Breaking the Multiverse for You

The day at the Rowdy Barracks began in its usual, cacophonous fashion, with Micheal jolted awake by a torrent of icy water splashed directly onto his face.

Micheal (spluttering, half-asleep): "Claude! Have you lost your mind?!"

Claude, standing with the empty bucket in hand, leaned casually against the bunk, his fox-like ears twitching as he delivered a deadpan reply.

Claude: "Get used to it, Prince. This isn't your silk-draped estate. The sun's up, and so should you be. Now move."

Groaning, Micheal wiped his face with the corner of his blanket and stumbled out of bed. The barracks buzzed with noise—beastmen hauling crates of supplies, soldiers sparring under the watchful eyes of senior recruits, and the drill sergeant's booming voice layering over it all like thunder.

Still grumbling about Claude's methods, Micheal joined the morning run. As he jogged along the dusty trail looping the camp, his eyes caught a peculiar sight near the supply tent—a tiny, trembling wind-dog puppy crouched in the shadows. Wind-dogs were common scavengers around military camps, feeding on scraps and the occasional mana-rich artifact. Normally, they appeared in vibrant shades of violet, the weakest and least harmful of their kind. The creatures were ranked by the color of their fur on the rainbow color scale, with violet representing harmless scavengers and red indicating deadly apex predators capable of decimating entire battalions.

This one, however, was so pale it was nearly white—a sign of extreme frailty. A wind-dog this color wasn't even strong enough to fend for itself, let alone pose any threat. Micheal frowned, his curiosity tinged with sympathy.

Micheal slowed his pace, his gaze softening as he approached. The puppy's oversized ears twitched at every sound, its body quaking with fear as it huddled near a discarded crate. He crouched down, extending a tentative hand.

Micheal (softly, coaxing): "Hey there, little one. You okay? Not gonna hurt you."

The wind-dog flinched at his movement but didn't run. After a moment's hesitation, it sniffed at Micheal's hand. Then, with a surprising burst of courage, it leapt into his arms and burrowed into his chest, trembling.

From across the training yard, Claude watched the scene unfold, his sharp fox-like eyes narrowing as he leaned on his rake.

Claude (mocking): "Scented candles and silk tents weren't enough, huh? Now you're adopting strays?"

Micheal (defensively, brushing dirt off the puppy's fur): "It's not just a stray—it's Breeze now."

Claude (raising an eyebrow): "Breeze? What are you, a poet? Or a fool?"

Micheal ignored him, smiling down at the tiny creature nestled in his arms. The name fit—it was small and fleeting, like a soft gust of wind.

Breeze, however, was quick to make his presence felt—or rather, wreak havoc. As soon as Micheal brought the pup into camp, it darted between tents, stole aura snacks, and chewed through the mana lamp Micheal had been carrying.

Soldier #1 (shouting): "Your dog just ate my aura rations!"

Soldier #2 (chasing after Breeze): "And now it's trying to climb into my tent!"

Claude, unimpressed but clearly entertained, leaned against a stack of crates.

Claude (dryly): "And they call him the Merchant Prince. Looks like you're more of a Dog Whisperer."

Micheal (holding Breeze away from yet another victim): "I'll reimburse you! Just—give him time to adjust!"

The chaos was endless—Breeze's voracious appetite and boundless energy turned Micheal's day into a whirlwind of apologies and quick fixes. The recruits, who initially mocked the pale, harmless wind-dog, began to take an odd interest in the creature's antics. Some even wagered on how long it would take for Breeze to chew through Micheal's tent ropes.

At one point, Breeze darted toward Claude's tent, nosing around his belongings. Claude barely moved, glaring as the pup gnawed at the corner of his pillow.

Claude: "Touch that again, and you're dinner."

Micheal (scooping Breeze up quickly): "He's just exploring! You'll learn to love him."

Claude (grumbling): "I doubt it."

Despite its color marking it as the weakest of its kind, Breeze had a spirit as wild as the strongest of its kind. Though the recruits were less than thrilled about the newest addition to the camp, Micheal couldn't help but feel a swell of affection for the scrappy little creature. As the day progressed, Breeze became part of the chaos in the chaotic embrace of the Rowdy Barracks.

The day after Breeze's chaotic induction into camp life, Micheal found himself nursing a sore knee from another brutal training session. Sitting on a crate in the corner of the barracks, Breeze curled at his feet, gnawing on a stray strap of leather, Micheal winced as he tried to stretch.

Micheal (grumbling): "If I take another hit to my joints, they'll have to carry me out of here on a stretcher."

Claude, lounging nearby with a half-eaten ration in hand, snorted.

Claude: "You'll survive, Prince. It's character-building, remember?"

Micheal (deadpan): "So is inventing something to keep me from getting mangled."

Micheal's mind began racing with possibilities. The pain from his sparring matches, particularly with Garrick, had made one thing clear—current armor designs weren't cutting it. Traditional pieces were too rigid, leaving joints exposed or hindering mobility.

He grabbed his sketchpad and started furiously scribbling ideas. Breeze paused in his chewing to tilt his head curiously at the frantic movements of his new master.

Micheal (muttering): "Aura-threaded leather for flexibility… reinforce weak points… distribute impact…"

Claude peered over Micheal's shoulder, his fox-like tail flicking lazily.

Claude: "What's this? Armor for the delicate joints of nobles?"

Micheal (without looking up): "Flexible armor enhancements. It'll move with the wearer but harden upon impact. You'll thank me when you're not limping like me."

Claude raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

Claude: "Armor that moves like cloth? Sounds like a good way to get killed."

Micheal (grinning): "Or a good way to stay alive."

To build his prototype, Micheal scoured the camp for materials. He bartered with recruits, offering to repair their damaged equipment in exchange for scraps of aura-threaded leather, discarded metal plates, and old straps.

Breeze accompanied him on his scavenger hunt, occasionally snatching rations from unsuspecting soldiers.

Soldier #1 (yelling): "Your mutt stole my aura snacks again!"

Micheal (holding up a hand in apology): "I'll replace them. Add it to the Breeze Damage Account."

Claude (shaking his head): "This is why no one takes you seriously."

Despite the teasing, Micheal's determination never wavered. Late into the night, he worked under the soft glow of his mana lamp, stitching leather and threading aura veins into the joints of his design.

After days of tinkering, Micheal strapped the finished knee and elbow guards onto himself. The aura-threaded leather glimmered faintly, promising flexibility and durability.

The next morning, Micheal approached Drifter to request a test under real conditions. The seasoned leader raised an eyebrow at the contraption.

Drifter: "You think this'll hold up in the field?"

Micheal (confidently): "It'll do more than hold up."

Drifter nodded, signaling Garrick to step forward.

Garrick (grinning): "Back for another beating, Prince? Don't worry, I'll go easy this time."

Micheal (adjusting his guards): "Don't bother. I'm here to win."

The sparring match began with Garrick charging like a force of nature. The first blow, aimed at Micheal's knee, landed with a resounding thud—but the aura veins in the guard absorbed the impact, dispersing the force harmlessly.

The crowd of recruits erupted into murmurs of astonishment.

Soldier #2: "Did you see that? It didn't even slow him down!"

Micheal used his enhanced mobility to dodge Garrick's follow-up strikes, countering with a quick jab to the side. Garrick stumbled back, visibly impressed.

Garrick (grinning): "Not bad, Prince. Maybe you're tougher than you look."

Drifter, observing from the sidelines, nodded approvingly.

Drifter: "You've got something here, Micheal. Keep at it."

Word of Micheal's invention spread quickly through the camp. Recruits began lining up outside his tent, requesting modifications to their gear.

Soldier #3: "Can you add those aura veins to my shoulder plate?"

Soldier #4: "I need something for my boots—help with agility."

Claude watched the growing crowd with a bemused expression.

Claude: "Looks like you've gone from Merchant Prince to Camp Tailor."

Micheal (grinning): "Innovator, Claude. Camp Innovator."

Despite the initial skepticism, Micheal's reputation began to shift. Even Garrick started spreading the word about "Micheal's Fixes."

Late one evening, Micheal revisited an old idea: the man-bra.

Micheal (to Claude): "It's about weight distribution and chest protection. Imagine something lightweight but sturdy—form-fitting to prevent injuries."

Claude nearly choked on his drink.

Claude: "You're really pushing it now, aren't you? Good luck selling that one."

Surprisingly, the beastmen recruits were more receptive. To them, protective gear was protective gear, regardless of design. After some spirited debates and feedback, Micheal adjusted the design, making it resemble a form-fitting chest plate rather than its initial, controversial shape.

Claude (smirking): "Congratulations, Prince. You've invented a chest corset."

Micheal (laughing): "Call it what you want. If it works, I don't care."

Micheal's efforts slowly earned him the respect of his peers. Soldiers began to see him as more than a pampered noble, appreciating his ingenuity and determination.

Claude (to Garrick): "The Merchant Prince might actually make it here."

Garrick (half-smiling): "Let's hope his ideas keep up with his ambition."

By the end of the week, Micheal's reputation was no longer tied to his name but to the practical solutions he brought to the camp. "Micheal's Fixes" became a badge of honor among the recruits, cementing his place as one of their own.

The chaos of camp life had become a peculiar normalcy for Micheal. Breeze darted around his feet, chewing through discarded straps of aura-threaded leather while Micheal carefully inspected a recruit's dented chest plate. The sounds of clanging metal, roaring laughter, and barked commands filled the air as Micheal made notes for his next design upgrade. Claude, as usual, loomed nearby, grumbling about everything from the weather to the recruits' questionable hygiene.

"Breeze, stop!" Micheal exclaimed, yanking the puppy back as it tried to steal a recruit's aura snack.

Across the training field, Drifter and a sharp-eyed newcomer observed the scene. The man stood out with his regal bearing, dressed in rich, dark military attire adorned with the insignia of House Shelb. Duke Louis von Shelb was unmistakable.

Drifter glanced at the Duke, unsure of his intentions.

Drifter (cautiously): "Your Grace, we don't often receive visits from someone of your stature. To what do we owe the honor?"

Duke Louis (distracted, staring at Micheal): "Diplomatic oversight… nothing more."

Drifter arched an eyebrow but remained silent.

Back at the Shelb estate, Duchess Eleanor's scathing words had refused to leave Duke Louis's mind. The idea of his youngest son, Micheal, enlisting had gnawed at him endlessly. Torn between his role as a father and his pride as a military man, he found himself steering his carriage toward Armond's camp. His original plans of mentoring Flora in the palace to strategically leverage the upcoming flower festival were unceremoniously shelved. Louis's eyes narrowed as he took in the scene before him—his youngest son, bare-chested, streaked with mud, and hauling sacks of supplies like a common laborer. His already grim expression darkened when he noticed Micheal's playful interactions with Breeze. This wasn't discipline or refinement; it was chaos.

Duke Louis (muttering): "What in the Emperor's name is he doing?"

Drifter followed Louis's gaze and sighed knowingly.

Drifter: "Your son is adapting well. Better than most recruits in their first week, actually."

The Duke's lips tightened, clearly unimpressed.

Duke Louis: "This isn't discipline. It's barbarism."

Drifter folded his arms, his expression growing firm.

Drifter: "With all due respect, Your Grace, this 'barbarism' prepares men for survival. Titles and nobility mean little when you're facing the Empire's enemies on the front lines."

Louis stiffened, but his retort died on his lips as the sparring yard caught his attention. Micheal was facing Garrick in a rematch. The grizzly half-beast loomed over him, his sheer size and strength making the match seem almost cruel. Yet Micheal stood his ground, his movements sharper than before, his footwork precise. Despite being overpowered, he dodged Garrick's swings with nimble grace, landing a light tap on the beastman's ribs that drew a ripple of applause from the recruits.

For a fleeting moment, pride flickered in Louis's eyes. He clenched his fists, torn between admiration and worry. This wasn't the place for Micheal, not with his frail heart.

Duke Louis (softly): "That's my boy…"

Drifter turned toward him, intrigued by the emotion in the Duke's voice.

Drifter: "He's got potential, Your Grace. More than I expected."

Louis hesitated, glancing at Drifter.

Duke Louis: "You don't understand. Micheal wasn't meant for this." He paused, his voice lowering. "He unlocked his sword aura at five—unprecedented in Shelb history."

Drifter's eyes widened in surprise.

Drifter: "I always assumed that prodigy was one of your older sons. Ethan or Adrian."

Louis shook his head, his shoulders heavy with regret.

Duke Louis: "No. It was Micheal. He was our brightest hope... until we discovered his congenital heart condition. Every beat of his heart is a battle. He was never supposed to be here."

Drifter absorbed the revelation, his respect for Micheal shifting into something deeper.

Drifter (firmly): "Then that makes his determination all the more extraordinary. He's fighting not just for himself but against odds most recruits can't even fathom."

Louis's gaze lingered on his son, who was now laughing with Garrick after their match. Breeze yapped at Micheal's feet, attempting to join in the celebration. The scene brought a rare warmth to the Duke's heart, but it wasn't enough to dispel his fears.

Duke Louis (grimly): "This is no place for him. I'll bring him home."

Drifter's expression hardened.

Drifter: "If you take him now, Your Grace, it'll undo everything he's built here. Camaraderie doesn't grow overnight, and neither does confidence. You'd be robbing him of more than just training—you'd be taking away his chance to prove himself."

Louis turned to Drifter, his face a mask of conflicted emotions.

Duke Louis: "He's not just a recruit—he's my son. And if anything happens to him…"

The words hung in the air, unspoken but understood. Without waiting for a reply, Louis turned on his heel and strode back toward his carriage. Drifter watched him go, a rare flicker of sympathy crossing his usually stoic features.

Meanwhile, Micheal caught a glimpse of a retreating figure in the distance but shrugged it off, too engrossed in his newfound rhythm at the camp. As Breeze tugged at the hem of his trousers, Micheal laughed, oblivious to the storm brewing in his father's heart.

The next day the morning chaos of the Armond camp had its usual rhythm—sparring soldiers, recruits hauling supplies, and the occasional argument over stolen snacks. But today, the camp's routine shattered with the arrival of an imperial carriage. Its polished exterior gleamed in the sunlight, and its horses moved with the elegance of well-bred beasts, their hooves barely touching the ground.

The soldiers froze mid-motion, stunned into silence. From the carriage stepped Magda Valoria von Shelb, her crimson eyes gleaming with purpose. Her black, wavy hair cascaded down her back in a restrained yet regal style. She bore a badge marking her as the "Consultant for Rune and Formation Reinforcement," but the soldiers barely registered the title. To them, she seemed otherworldly, more like a celestial figure than a royal mage. The faint shimmer of mana from her insignia added to her mystique, making her seem untouchable.

As she approached the command tent, the soldiers couldn't help but stare.

Soldier #1 (awed, whispering): "She's like an angel descended from the heavens."

Soldier #2: "Do you think she's married?"

Soldier #3 (grinning): "If she's not, I'm volunteering."

Senior Soldier (rolling his eyes): "Keep dreaming, idiots. She's here on official business."

A burly soldier smacked them on the back of the heads, muttering about propriety, but the men barely noticed, their eyes still fixed on Magda.

Drifter stood near the command post, arms crossed as he observed the chaos. He had been briefed about the visit but hadn't expected this level of distraction.

Drifter (muttering under his breath): "First the Duke, now the Princess. What's next, the Emperor himself?"

Aide (grinning): "Careful, sir. Talk of the devil, and he might just appear."

At time point of time if Drifter had known how true his Aide's words would be in the future, he would've cried.

In the Rowdy Barracks, Claude burst in, his fox ears twitching with excitement.

Claude: "Boys, guess what? An imperial mage is here. Royal badge and everything. And she's stunning—black hair, red eyes, the whole package."

The soldiers perked up, their chatter immediately shifting to the topic of the mysterious visitor.

Soldier #1: "A royal mage? What's she doing in Armond's camp?"

Claude: "Official business, obviously. But I swear, she's like a goddess."

Soldier #2: "Sounds like someone's got a crush."

Claude: "Hey, I've got standards! But if she needs a bodyguard…"

Micheal, seated in a corner fixing a torn strap on Garrick's chest armor, remained quiet. But the moment Claude mentioned crimson eyes, Micheal's hands froze. He accidentally dropped the heavy armor drawing Claude's attention.

Claude (narrowing his eyes): "Wait… do you know her?"

Micheal (looking away, flustered): "No. Why would I?"

Claude (grinning): "Oh, you definitely know her. Boys, I think our Merchant Prince has a crush!"

The barracks erupted into laughter.

Soldier #3: "No wonder he's fixing that rugged manbun. Trying to look like a romantic hero?"

Micheal (deadpan): "Keep talking, and I'll stop fixing your gear."

Claude (mock gasping): "Not our gear, oh mighty fixer! Have mercy!"

Despite the teasing, Micheal kept his head down, hoping the conversation would die quickly. But inside, he was anything but calm.

Micheal (to himself): "She's here. What do I even say? 'Hi, remember me, your husband who couldn't call you back?'"