Mushoku Tensei: the Apostle of God

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Perhaps for the sake of "ambiance," the two deluxe master bedrooms were separated by only a single wall.

After all, the overlapping cries of pleasure and competitive spirit could create a transcendent experience for those with a strong desire to win—something akin to a ten-person synchronized climax.

At least, that was Rudeus' theory.

The time was now 3:20 AM.

Nearly two hours had passed since they entered their rooms. Allen leaned against the windowsill, gazing outside.

The tavern beside the inn was still brightly lit.

He glanced at Rudeus, who had already fallen asleep, a faint smile playing on his lips.

Foresight continued to faithfully feed him a steady stream of fragmented, dense, ever-changing environmental data—unfiltered and relentless.

Like a red-hot iron rod stirring and thrusting inside his skull.

How gentle.

A dull headache gnawed at his mind, yet he kept Foresight active without pause.

From the moment they entered the village, maintaining it had been necessary. He could have shared his findings with the others, but without concrete evidence, it would only sow unnecessary panic.

No point.

Besides, most importantly—

Motarito.

So far, every unexpected development remained firmly within his control.

His mind replayed the events of the past hours like a ledger:

1:40 AM

—Everyone bid each other goodnight and retired to their rooms.

1:50 AM

—The rustling of clothes being removed next door. Strangely, Allen could distinguish who was undressing just by sound.

The abrupt swish of a dress being yanked off and tossed aside, followed by the impatient tugging of pajamas: Eris.

The soft friction of fabric, the slight snag of a collar catching on an ear, movements cautious and quiet: Sylphie.

Swift undressing, then the meticulous folding of discarded garments: Isolte.

Allen dialed back his perception of these details, focusing instead on the hallway and front desk.

The mustached clerk paced behind the counter, seemingly bored.

Then—the faintest scratch of a pen on paper.

1:55 AM

—Eris' excited voice erupted next door, loud and unrestrained. "Really?!/The Water God style dojo is amazing!" Isolte's muffled laughter and Sylphie's "Eris, not so loud!" followed. Their voices carried clear through the walls.

At this point, keeping Foresight active was redundant—Rudeus' bewildered expression said it all.

Eris was thrilled.

2:00 AM

—Five minutes of jubilation later, Eris was asleep.

Silence returned, broken only by whispers. Allen again tuned out the noise, redirecting his attention to the hallway.

Through a gap in the curtains, he saw the drunkard from earlier stumbling toward the inn.

2:10 AM

—Rudeus awkwardly thanked Allen, insisting this was just a first-night adjustment and that he'd adapt by the time they reached the capital. Allen chuckled and playfully punched his shoulder before extinguishing the candle.

At the front desk, the clerk's curses and the drunk's slurred pleas for alcohol grew louder.

Too loud.

2:20 AM

—Exhausted from travel, Rudeus soon fell asleep—though, as if to prove a point, he hadn't bothered changing into pajamas.

Outside, the drunkard returned to the tavern's entrance, drained his bottle after a few gulps, hesitated, then finally went inside—only to be thrown out again moments later.

2:30 AM

—Allen resumed monitoring the next room. The whispers had ceased.

Two steady breaths. Someone was still awake.

2:40 AM

—Movement. Isolte, restless, paced quietly before eventually returning to bed.

2:50 AM

—The drunkard stood, noticeably soberer, and shuffled toward the inn.

Next door, three even breaths confirmed everyone was now asleep.

2:55 AM

—Muttered words at the front desk. A door closed softly, cutting off the voices from Foresight's range.

3:00 AM

—The tavern fell silent.

The drunkard, having just returned, lunged at a patron exiting the tavern—only to be beaten back with curses. He collapsed onto the ground, sprawled on his back.

3:10 AM

—The tavern's noise resumed, louder than before. The drunkard sat up, staring at the inn.

3:20 AM

—Rudeus, Sylphie, Eris, and Isolte's breathing deepened in sleep. The tavern door opened. The drunkard, as if startled, reluctantly began dragging himself toward the inn.

Now.

This moment.

Allen smiled, letting the curtain fall back into place.

With a soft crack, he rolled his stiff neck.

Moving soundlessly across the room, he picked up his sword and slipped into the hallway.

His senses—Foresight's reach—flowed ahead like water, surging down the corridor.

At its edge:

The clerk, nervously tugging his mustache.

When he spotted Allen emerging fully dressed, his body jerked in surprise. He quickly schooled his expression, crossing his arms and resuming his casual pacing—as if merely keeping watch.

Allen smirked. Using Flow to muffle the latch, he closed the door silently behind him.

With the footwork of the Four-Limbed Style, he traversed the hallway in seconds, stopping before the front desk.

The clerk raised an eyebrow, opening his mouth—

"Shh."

Allen pressed a finger to his lips. Persuasion activated.

"They're sleeping. Keep it down."

The man froze momentarily before lowering his voice. Leaning back against the counter, he feigned nonchalance.

"Can't sleep? Your little friends not enough for you? Looking for something wilder at the tavern—?"

"You're scared," Allen cut in. "Because I don't match your intel. Because my mastery of Foresight exceeds your expectations. Or because Isolte is a far stronger swordsman than you anticipated."

The clerk's pupils contracted. He forced a baffled expression.

"What? Water God style? What're you—"

Allen was already beside him. As the man whirled around, Allen reached over the counter and plucked up a torn sheet of stationery.

"What message did you send to the tavern? They didn't seem happy. Why wait to strike? For the darkest hour before dawn? To ensure we're all sound asleep?"

The rapid-fire questions left no room for rebuttal.

The clerk's face twitched. He opened his mouth—

"Shh." Allen silenced him again.

Realizing the situation had spiraled beyond control, the man's composure shattered. His hand shot toward the dagger hidden at his waist—

Schink!

The blade cleared its sheath—

But only halfway.

The clerk stared down, stunned.

Allen's hand clamped over his, forcing the weapon back. Leaning in until their faces were inches apart, Allen spoke softly:

"Water God style. Drawing speed and Intercept technique proficiency suggest Saint-rank. Intelligence specialist. The strategist for this ambush."

"You cleared Motarito in advance. Someone tipped you off, but the rush left gaps."

"Still, decent overall."

As he spoke, Allen pushed the blade fully back into its scabbard with a muted click—so controlled it resembled the delicate clink of wine glasses.

An intimate gesture.

His next words, however, held no warmth.

"I could've let you keep playing. But I forced this choice on you."

"Option one: Panic and attack now. Pros: I finish you all quickly and get more sleep. Cons: The others might stay up all night afterward."

"Option two: Delay for the perfect moment. Pros: They sleep soundly. Cons: I lose rest."

Allen's face drew nearer, invading the "safe distance" every Water God stylist instinctively maintained.

"So, as a fellow Water God practitioner—based on my words—which option do you think I want you to pick?"

"And right now…"

"Are you walking the path I laid out for you?"

Under Persuasion, sweat dripped from the clerk's chin like raindrops.

Allen tilted his head, lips brushing the man's ear.

"You acted so confident earlier. Thought my titles were just noble privilege? That your ambush couldn't fail?"

"Tell me—if we're both Water God swordsmen…"

"Why did you assume I couldn't analyze you too?"

"Who gave you the arrogance to underestimate me?"

"Who made you believe you could kill me?"

The clerk strained against Allen's grip, touki flaring between them. Hair whipped in the unseen currents.

Allen remained calm, dismantling the man's resolve with the precision of a North God tactician.

"Is it because you're older?"

"Then draw your blade."

"Every Water God technique relies on counterattacks. If you can't even defend—can't even unsheathe your sword—how will you strike back?"

"With skills like these…"

"You dare sit at this table?"

The clerk's eyes darted repeatedly to Allen's sheathed sword.

Allen's smile deepened.

"Don't just stare at my blade. Even if I never draw it, you've already lost."

"But…"

"I'll give you a chance."

His grip loosened.

The clerk blinked, stunned by the sudden reprieve—

And in that split second of distraction, Allen struck.

"The intel came too late. The preparations were sloppy—especially the combat strength. This isn't the real attack, is it? Where's the next ambush?"

Caught between relief and panic, the clerk's guard dropped. Persuasion yanked the truth free:

"This wasn't even supposed to happen! The North King was nearby, so we took a gamble—to test the rumors! Even if we failed, we'd regroup at Riu—"

He clamped his mouth shut too late.

Allen's grin turned razor-sharp.

"Oh? The North King?"

The clerk's face paled. He wrenched at his dagger—

Only for Allen to slam it back into the sheath with even greater force.

He'd been holding back earlier.

The man's lips parted to scream—

Wind surged.

Allen's free hand seized his throat.

"Don't."

Not a sound escaped. The clerk thrashed wildly, but Flow redirected his own strength, pinning him effortlessly.

Allen's arm pushed forward.

Steadily.

Inexorably.

The clerk's neck bent backward.

His gaze traveled up—over Allen's jaw, past wind-tossed hair, across the unlit chandelier—

Then—

"Crack."

Past the door behind him.

But his upturned eyes saw only a reflection.

His head had rotated 180 degrees.

Allen caught the collapsing body like a drunken friend, steadying the lolling neck as he dragged it behind the counter.

With one hand, he closed the staring eyes.

With the other, he snuffed out the candle.

Darkness swallowed the front desk.

Silence followed.

The inn's night grew peaceful.

"Sleep."

His hand lifted. The clerk's eyelids stayed shut.

Allen flexed his stiff fingers.

Through the window, the tavern's lights shimmered in the distance—deceptively far despite its physical proximity.

The glow burned against Allen's retinas, swirling in his gray irises like mist.

"If the mountain won't come to me…"

He turned, pushing open the inn's door. Night wind scattered his whisper.

"...then I'll go to the mountain."

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