The story of *Mushoku Tensei* Volume 17 picks up right where the previous volume left off, focusing on the journey to Ars, the capital of the Kingdom of Asura, and Ariel’s rise to power through a series of political maneuvers and violent confrontations. What struck me most about this volume is how brilliantly Rifujin captures the essence of medieval European aristocracy. Modern research increasingly emphasizes the importance of rituals during this period, which likely held more significance than at any other point in European history. Public appearances between nobles were meticulously choreographed, down to the smallest detail, including penance rituals where someone humbly submitted to a ruler, who then pardoned them as a noble gesture—each gesture sending subtle signals to others. These events were almost never genuine expressions of emotion but rather elaborate performances for a noble audience. This volume captures that foreign world beautifully.
From Ariel’s ceremonial entrance into the city, where she presents herself in the presence of notable figures like Luke, to the gathering she hosts to publicly accuse Minister Darius of his crimes against Tristina, it’s clear that the public staging of these acts was more critical than having them formally addressed in court. Then there’s Perugius’ grand entrance, during which he assigns Ariel her place, effectively proclaiming her the new queen through this ritual. The choice of seating and the accompanying gestures were crucial within noble and royal houses. Finally, we see Pilemon’s act of submission to Ariel, who pardons him—though Ariel’s handling of this ritual felt somewhat unusual. Nevertheless, the narrative effectively demonstrates how Ariel skillfully navigates these noble customs and gestures to her advantage, ultimately securing her victory in the struggle for the throne. While supporting characters played significant roles, it was Ariel’s own skills and decisions that secured her triumph—a crucial point, especially considering how much of the previous volume focused on Rudeus and Orsted helping her from the shadows rather than her taking proactive action.
This depiction of aristocratic life also serves to highlight the stark contrast with Rudeus, showing why he isn’t suited for this world. For the first time, he’s directly involved in a murder, witnessing it up close—and it clearly shakes him. Meanwhile, Ariel remains completely composed throughout the entire climax—during her accusations against Darius, during the attack and execution order of Reida (even when she appeared to be in a hopeless situation), during Lord Pilemon’s plea for mercy, and even when Luke holds a sword to her throat. Whether she suffered internally during these moments is left to the imagination, as the story never shifts to her internal perspective; we only see her through the eyes of Luke and Rudeus. Ariel is able to suppress her emotions because she understands that such acts of murder and deadly intrigue are part of noble life, and she has consciously chosen this path. Rudeus, on the other hand, cannot accept this norm of mutual killing, and it becomes clear that there’s no place for him in the world of nobles. This contrast is further emphasized by characters like Eris and Ghislaine, who have spent much of their lives in noble courts and have fewer qualms about killing. However, due to her connection with Rudeus, Eris shows more restraint—she doesn’t kill Darius herself but leaves it to Ghislaine and ultimately prevents her from continuing her vengeance against Pilemon. Symbolically, their paths diverge at the end: Ghislaine remains at the noble court, where she feels more at home, while Eris returns home with Rudeus. These elements give the story a sense of both internal and external departure: the characters start together in Ranoa, venture into the world of nobles, and by the end, those who identify with this life stay behind, while those who prefer Rudeus’ simpler, more familial life return with him. This is why Sylphie leaves Luke and Ariel, and Eris leaves Ghislaine—both moments are deeply fulfilling narratively because they mark the separation of characters who have been together almost continuously since volumes 5 and 6, highlighting the weight of their long history.
Speaking of perspectives, there was one aspect of the narrative that I didn’t like, mainly how some of the events were conveyed. The series usually maintains an internal focus, most often from Rudeus’ point of view, and occasionally from other characters. However, the events and especially the dialogues are often described as if by an omniscient narrator. In this volume, there were several instances where moments that should have been narratively significant were instead described retrospectively. For example, when Luke confesses to Ariel that he’s been influenced by the Man God, resolving a long-standing narrative mystery, we don’t get to experience this moment directly—instead, it’s relayed in a few descriptive lines by Rudeus, recounting what Ariel told him. The same issue arises with Pilemon: Luke suffers greatly from the uncertainty about whether his father betrayed Ariel, and this uncertainty is kept lingering for the time-being, but once again, it’s resolved descriptively, without letting us experience the revelation. I can’t recall any previous instances in the series where this happened. Usually, events are described in hindsight when summarizing a longer period, while all significant revelations are vividly portrayed. The fact that this happened repeatedly in this volume was strange, to say the least.
Another moment that initially seemed problematic but ultimately worked well was Luke’s betrayal of Ariel, where the importance of perspectives is once again highlighted. Initially, we only have Rudeus’ external perspective—he enters the room, sees Luke threatening the princess he swore to protect, and hears him tell his best friend to kill her husband. At first, I thought this would be an overly dramatic moment where Luke’s previously established character is thrown out the window, but seeing things from Luke’s perspective later on offered a different view. The helplessness he felt as he was supposed to watch his father’s execution and a brief, irrational moment where he could no longer suppress his human emotions and lashed out—combined with the fact that his command to Sylphie was more of a question than an order—made the situation more understandable. The resolution of this conflict, where Ariel’s simple reminder of their shared past convinces Luke to back down, and she then provides him with a public excuse, choosing not to condemn or execute him but instead to forgive him, was deeply moving. This was the first time Ariel broke away from the aristocratic rationality that had defined her throughout the novel and reacted in a more human way, much like how Rudeus tends to act—against all noble logic, she forgives Luke and, in doing so, forgives his father as well. While the scene may have seemed odd externally, it was incredibly significant internally because it reminded Ariel of what she must embody as a ruler: the humanity she learned during her journey to Ranoa with her friends and allies.
Another interesting aspect was how Rudeus’ game of deception continued to evolve. As I mentioned in my review of the previous volume, Rudeus is now openly deceiving his friends and family to execute Orsted’s plan without revealing too much to the Man God. Here, the game of deception becomes a game of counter-deception, as the Man God’s words to Luke fuel his mistrust of Rudeus’ actions, ultimately triggering the volume’s biggest conflict. This dynamic becomes even more intriguing as Orsted takes a more proactive role in this game, participating directly but, unlike Rudeus, being more open with information and even deceiving Rudeus about his abilities. As a result, Rudeus, like Luke, realizes that Orsted is hiding something, although, unlike Luke, he doesn’t seek a direct confrontation. The revelation that Orsted is trapped in a time loop was a fascinating but entirely plausible twist, raising several questions, especially because his time travel differs from Rudeus’. Orsted is literally stuck in a cycle; when he returns, he can’t interact with his past self, and the world resets as if he’s loading an old save file. Rudeus, on the other hand, was able to interact with his past self and significantly alter the future—while the world recognized that he had time-traveled, at least the Man God and the Demon God in the library did, whereas this isn’t the case with Orsted. This must also be the first timeline in which Rudeus exists, as evidenced by Orsted’s assumption in Volume 6 that Paul had only two daughters, meaning he wasn’t yet part of the loop—even though he’s crucial to the Man God’s defeat. My biggest question as of now is why the Man God feared Orsted and felt the need to send his apostles against him in previous loops if Orsted posed no threat. Additionally, I wonder what role Nanahoshi plays in all of this. She apparently came into the world during the Displacement Incident, which was also when the Man God first appeared to Rudeus—and as we learned in Volume 6, Nanahoshi is the sole reason Rudeus was able to survive and produce offsprings. I have a feeling that all these elements are connected somehow, and I’m eager to see where the story will take them.