Breaking the Multiverse for You

The automated horseless carriage hummed to a stop at the edge of the Armond military camp, a sprawling fortress of organized chaos. The towering gates creaked open, revealing a hive of activity. Recruits sparred with wooden swords under the sharp gaze of drill sergeants, while beastmen effortlessly hauled crates of supplies, their supernatural strength on full display. The air buzzed with the sharp clang of metal, the rhythmic thud of boots on dirt, and the occasional roar of laughter or reprimand.

Barnaby stepped out first, adjusting his coat as he turned to the two young men inside.

Barnaby: "Right, you two. This is where I leave you. Try not to embarrass the Shelb name—or get yourselves killed. Good luck."

Arthur glanced at Barnaby, his expression a mix of betrayal and pleading. Micheal, on the other hand, looked positively delighted, stepping out of the carriage with a bounce in his stride.

Micheal: "Thank you, Barnaby. Don't worry, I'll charm them all."

Barnaby raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by Micheal's bravado, but he said nothing more as he climbed back into the carriage. With a low hum, the vehicle rolled away, leaving Micheal and Arthur standing at the threshold of what felt like another world.

The camp sprawled before them in a symphony of chaos. Beastmen of all shapes and sizes moved with a mixture of precision and feral energy. A hulking tiger-like soldier let out a guttural laugh as he playfully tossed a fellow recruit into a nearby water trough. In the distance, a drill sergeant bellowed commands with a voice that seemed to rattle the ground.

Arthur sniffed the air, his face contorting as they approached their designated barracks. The scent was overpowering—a pungent blend of sweat, damp fur, and a strange earthy musk.

Arthur (grimacing): "This place smells like wet fur and regret."

Micheal, ever the optimist, grinned and clapped Arthur on the back.

Micheal: "Perfect for bonding! Just what we need to build character."

Arthur (muttering): "I'd rather bond over scented tea and fresh pastries…"

As they navigated through the camp, their destination loomed ahead: the infamous "Rowdy Barracks." The building seemed barely held together, its wooden planks warped and patched with mismatched materials. Inside, the cacophony was even louder—a mixture of guttural laughter, gruff voices, and the unmistakable sound of someone sharpening a blade.

The first sight that greeted them was a wolf-eared recruit sprawled lazily in a hammock, idly gnawing on a bone. Nearby, a bear-like man casually crushed walnuts in his massive hands, the shells shattering like brittle glass. The walls were adorned with crude sketches and tally marks, and the air carried the faint aroma of something burning—though it was unclear what or where.

Micheal stepped forward, his grin widening as he spread his arms theatrically.

Micheal: "Gentlemen! I'm Micheal von Shelb, your new comrade."

The wolf-eared recruit raised his head, his ears twitching as he eyed Micheal. A sly grin spread across his face.

Wolf-Eared Recruit (snickering): "And what are you supposed to be? Our mascot?"

The room erupted in laughter. Micheal, undeterred, tilted his head and smirked.

Micheal: "Mascot, strategist, future legend—take your pick."

Arthur tugged at Micheal's sleeve, his face pale with dread as he whispered urgently.

Arthur: "We're going to die. Definitely going to die."

Before Micheal could respond, a towering figure appeared in the doorway—Kael Thorne, was a lion-like man whose golden mane seemed to glow in the dim light. His presence silenced the room instantly, the air thick with the weight of authority.

Kael Thorne: "Von Shelb, is it? Drifter told me about you. Said you'd bring... entertainment."

Micheal beamed, clearly unfazed by the implied challenge.

Micheal: "Entertainment, brilliance, and maybe a few silk curtains. I'm a package deal."

Arthur (under his breath): "I should've stayed home."

Kael let out a deep chuckle, his sharp teeth glinting.

Kael Thorne: "You've got guts, I'll give you that. Let's see if they hold up during training."

With that, Micheal and Arthur were officially welcomed—or perhaps warned—into the Rowdy Barracks. They were shown their corners of the chaotic quarters. Micheal was to share tent with a half-fox-beastman called Claude. Micheal began unpacking his neatly folded clothes and scented candles, earning a mix of bewildered stares and muffled laughter from the other recruits.

Arthur, sitting stiffly on his bunk, sighed deeply.

Arthur: "I really hope those candles are strong enough to mask... everything."

Micheal: "Relax, Arthur. This is going to be an adventure!"

Arthur glanced around the room, his expression darkening as a recruit casually cracked his knuckles loud enough to echo.

Arthur: "Yes. The kind where we don't survive the first chapter."

The scene faded to the sounds of the Rowdy Barracks returning to its usual chaos, Micheal humming cheerfully as he adjusted his silk curtains and Arthur praying silently for a miracle.

Location: Shelb Estate

Early in the morning, the same day

The faint glow of a mana lamp illuminated Micheal's study as dawn's first light crept through the curtains. He sat at his desk, pen poised over a fresh sheet of parchment. The room was silent save for the occasional scratching of the pen and the steady ticking of the ornate clock on the mantle. Micheal's brow furrowed as he stared at the words he had begun to write, dissatisfied.

Barnaby entered quietly, holding a tray with a steaming pot of tea and a cup. He placed it on the side table and approached with his usual measured steps.

Barnaby (calmly): "Master Micheal, you requested to rise early, yet you look as though you've been awake all night."

Micheal (groaning): "Might as well have been. Writing is supposed to be easier than swordplay, isn't it?"

Barnaby raised a brow, glancing at the messy desk. Several crumpled sheets of parchment littered the floor.

Barnaby: "That depends, sir. Who is the intended recipient of your correspondence?"

Micheal (clearing his throat): "Dame Vivian."

Barnaby: "Ah. The esteemed knight and your brother's… shall we say, 'frenemy.' A fascinating choice."

Micheal gave Barnaby a withering look, but the butler merely adjusted his cuffs with a faint smile.

Micheal: "I want it to sound like a proper commendation, something befitting Ethan's… talents. It should impress her. Any suggestions?"

Barnaby seated himself opposite Micheal, folding his hands neatly on his lap.

Barnaby: "Let us consider the qualities Dame Vivian might admire. First, valor. No one can deny Sir Ethan's bravery in the face of danger."

Micheal (writing): "Valor. Yes, that's good."

Barnaby: "Discipline is another virtue worth highlighting. And, of course, his—"

Micheal (cutting in): "Swordsmanship. She'd appreciate that."

Barnaby (nodding): "Certainly, though it is also worth noting his… punctuality."

Micheal paused, pen hovering mid-air. He turned slowly to face Barnaby, one brow raised.

Micheal: "Punctuality? Really?"

Barnaby (seriously): "Master Micheal, in war, timing is as critical as strength. A commander who respects time earns the loyalty of his troops."

Micheal shook his head but added it to the list anyway.

Micheal: "All right, so valor, discipline, swordsmanship, and punctuality. Anything else?"

Barnaby (thoughtfully): "Perhaps a touch of personal admiration? Compliments couched in respect often soften even the sharpest blades."

Micheal (scribbling): "Fine. Something like, 'Your own skill and legacy have inspired me to write.' That sounds… passable."

Barnaby (with a faint smile): "A wise addition, sir."

Micheal finally put the finishing touches on the letter, sealing it with the Shelb family crest.

Micheal's Letter to Dame Vivian

Dear Dame Vivian,

I write to you not just as a member of the House of Shelb but as an admirer of valor, skill, and discipline—the very qualities that define both you and my brother, Ethan von Shelb.

Ethan's achievements speak for themselves: his bravery in the field, his mastery of the blade, and his unyielding sense of duty. It is a rare knight who combines these traits with an unwavering respect for order and time, but Ethan excels in this regard. As a younger brother, I've watched his dedication with both awe and pride.

Your own prowess and legacy have inspired me to write this letter, a small token of recognition for the honor and strength you have always upheld.

With deepest respect,

Micheal von Shelb

As Micheal stood from his desk and began preparing to leave, he hesitated, glancing at another sealed letter hidden beneath the clutter. He picked it up and slid it into his coat pocket before heading downstairs.

Barnaby, waiting at the door with Micheal's travel bag, took note of the young master's unusual demeanor.

Barnaby: "All set for the journey, sir?"

Micheal nodded but then handed Barnaby the sealed letter he had hidden earlier.

Micheal (quickly): "Deliver this to Lady Magda when you have time. And… don't read it."

Barnaby's brows lifted slightly, his surprise evident. He accepted the letter with his usual professionalism but couldn't resist a faint smile.

Barnaby: "Of course, Master Micheal. It seems you've been more productive this morning than I anticipated."

Micheal (blushing): "Just—make sure she gets it."

Barnaby bowed slightly, slipping the letter into his coat. As Micheal stepped into the waiting automated carriage, Barnaby watched him with a mixture of amusement and curiosity before climbing in himself. The boy had grown in unexpected ways, though his bashfulness remained as endearing as ever.

As the carriage rolled away, Micheal leaned back with a deep sigh. The thought of Magda reading his words filled him with both excitement and apprehension. But there was no turning back now.

Location: Imperial Guard's Quarters

The crisp afternoon breeze rustled the curtains in Dame Vivian's quarters as she settled into her chair, sipping spiced tea from a delicate porcelain cup. The day had been uneventful—a rarity—until a servant entered, carrying a sealed letter with the Shelb family crest.

Servant (bowing): "A missive for you, my lady."

Vivian set her cup down with deliberate care, eyeing the letter as though it were a peculiar artifact. Breaking the wax seal, she unfolded the parchment, her curiosity piqued. Her sharp green eyes scanned the text, and as she read, her brows furrowed before arching in bemusement.

Vivian (reading aloud): "Ethan von Shelb exhibits exemplary valor, discipline, and punctuality in battle…?"

She leaned back, one hand tracing the edge of the parchment while the other drummed rhythmically on the armrest.

Vivian (murmuring): "Punctuality. That's a new one."

A smirk tugged at the corners of her lips as she continued reading, the letter's earnest tone juxtaposed with its peculiar content. She couldn't suppress a chuckle.

Vivian: "So, Ethan has admirers now? Or did his family decide he needs a morale boost?"

Setting the letter aside, she reached for her writing kit, already composing a reply in her mind. She decided not to name the sender—Ethan's confusion would be more entertaining that way.

Dear Sir Ethan,

It seems congratulations are in order. Today, I received a glowing recommendation for you, praising your valor, discipline, and, of all things, punctuality. It appears your reputation precedes you.

However, I must ask: why are random individuals penning military citations on your behalf? Should I prepare for an elaborate publicity campaign, or is this your subtle way of challenging me to a duel by correspondence? If so, I suggest something a little more daring next time.

Do let me know if the Shelb estate is in dire need of rescue—I'd hate to miss an opportunity for heroics.

P.S. Rest assured, my sword is sharper than ever. Just in case this is some elaborate ploy to bait me into combat.

Warm regards,

Vivian

Location: Shelb Estate

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow over the Shelb estate, Ethan sat in his study, engrossed in military reports. The heavy oak door creaked open, and his squire stepped in, holding a sealed letter.

Squire (bowing): "A letter for you, my lord. From Dame Vivian."

Ethan froze mid-sentence, his pen halting above the paper. He glanced at the envelope as though it were a coiled snake.

Ethan (grumbling): "What does that insufferable woman want now?"

The squire wisely said nothing, handing over the letter. Ethan broke the seal and began reading, his eyes narrowing with every line. By the time he finished, he was pinching the bridge of his nose.

Ethan (muttering): "Valor? Punctuality? Who in their right mind—"

He slammed the letter onto his desk, glaring at it as if it were the cause of all his problems.

Ethan (to the squire): "Apparently, I've become the subject of unsolicited praise. Someone out there decided to send Dame Vivian a glowing review of my… punctuality."

Squire (hesitantly): "That's… admirable, my lord?"

Ethan shot him a withering glare before throwing up his hands in exasperation.

Ethan: "Admirable? This is her idea of mockery! She thinks I orchestrated this nonsense."

The squire tilted his head, considering the letter.

Squire: "Perhaps it's her way of… expressing respect?"

Ethan (snorting): "Respect? More like a new method to invite me to a duel."

Leaning back in his chair, Ethan rubbed his temples. The letter was maddeningly vague, and the lack of a clear author left him suspicious.

Ethan (muttering): "Whoever wrote this had better pray I don't find out."

The squire, wisely, decided to change the subject.

Later that evening, Dame Vivian twirled her sword with practiced grace, her thoughts lingering on Ethan's likely reaction to her letter. A soft chuckle escaped her lips as she envisioned his frustration.

Vivian (to herself): "Let him puzzle over it. Keeps his mind sharp."

Her gaze shifted to the folded letter from Micheal on her desk. She picked it up, her smirk softening into a thoughtful smile.

Vivian (musing): "At least one of them has a sense of humor."

With a flick of her wrist, she set the letter aside and returned to her training, her laughter echoing softly in the quiet of her chambers.

Location: Armond camp

The morning air at the Armond camp was crisp, but Micheal and Arthur were anything but. Exhausted from their first chaotic night, the two stumbled into the training grounds, trying to appear composed. Micheal tugged at his training gear, a bit snugger than he'd prefer, while Arthur lagged behind, muttering to himself about the indignities of peeling potatoes.

Arthur (groaning): "I signed up for gallantry and glory, not manual labor and blisters."

Micheal (grinning): "Character-building, Arthur. Plus, it's great for your grip strength."

Arthur (deadpan): "I'll be the strongest potato peeler in the kingdom."

The training field was alive with energy. Half-beast recruits practiced wrestling in the mud, aura users demonstrated dazzling combat techniques, and the air buzzed with commands from the drill sergeant.

Drifter watched Micheal approach, his sharp eyes noting the noble's posture. From a distance, Micheal appeared slender, almost frail compared to the bulkier recruits. The sergeant snorted.

Drill Sergeant (barking): "Von Shelb! Let's see if that noble blood of yours can handle the mud."

Micheal stepped forward, trying his best to exude confidence. He began with the obstacle course, an imposing array of hurdles, nets, and trenches. The first hurdle went smoothly—until Micheal misjudged his footing and landed face-first into a muddy ditch. The recruits howled with laughter.

Arthur (from the sidelines, wincing): "My lord, you're supposed to climb the wall, not hug it."

Micheal stood, mud dripping from his hair, and gave a sheepish grin before charging forward. Despite his initial fumbles, Micheal's bullish strength began to show. He powered through the weighted lifts, outpacing human recruits, and when it came to the rope climb, his arms bulged with unexpected power, hoisting him to the top.

The drill sergeant raised an eyebrow.

Drill Sergeant (gruffly): "Looks weak, hits strong."

By the time sparring drills began, Micheal was drenched in sweat. His partner, Claude—the fox-eared recruit—sized him up, smirking.

Claude (mockingly): "Ready to be flattened, Prince?"

Micheal shrugged off his shirt, revealing a slender but well-toned physique, his abs more wiry than the carved muscles of aura users.

Claude lunged at him. Micheal met his fist half-way, grabbed it and immobilized Claude. The laughter in the group faltered for a moment.

Claude (stunned): "Huh. Didn't expect the noble to pack a punch."

Micheal (wiping his face): "I get it from my grandfather."

Claude rolled his eyes, clearly unimpressed by the mention of Harold, the South-Western Wall. Sparring began, and Micheal's unconventional strength quickly became apparent. Though he lacked finesse, his strikes were powerful, his endurance dogged. Still, every time he gained ground, Claude's agility outmatched him.

Claude (dodging a swing): "You've got the strength of a bull, Prince, but you fight like one too."

By the end of the session, Micheal was bruised but oddly satisfied. His performance had earned him a few nods of grudging respect, though the nickname "Merchant Prince" stuck after the recruits discovered his tent decorations. Micheal had tastefully decorated his tent with silken curtains, different scented candles, insect repellents, and other things seem too out of place in a military camp

While Micheal sweated through drills, Arthur found himself in the camp kitchen under the tutelage of the gruff but jovial cook, Hector. The half-beast chef towered over Arthur, his wolfish grin gleaming.

Hector (handing Arthur a cleaver): "Cooking's like combat, lad. You need precision and speed."

Arthur stared at the cleaver like it was a venomous snake. His first task—chopping onions—resulted in more tears than progress. By midday, the kitchen was in chaos. Arthur had burned a pot of stew, accidentally used salt instead of sugar in the soldiers' dessert, and somehow managed to lock himself in the pantry.

Hector's booming laughter echoed across the barracks.

Hector (roaring): "You've got talent, lad! For destruction!"

Arthur dragged himself back to the barracks that evening, his apron singed and his pride in tatters.

Arthur (grumbling to Micheal): "If food is a weapon, I'm guilty of culinary crimes."

The second day of training saw Micheal paired against Garrick, a grizzly half-beastman renowned for his brute strength. The recruits gathered to watch, some placing bets.

Claude (smirking): "Ten coins says the Prince won't last a minute."

Micheal squared off with Garrick, who cracked his knuckles, the sound like snapping logs. The grizzly half-beast loomed over Micheal, his size intimidating.

Garrick (grinning): "Don't worry, noble. I'll make it quick."

The match began, and Garrick charged like a bull. Micheal, remembering Barnaby's teachings, sidestepped at the last second, causing Garrick to stumble.

Micheal used his surprising strength to land a solid blow to Garrick's side with his practice sword. The grizzly roared, more surprised than hurt, and retaliated with a swipe that sent Micheal sprawling. But the noble got back up, mud-covered and grinning.

The match ended in a draw, with both combatants panting and bruised. Drifter watched from the sidelines, a rare smile tugging at his lips.

Drifter (muttering): "He's got potential."

That evening, Micheal returned to his tent to find Claude waiting, a smirk on his face.

Claude (tossing a towel): "You're not half bad, Prince. Maybe you'll survive after all."

As Micheal cleaned up, he caught sight of Arthur dragging himself into the barracks, carrying a lopsided tray of food.

Arthur (exhausted): "I made it through another day. Barely."

Micheal chuckled, sharing the tray with Claude. Despite the hardships, a sense of camaraderie was beginning to form in the barracks. The recruits might not fully accept Micheal yet, but they were no longer mocking him outright.

As Micheal lay down that night, his muscles aching and his pride bruised, he couldn't help but smile. This was tougher than anything he'd faced before—but it was also oddly exhilarating. For the first time, he felt like he was truly earning his place.