Micheal slipped back into the fray, his earlier hesitations forgotten. Grabbing a mug of mead, he downed it with a grin, joining the soldiers' raucous cheers.

Claude was the first to notice Micheal's return, his sharp eyes catching the envelope tucked into Micheal's tunic.

Claude (grinning): "Look who's back! So, Prince, what did the royal letter say?"

Micheal's ears turned red as he shook his head, waving them off.

Micheal: "It's not a royal letter—it's official Mage Tower business."

Claude (mockingly): "Important matters, huh? What is it, a note about your unpaid mana bill?"

Garrick leaned over with a mischievous grin.

Garrick: "Official business, huh? Does official business usually make you look like you've been kissed by the sun?"

Micheal glared at them, but his earlier annoyance had faded. The warmth from Magda's letter lingered, and for once, he didn't mind their teasing.

Claude (nudging Garrick): "He's not denying it. Definitely a love letter."

Micheal (grumbling): "It's not a love letter!"

Edran, overhearing the commotion, slammed his mug onto the table.

Edran: "Enough about letters! Do you fools even realize the privilege of drinking Mage Tower mead? This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and you're squandering it with your nonsense!"

Claude (deadpan): "If it's so rare, maybe we should stop drinking it."

Edran (horrified): "Blasphemy!"

The barracks erupted into laughter as Edran launched into another passionate tirade. Micheal, finally letting himself relax, joined in the laughter. The camaraderie of the Rowdy Barracks felt different now—more like a family. And for the first time, Micheal allowed himself to truly enjoy it.

Location: Selb army camp

Back in the Shelb camp, with Duke Louis away on his impromptu "inspection" of the Armond military camp, Adrian von Shelb had been left in charge of the Shelb estate barracks. A dubious decision, as many of the soldiers had already started missing the Duke's strict, no-nonsense demeanor—and even Ethan's cold, discipline-driven leadership.

Soldier 1 (grumbling):

"Say what you want about the Duke, at least he didn't make us chant about naps."

Soldier 2 (nodding):

"And Ethan? He'd have us running laps till our legs gave out. I kind of miss it. This feels… unsettling."

Unsettling, perhaps, because Adrian's version of barracks leadership involved not grueling drills or strict inspections, but a dazzling array of brightly colored motivational banners now fluttering in the training yard.

The largest banner, stretched above the mess hall, boldly proclaimed:

"Rested Soldiers, Bested Foes."

Another banner, dangling unevenly over the weapon racks, read:

"Axes Down, Thumbs Up."

And the pièce de résistance, hung with great ceremony from the barracks tower:

"Fighting's Great, But So Are Snacks."

Adrian stood in the middle of the yard, hands on his hips, beaming with pride. His messy stack of notes and sketches was clutched in one hand, and his hair was slightly tousled as though he'd been hard at work crafting artistic brilliance.

Adrian (nodding to himself):

"This… this is genius. Morale is bound to soar. Soldiers fight harder when they feel appreciated!"

Beside him, Harry, his long-suffering assistant, looked ready to throw himself into the nearest weapons rack. Clipboard in hand, he squinted at the slogans with a look of disbelief.

Harry (muttering):

"Morale soaring. Discipline plummeting. And my sanity is somewhere in the middle."

The soldiers, returning from a morning of light drills, stopped short at the sight of the banners. The yard buzzed with confusion, a mix of snickers, muttered curses, and wide-eyed disbelief.

Soldier 3 (reading aloud):

"'Rested Soldiers, Bested Foes'? What's next? A nap tent during battle?"

Soldier 4 (laughing):

"I wouldn't mind one. Let's be honest, naps are underappreciated."

A veteran soldier, one of the Duke's old guard, approached Adrian with the slow, deliberate gait of a man trying to reason with a storm.

Veteran (sternly):

"Permission to speak freely, Young Master?"

Adrian (grinning):

"Permission granted! Always happy to hear feedback from the troops."

Veteran (pointing at the banners):

"With all due respect… what is this?"

Adrian (gesturing dramatically):

"Innovation! Soldiers are more than fighters—they're people. People need to feel good to fight good. And what feels better than a little inspiration?"

The veteran stared at him, unimpressed.

Veteran:

"I'm inspired to retire early."

Adrian, completely oblivious to the growing unease, turned to Harry with an excited grin.

Adrian:

"See? It's working already. They're engaging! Harry, let's print the next batch. I've got some real gems lined up: 'Run Fast, Eat Last' and 'The Early Bird Dodges the Arrow.'"

Harry (sighing):

"Sir, have you considered the possibility that they might be engaging… ironically?"

Adrian waved him off, his enthusiasm undeterred.

Adrian:

"Nonsense! Great art stirs the soul—and sometimes confuses it. That's how you know it's working."

Meanwhile, a soldier climbed a tree to take down the "Axes Down, Thumbs Up" banner, muttering to himself.

Soldier 5:

"If Ethan were here, he'd have me running laps for even touching this thing. Honestly, I kind of miss that."

Another group huddled under the "Snacks" banner, debating its deeper meaning.

Soldier 6 (thoughtfully):

"Do you think it's literal? Like, should we carry snacks into battle?"

Soldier 7:

"If we did, I'd fight harder. Just saying."

Despite the soldiers' mixed reactions, Adrian stood proud, his arms crossed as he surveyed the yard.

Adrian (to Harry):

"You'll see. Soon they'll be rallying under these banners like they're holy relics!"

Harry (under his breath):

"Holy relics, sure. Holy disasters, more likely."

Back in the yard, bets had already started.

Veteran (grinning):

"Five crowns says 'Fighting's Great, But So Are Snacks' is gone by sunrise."

Soldier 8:

"Deal. But 'Axes Down, Thumbs Up'? That one's staying. Too ridiculous to get rid of."

Adrian overheard the banter and clapped his hands, drawing everyone's attention.

Adrian:

"Ah, a betting pool! Excellent! Nothing inspires camaraderie like a little friendly competition."

The soldiers exchanged bewildered looks as Adrian turned back to Harry.

Adrian:

"Make a note: Add 'Betting Pools Build Bonds' to the next batch."

As Harry shuffled off, muttering under his breath, the soldiers shook their heads, torn between exasperation and amusement. And thus, Adrian's motivational banners became the unlikely centerpiece of Shelb's Soldier Appreciation Week—a source of endless debate, unintentional comedy, and, strangely enough, a surprising sense of unity.

Location: Armond Camp

As the evening deepened, the celebration spiraled into chaotic hilarity. The Imperial mead had worked its magic, leaving most of the Rowdy Barracks either tipsy or outright drunk. Magda and Calista had already retired to their sleeping tents. Edran, slouched against a table, was in no state to deliver his usual lectures. Only the beastmen, with their high alcohol tolerance, still stood steady. Among them, Garrick and Claude shared weary yet entertained glances as they watched Micheal become the life of the party.

Micheal, wearing his prototype man-bra, a pair of military pants, and his custom joint supports, had thrown caution—and his usual self-restraint—to the wind. His manbun had nearly come undone, his long hair falling in tousled waves around his face, which was now rosier than usual. As some beastmen broke into a rhythmic, primal song, their voices deep and booming, Micheal couldn't resist. He joined in, stomping his boots and moving to the infectious beat with surprising enthusiasm.

Claude (grinning): "Look at him go. Didn't know the Prince had moves."

Garrick (laughing): "They're not moves; they're flailing."

The soldiers roared with laughter as Micheal threw his arms up, mimicking the beastmen's movements with comical exaggeration. The little wind-dog Breeze yipped at his feet, running circles around him, further adding to the chaos.

Somewhere between the songs and the laughter, Micheal grabbed a makeshift goblet of mead, raising it high like a war trophy.

Micheal (boisterously): "To my comrades in the Rowdy Barracks! You've endured my dog, my experiments, and my company!"

The soldiers cheered, lifting their mugs in response.

Micheal (grinning): "And as thanks, I promise—no, swear!—to make each of you your own custom armor! Fit to your size, your strengths, and your style!"

The tent erupted in cheers and jeers.

Soldier #1 (yelling): "Make mine with spikes!"

Soldier #2 (laughing): "And mine with flames! I want to look terrifying!"

Claude leaned back, smirking as he raised his cup.

Claude: "Careful, Prince. Promises made under mead are still promises."

Micheal (grinning, swaying slightly): "I'll do it! Every one of you will have armor that screams Rowdy Barracks pride!"

The beastmen broke into another raucous song, and Micheal, despite the teasing, joined in again, his moves more exaggerated and his laughter more carefree. His energy was infectious, drawing even the most reserved soldiers into the revelry.

As the music slowed and the soldiers settled back into drinking and talking, the conversation shifted to the royal mage who had visited earlier.

Soldier #3 (grinning): "So, Micheal, what's the deal with the royal mage? You seemed awfully secretive."

Claude (smirking): "Yeah, and awfully flustered."

Garrick (half-joking): "Careful now. That's the Emperor's daughter you're talking about."

Soldier #4 (thoughtfully): "I heard his real daughter is cruel, but the adopted one is sweet and kind."

Micheal froze mid-sip, his blue eyes darting nervously toward the entrance as if worried Magda might overhear. Clearing his throat, he placed his mug down and glared at the soldier who had spoken.

Micheal (firmly): "She's neither cruel nor arrogant. She's... she's humble. Kind. Nothing like the rumors."

The soldiers exchanged knowing glances, their grins widening.

Claude (teasing): "Oh, look at him, all defensive. Prince Micheal standing up for his lady."

Garrick (grinning): "Or standing up to get himself exiled."

The group erupted into laughter, their voices echoing through the tent. Micheal, clearly flustered, waved them off.

Soldier #5 (grinning): "Fine, forget the royal mage. What about someone else in the camp? The new blacksmith apprentice? Or that medic with the braided hair?"

Micheal frowned, his expression suddenly serious. He placed his mug down with exaggerated care and stood a little straighter, swaying slightly but clearly wanting to make a point.

Micheal (proudly): "I offer my loyalty to no one... except my wife."

The tent fell silent. Soldiers exchanged incredulous glances before bursting into exclamations.

Claude (wide-eyed): "Wait—you're married?!"

Garrick (snorting): "Since when? And to who?"

Soldier #6 (mockingly): "Does she know you're here in a man-bra, pledging loyalty to her in the middle of a drunken brawl?"

Micheal's ears turned bright red. When he opened his mouth to reply, only stammers came out.

Claude, his fox ears twitching, leaned closer with a devilish grin.

Claude: "What's the matter? Is she fat? Missing teeth? What are you hiding?"

Micheal's face darkened as he slammed his mug onto the table.

Micheal (frustrated): "She's the prettiest girl in the whole empire!"

The soldiers burst into laughter again, but Micheal wasn't done. His flushed face broke into a love-struck grin as he leaned against the table, his voice softening.

Micheal (dreamily): "Her hair is softer than silk. And her eyes—bright, like the finest rubies. She's kind, too. Strong and smart. And her smile…"

Claude practically choked on his drink, nudging Garrick.

Claude (laughing): "Alright, alright, we get it. The Prince is smitten."

Micheal, snapping out of his reverie, glared at them, his blush deepening.

Micheal (grumbling): "Drop it. You're all idiots."

Meanwhile, Edran stirred from his drunken stupor, raising his mug dramatically.

Edran (booming): "This isn't just mead—it's heritage! Brewed by the finest alchemists, aged in enchanted barrels, and blessed by the Emperor's finest mages!"

Claude, barely holding back his laughter, leaned toward Garrick.

Claude (whispering): "Think he's drunk, or just born dramatic?"

Garrick chuckled, tapping his claws against his mug.

Garrick: "Does it matter? Either way, I'm getting another round."

The group erupted into laughter again, their mugs clinking in toast. Micheal, finally letting himself relax, raised his own mug with a grin, joining in the cheers.

Despite the teasing and chaos, the night felt warm and full of camaraderie. For once, Micheal let himself enjoy the moment, the Rowdy Barracks beginning to feel less like a camp—and more like a family.

The muffled sounds of revelry echoed from the mage's tent below as Duke Louis von Shelb stood on the fort's battlements, his sharp blue eyes fixed on the distant horizon. Streaks of vermilion painted the evening sky, their ominous glow casting long shadows across the camp. Beside him, Count Drifter Armond, the Dragonslayer, leaned against the stone wall, his posture casual but his expression grave.

Louis's gaze lingered on the Rowdy Barracks. Even from this distance, Micheal stood out—his platinum-blonde hair loose and wild, his movements animated as he laughed with the recruits. For a fleeting moment, Louis's usually impassive face softened.

Louis: "It's strange... but watching him now, I almost see Harold."

Drifter's sharp gray eyes turned to the Duke, his rugged face unreadable. The scars from his battles—against beasts and dragons alike—seemed to catch the fading light.

Drifter: "High praise, Your Grace. Harold, the Southwest Wall, was a conqueror. The man who took the untamable Southwest and made it part of the Empire. Comparisons like that aren't made lightly."

Louis exhaled heavily, his gaze still on Micheal. "I don't compare their deeds—Harold was a legend, an unyielding force who carved the Empire's borders in blood and steel. Micheal doesn't have that... yet. But his spirit... it's there. I see flashes of my father when I look at him."

Drifter tilted his head, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "That's unexpected, coming from you. I thought you'd given up on him."

Louis's jaw tightened. "I didn't give up. But I... misjudged him. For years, I thought he lacked the resolve, the strength to carry the von Shelb name. Now I see I was blind to his potential."

Drifter nodded, his expression thoughtful. "You've got a spirited son, Your Grace. He's no Ethan or Adrian—his strength lies elsewhere. But out here? He's proving himself."

Louis turned to the Count, his expression softening. "You've been a good teacher. Better than I expected. For that, you have my thanks."

Drifter chuckled, shaking his head. "Don't thank me too soon. Micheal's doing the hard part. I'm just giving him the space to rise—or fall."

The conversation shifted as both men turned their attention to the crimson-streaked horizon. Louis's face darkened, his grip tightening on the hilt of his ceremonial sword.

Louis: "This time, Armond territory will bear the brunt. Your men will stand as the vanguard."

Drifter's smirk faded, his shoulders squaring. The weight of the situation settled between them like an unspoken truth.

Drifter: "I know. And I'll do what I can. But..." He hesitated, his voice dropping. "This time feels different. Worse. Even with all we've prepared, I can't shake the feeling that something bigger is coming. Bloodshed is inevitable."

Louis: "You've faced worse. You're the Dragonslayer, after all."

Drifter's eyes glinted with a faint, sardonic humor. "Dragons are predictable. This? Whatever's coming... it's not."

Louis fell silent, his gaze fixed on the sky. "I've sent word to Ethan. He'll bring reinforcements the day after tomorrow. With the Emperor holding the balance, humanity and beastkin both, we've managed to endure so far. But even Raphael's strength isn't infinite."

Drifter nodded grimly. "The Emperor's done more than anyone expected. Balancing the devils, the high-level demon beasts, and the tensions between species isn't just strength—it's sheer will. But even the strongest shields crack."

The two men stood in heavy silence, the distant sound of celebration below clashing with the foreboding quiet of the night above. Louis's gaze drifted back to Micheal, who was now gesturing animatedly with a goblet in hand, drawing laughter from the recruits.

Louis (softly): "I hope he's ready. Whatever comes... this will test him in ways he's never imagined."