The Laziest God Mortal Reincarnation

"I don’t know."

That was not an answer I expected from the only known human to reach an SSS-ranked core.

"You were unable to identify it?"

"I said I don’t know."

There was irritation in his voice now.

Not directed at me.

At the memory.

That made the statement more important.

"Describe it."

He looked toward the grey sky.

"I was meditating."

"Where?"

"Far from here."

"That does not narrow much."

"It doesn’t need to."

I allowed that.

"There was no mana disturbance," he continued. "No spatial displacement. No spell formation. Nothing I recognized as an attack."

His eyes narrowed slightly.

"For an instant, something changed."

"What changed?"

"The world."

I waited.

He knew the answer was inadequate.

Eventually he continued.

"It felt as though..."

He stopped.

For a man who had lived more than a century, uncertainty appeared to irritate him deeply.

"...something opened."

I studied him.

"A spatial tear?"

"No."

"A dimensional breach?"

"No."

"A large-scale teleportation?"

"No."

"Then what?"

"I told you."

He turned toward me.

"I don’t know."

That answer carried more weight the second time.

"What did you do?"

"Searched."

"For how long?"

"Months."

That interested me.

This had bothered him enough to investigate for months.

"And you found nothing."

"Nothing."

"No residual mana?"

"No."

"No abnormal creatures?"

"No."

"No environmental changes?"

"None."

"Did anyone else sense it?"

"Nobody I asked."

He paused.

"Most looked at me the way you’re trying not to."

I did not bother denying it.

"What way is that?"

"As though you’re deciding whether age has finally damaged my mind."

"That possibility should always remain available."

He smiled faintly.

"Better."

Then the smile vanished.

"I eventually stopped searching."

"But you remembered."

"Some things should not be forgotten merely because they cannot be explained."

I understood that philosophy very well.

It was the reason I was standing here.

I began reconstructing the timeline.

Fifteen years.

The births of the five.

The sensation he described.

Then, years later, the beastkin conflict.

Three events.

Possibly unrelated.

There was still no evidence tying them together.

Only timing.

Timing was not proof.

I refused to confuse correlation with causation simply because the pattern was unsettling.

But caution did not require proof.

Only sufficient consequence.

If the events were unrelated, preparing cost us resources and time.

If they were connected and we ignored them, the cost could be considerably higher.

"You think they’re connected," the Hermit said.

I looked at him.

"I think there is insufficient evidence to claim that."

"Careful answer."

"Accurate answer."

"And privately?"

I considered the question.

"Privately, I think five SSS potentials appearing in one generation is unlikely enough to demand explanation."

He waited.

"The fact that you experienced something unprecedented around the same period increases that concern."

"And the beastkin war?"

"Possibly irrelevant."

"Possibly."

"Or another symptom."

That silenced both of us.

The wind moved across the plateau.

I looked toward the horizon.

There was an uncomfortable truth in front of us.

Neither of us understood what had happened fifteen years ago.

Neither knew whether the five children mattered beyond their potential.

Neither knew if the war had any connection to either event.

Uncertainty.

Most people disliked uncertainty because it frightened them.

I disliked it because it limited preparation.

"I want you at Zenith," I said.

He sighed.

"No."

"You are curious."

"Yes."

"Then meet them."

"Curiosity does not require teaching teenagers."

"It helps."

"Not enough."

I expected resistance.

The difficulty was choosing the correct argument.

Duty would fail.

The Mirage Hermit had abandoned public responsibility decades ago.

Prestige meant nothing.

Money meant less.

Authority would likely make him leave before I finished speaking.

Curiosity was useful.

But insufficient.

So I used truth.

"They need someone who does not care that they are SSS."

His expression shifted.

"Explain."

"Everyone around those children has spent five years telling them what they might become."

I stepped closer.

"Families protect them. Nobles court them. The Kingdom evaluate them as future strategic assets. Instructors will see potential before personality."

He said nothing.

"You won’t."

"No."

"You won’t care about their families."

"No."

"Their titles."

"No."

"Their political importance."

"Certainly not."

"Their expectations."

He almost looked offended.

"Why would I?"

"Exactly."

For the first time, I saw genuine consideration in his expression.

"SSS potential does not make them powerful," I continued. "It merely gives them the possibility of becoming powerful."

The Hermit’s eyes hardened.

"Potential is a promise made by the future."

His voice was quieter now.

"Most people ruin themselves trying to collect it."

There it was.

Experience.

Not theory.

I stored the sentence away.

"Zenith’s system is changing for them," I said.

His expression became less interested.

I continued anyway.

"Five permanent classes. One SSS student in each."

That brought his attention back.

"They will lead?"

"Yes."

"At fifteen."

"That is precisely why."

I explained the structure.

No individual rankings.

Class rankings instead.

Each SSS student responsible for their group’s performance.

Academic results.

Combat.

Field exercises.

Resource management.

Strategy.

Cooperation.

Their strength would matter.

But so would their ability to improve everyone around them.

The Hermit listened without interruption.

When I finished, he looked thoughtful.

"You’re trying to prevent them from becoming five isolated monsters."

"Among other things."

"By forcing responsibility on them."

"Responsibility is rarely volunteered for at fifteen."

A faint smile appeared.

"Or eighty-one."

"Some of us were less successful at escaping it than others."

He ignored that.

"Interesting system."

"Then come observe it."

"No."

I had expected that.

Still irritating.

"You acknowledged it’s interesting."

"That doesn’t mean I want to participate."

"Meet them once."

"Why?"

"Because if there is a connection between what you felt fifteen years ago and those five children, proximity may tell you something."

Silence.

That was the argument.

Not teaching.

Not Zenith.

Not responsibility.

The unanswered question he had carried for fifteen years.

I could see him considering it.

"You are manipulating my curiosity, child."

"I am presenting relevant information."

"That’s what administrators call manipulation."

"I have found the terminology useful."

His mouth curved slightly.

The barren plateau disappeared.

The waterfall returned around us.

The transition was as instantaneous as before.

Water thundered down.

Birds called from the trees.

Mist settled against my face.

The temperature dropped.

Every sense insisted we had never left.

I disliked his attribute immensely.

The Hermit was seated beneath the waterfall again.

I had not seen him move.

"I will think about it."

I studied him.

For a man like him, that was considerably closer to agreement than most people would realize.

"When?"

"When I’ve finished thinking."

"That answer lacks practical value."

"Most answers do."

"When should I return?"

"You shouldn’t."

I frowned.

He closed his eyes.

"I’ll find you."

"You know where Zenith is?"

One eye opened.

"Theoran."

No child.

Interesting.

"I spent decades ensuring people cannot find me."

He closed his eye again.

"Finding other people is considerably easier."

Fair.

I turned away.

Four months of searching had produced no agreement.

But I had learned something far more important.

Fifteen years ago, the strongest human alive had felt something he could neither identify nor explain.

At approximately the same time, five children destined to awaken SSS potential had been born.

Perhaps it was coincidence.

I still had no evidence otherwise.

But the possibility could no longer be dismissed.

I had come here seeking a teacher.

I was leaving with another question.

In my experience, questions were often more dangerous.

I took several steps toward the path.

Then stopped.

There had been a path when I arrived.

There was no path now.

Only dense forest.

I looked back.

The Hermit remained beneath the waterfall, eyes closed.

"Which direction?"

He did not answer.

"Hermit."

Silence.

I waited.

Eventually his voice came through the sound of falling water.

"Walk."

"Where?"

"Eventually you’ll arrive somewhere."

I closed my eyes briefly.

Eighty-one years.

Forty-two as Headmaster.

Decades spent cultivating patience.

It appeared there were still limits worth discovering.

I began walking.

Behind me, I heard something suspiciously similar to quiet laughter.

I chose not to turn around.

There were two months remaining before the new students entered Zenith.

I had much to prepare.

And now, unfortunately, much more to consider.

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