Mushoku Tensei: Sword, Magic Hats, and Romance!

Maybe it's because my build resembles one of those school bullies from my past life… triggered Rudy's PTSD. This favorability quest is going to be hard to push through. If only Rudeus were a girl… No wait, he is a girl inside—a thirty-four-year-old eroge-playing shut-in uncle's heart trapped in a child's body. Tch. Mental damage.

Allen sighed silently and stepped to the study door.

It was open. Inside, Paul sat hunched, pulling at his own hair like he was deep in thought.

Allen knocked lightly on the doorframe.

"Master Paul."

Paul looked up. Several sheets of letter paper lay scattered across the desk.

"Oh. Have a seat."

Allen glanced at the chair—it was set far from the desk where Paul sat with his chin propped up. Paul then picked up a pen and studied Allen.

"Since we don't know your background, before accepting you into the household as our sword instructor, I need to conduct a brief inquiry."

At those words, Allen's brow arched. He stared straight at Paul's face.

Paul noticed and quickly waved his hand, then scratched his head while staring up at the ceiling, looking troubled.

"Don't worry, I know how it is with adventurers. I used to be one myself. It's just a cursory investigation, really—but this concerns my child's safety. I hope you understand."

Allen's expression shifted. He seemed suddenly intrigued and leaned back lazily in his chair with a faint smile.

"Ask away."

"Er… your name?"

"Allen."

Paul's pen paused mid-stroke. After a moment, he nodded slowly and continued.

"Your age, if you don't mind?"

Allen looked at the pen in Paul's hand and smiled indifferently.

"Nine years and four months."

Paul blinked.

"Your usual range of activity?"

"The capital region of the Asura Kingdom."

Paul swallowed—his throat clearly dry.

"Swordsmanship rank?"

"I've been formally awarded the Water God Style—Advanced level."

Paul scratched his head with the pen, then let out a wry chuckle after a long pause.

"Judging by your ragged clothes… you've probably had no income for a while. When did you lose your money in the labyrinth?"

Allen replied with an amiable smile.

"Last November, Master Paul."

Paul inhaled deeply, visibly relieved. He looked up at Allen with a softened expression. For some reason, there was even a hint of warmth in his tone.

"Alright then, Allen. You can stay here for now. Join us for dinner later—Zenith's cooking isn't bad."

Allen narrowed his eyes at him.

"Anything else you'd like to ask, Master?"

Paul opened his mouth, then hesitated and shook his head.

"No… nothing more. You can head back to your room to rest, or spend some time with Rudy. Though you look tall, you're only four years older than him."

Allen rose from his seat.

"I'll be going then?"

"Mm, go ahead."

Paul's gaze grew distant as he watched Allen's back disappear through the doorway. Then he lowered his head, pulled out a blank sheet of paper, and—

Click.

The door shut behind him.

Paul brought the pen to the page.

But before he could finish the first character, a lazy voice drifted over from directly in front of him.

"Uncle Paul… who's that letter for?"

Paul's pupils shrank. He jerked his head up.

Allen stood with his back against the closed door, silently watching him.

A few months ago, Allen's system interface had suddenly popped up, noting a +2 increase in participation for a major Mushoku Tensei event. At the time, he'd been confused.

He had only just begun his journey toward Buena Village, and everything in the capital before that had seemed irrelevant to the events of his childhood phase. So how had the rating gone up?

Now, the source of that discrepancy was clear.

Someone had already "noticed" him, long before he arrived.

Allen took a step toward Paul, who was visibly rattled. As he approached, his gaze dropped to the desk with mild curiosity.

There was a letter on the desk—filled with elegant handwriting in the ornate script favored by nobles. The paper was a bit yellowed, clearly not recent.

Allen narrowed his eyes and, without any pretense of courtesy, reached out to pick it up.

Paul's expression shifted. Instinctively, he shot to his feet and lunged to grab Allen's hand.

But just as Paul's fingers were about to close around his wrist, Allen brought his index and middle fingers together and lightly brushed the side of Paul's palm—drawing a graceful arc.

His fingers slipped from Paul's grasp like a fish in water, redirecting Paul's hand to the side.

Paul stumbled forward and collapsed onto the desk with a thud.

He could only watch as Allen, with two fingers, plucked the letter from under his nose and began reading aloud with a bemused air:

"Water God Style—[Flow]…"

Allen held the letter aloft, eyes scanning it seriously.

Paul

How have you been? I trust your rural life with your wife has been quite pleasant.

I'm writing to ask a favor.

It concerns my eldest son in the capital—Allen Boreas Greyrat. I wonder if you still remember him. I believe I wrote to you when he was born.

Not long after opening his eyes to this world, he was taken by James to be raised in the capital as his own flesh and blood. That was the price for losing the family succession dispute.

Such is Boreas tradition—a method to prevent factional strife within the clan.

Even so, I couldn't help but use my position as mayor to sneak away and visit him in secret, behind Father's back.

Because, after all, he is the first child I, Philip Boreas Greyrat, ever left behind in this world.

Ironically, I didn't even have the right to give him a name.

You're welcome to mock me for it. After all, I've often looked down on you from my high horse. It would only be fair.

Back to Allen—he's not like me. He's exceptional. From a young age, he's shown a remarkable talent for the sword.

When I saw him from afar, he stood at the center of a crowd, basking in James's praise, yet not a hint of arrogance or fear on his face. Just calm composure.

That blend of steadiness and sharpness—so contradictory yet natural—it gave me pause. His expression resembles Father's somewhat, but not entirely. I even began to doubt… Could this truly be my son?

But one thing was certain:

He should've grown up surrounded by applause and adoration—not left behind with me, a failed heir, playing some farcical mayor in Fittoa.

Still, when I looked at him, I couldn't help but wonder: If I had won that power struggle against James all those years ago… would the one standing in front of him now be me?

I envy James. He doesn't deserve—

I'm rambling. Let me get to the point.

A month ago, Allen vanished en route to the Magic University.

At least, that's the official story being told publicly.

James seems disinterested in searching further, but I can't stop worrying.

So, I asked our family's guard—your former comrade, the Sword King Ghislaine—to investigate the last place Allen was seen: the Red Dragon Mountains.

But it's been ten days, and still, no leads.

Something feels off.

I'd hoped Ghislaine could reach out to her contacts from her adventuring days, but she regretfully told me such social maneuvering was beyond her. Instead, she suggested I turn to you.

So here I am, asking: could you use your old adventurer connections to help me track down any sign of him?

He has a very distinct appearance—sharp features, brows nearly identical to Father's, my brown hair, and Hilda's gray eyes. He stands out easily.

If any news comes your way, please notify me immediately. If someone has seen someone like him, urge them to hold him there and send word to me. I'll confirm it personally.

Please understand—I cannot publicly hire people to search. It would be politically inappropriate, given that his "father" is James.

I'm sorry you have to witness this weak side of me.

With this letter, I greet you.

Philip

Allen stared at that last line—the name, so familiar and yet so distant—and fell into silence.

Off to the side, Paul rubbed his head, at a loss for words.