The command post tent had no gaps for the wind to slip through. The leather canvas sealed in the night air, with only the heat from the lamp stirring the atmosphere. Misaki sat facing a folding desk, her pen racing across the edge of a parchment filled with fine script as she kept the seventh volume of the Gais Documents spread open before her. The timing of the Empire's supply convoy entering the mountain pass—Pasvek. The hours needed for horses to traverse the mountain roads back and forth. The water and provisions consumed from the departure point to the destination. She had been stacking these calculations in four-hour increments. Each time a messenger returned, the Empire's current position was updated, cross-referenced against the map, corrected, and stacked again. The pen's tip stopped. The calculations matched. Misaki checked the numbers once more. They were correct. The Empire's supply line had been lured into the detour route set by Reon's elite unit tonight, completely cutting off material transport to Grentzaha Fortress. Retreat or starvation. Either choice meant the Empire couldn't hold the fortress. "...The blockade is successful, ma'am." The moment the breathless messenger's voice reached her ears as he ducked into the tent. All strength drained from her body. Misaki collapsed onto the stone beside her. She couldn't remain standing. Her knees were trembling. Her arms felt heavy. The sensation of something pressing down on her shoulders finally began to fade. When she looked at her hands, they were shaking in small tremors. (So... I was scared the whole time.) She hadn't noticed it while doing the calculations. The work of cross-referencing numbers and maps had sealed the fear away. But her body was honest—it had been quietly accumulating everything. Thirty-six hours without sleep. She'd been given water, but barely eaten anything. It was similar to what had been called a "death march" in her previous life. (Still, my own tension had a larger margin of error than thirty-six hours of logistics forecasting.) She caught herself with an internal quip and found herself laughing softly despite herself. It was funny for no reason. A quiet, exhausted laugh that came when the tension finally snapped. --- At the same time, a different battle continued in Felthain Castle. Night had settled deep in the royal capital of Luminous Kingdom—a fortress city nestled at the foot of mountains, surrounded by cobblestone streets and ancient stone walls—in the palace wing. Lamps lined the corridors at regular intervals, casting long shadows. Aira stood before the door to the Minister's office, a leather pouch containing the secret treaty held in her right hand. Her silver hair, gleaming in the lamplight, was loosely tied back. Her water-blue eyes showed the fatigue of a sleepless night. But her hands weren't shaking. The habitual motion of touching the hilt of her short sword at her waist was absent tonight. "Minister of State Arnold and Minister Calven. I need you both to verify the original secret treaty." A sixteen-year-old girl spoke clearly toward the door separating her from them. The door opened. Two ministers—one in his sixties, one in his fifties—looked down at the young girl holding a bundle of documents sealed with silver wax. "The original secret treaty with the Zeevaldt Empire." Aira extended the leather pouch. "Evidence that Minister of State Kasiesu leaked the fortress garrison numbers to the Empire and assisted Grentzaha Fortress's fall from within. The dates and times of meetings recorded in the double cipher of the Gais Documents match with the action records of the imperial messenger and this original. Begin condemnation proceedings immediately." The two ministers exchanged glances. There was no wavering in Aira's voice. She bowed deeply, then raised her face. Her eyes held no doubt. The proceedings began. It was forty minutes later when Kasiesu tried to throw the evidence documents into the fireplace in his study. A bundle of papers approached the flames by the study window. Just as the edges began to burn, the door to the corridor entrance was struck. Kasiesu pulled the papers back, tucking them into his coat instead. He tried to leave through the corridor exit rather than the main door. A short sword appeared around the corner of the hallway. The blade wasn't drawn. The scabbard was thrust forward, its tip stopping in front of Kasiesu's chest. Aira held the hilt. "You seem to be in a hurry, Minister." Her voice was lower than usual. The bright, familiar tone had vanished, leaving only the years accumulated as a bodyguard. Kasiesu didn't move a single eyebrow. Silver hair, gray eyes, the expression behind silver-rimmed glasses remained calm as he looked at Aira. "What can a child's bodyguard do against me?" His voice was gentle. No anger, no agitation. The voice of a man who had lived fifty-six years within calculations—a voice where emotion never reached the depths. Aira didn't lower her short sword. (In the fifth episode, I drew a sword against that person. Following orders, I made a mistake.) That memory lived in her chest. That night at the edge of the corridor, standing before Misaki heading toward the great hall, blocking her path. That night when she wavered between the self that followed orders and the self that delivered soup. "I'll take back what I got wrong that night today." She spoke shortly and clearly. Kasiesu didn't resist physically. Two guards assigned to the minister appeared behind him, restraining both his arms. Documents were pulled from his coat. A copy of the secret treaty. The one he'd failed to put in the fireplace. As he was led away, his posture never collapsed. And to the very end, a faint smile never left his face. The guards' footsteps faded into the distance. In the corridor where no one could see, Aira leaned her back against the wall. Her knees folded, and she sank to the stone floor. Hugging both knees, she took one long, deep breath. She didn't think "good." She didn't yet feel "it's over." Her body was simply heavy. Heavy and warm. The corridor's lamp flame swayed quietly. --- The recapture of Grentzaha Fortress was completed as the morning mist cleared. The Empire's forces, having begun their retreat, disappeared south of the pass, and the Luminous flag was raised once more on the fortress's gate. Misaki stood near the outer wall of the fortress, watching the faces of the returning soldiers. Soiled armor, bandaged arms, feet that still walked despite everything. Each one had a face. In her previous life, she had managed project progress through numbers. Task completion rates, operational hours, bug counts. Numbers on a screen. She had understood intellectually that living humans existed beyond those numbers. But understanding and truly grasping were different things. Now, watching the faces pass before her, the numbers she had desperately calculated last night finally connected with a single thread to reality. Captain Bruno Haze—the fortress commander, a straightforward soldier whom Reon trusted—was carried on a stretcher. A deep wound on his right arm, bandages wrapped around his side. Yet his eyes remained open. Reon knelt beside the stretcher. "I believed you would come, Your Highness." The captain's voice was hoarse. That was all he said. Either he had no more words, or he thought no more were necessary. Reon said nothing. He simply nodded. For one or two seconds. His deep chestnut hair swayed in the wind, his golden eyes quietly regarding the captain's face. There was a royal dignity in that exchange, and something beyond it—something that needed no words. Misaki, standing a little distance away, realized that people's devotion to people is always built from such accumulated moments. The stretcher was carried away. Reon stood and turned. Misaki was leaning against the stone wall. Her legs felt heavy from exhaustion. Though the bright morning needed no lamp, her body still hadn't switched from the night's calculation work. Reon approached. He was covered in dust from the battle. A shallow scrape marked his cheek, and his shoulder armor bore a scratch. Yet his gait didn't waver. His footsteps stopped. Reon stood beside Misaki, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. He said nothing. His right hand rested on her shoulder. Gently, but with definite weight. Was it an apology? Gratitude? Confirmation of trust? It was all of these mixed together. Misaki remembered Reon's face that night when he had issued the restraint order—when he'd forced out the words "restrain her." That wasn't the face of someone who didn't believe. It was the face of a prince who had to make a judgment while swallowing everything whole. This hand probably carried the same meaning. Something in Misaki's chest jumped quietly. For seven years in her previous life, she had only stood beside people in the context of work. Since coming to this other world, she had moved within numbers and logic. Yet now, with her back against the stone wall standing beside Reon at this distance, it felt closer than any moment before. She was aware of it. The moment she realized, she felt a little embarrassed, but she had no desire to deny it. Misaki smiled first. "Project complete, Your Highness." She spoke in a small but certain voice. In the language of a project manager. With the completion declaration she had carried over from her previous life. Her own alone. Reon exhaled. It was closest to a wry smile. His usual dignity cracked slightly, and the face of an eighteen-year-old showed through. His hand left her shoulder. "...Next time, I'd prefer to request something easier." "It depends on the scope of future projects." The exchange was brief. But both of them were smiling a little. --- They returned to the capital by evening. In the palace corridors, nobles stopped whenever they spotted Misaki. It was clear they wanted to say something about the false accusation, but their words wouldn't come together. "Well, that is..." they'd begin, then stop, begin again, then stop. The pattern repeated. They seemed unsure themselves whether they were apologizing or making excuses, what they should say. "It's already in the past." Misaki cut it short when the third person faltered. A single, clean statement that was neither more nor less. "Um, Misaki..." Aira, walking beside her in the corridor, murmured softly. "You're really a strange person, aren't you?" There was laughter in her hushed voice. Whether she was complimenting or exasperated—probably both. "I'll take that as a compliment." Misaki returned in the same quiet tone. The two laughed together in the corridor. A silent laugh, shoulders trembling just slightly. That was enough. The distance between this moment and that night when Aira had stood before Misaki with a drawn short sword, blocking her path, spoke more than the volume of their laughter. --- Night deepened. Misaki was alone in the Tsaarhaus office—the stone building in the castle's west wing where the former Prime Minister Gais had spent thirty years—with the remaining volumes of the Gais Documents spread before her. The second half of the seventh volume. In terms of her previous life's project management, this was equivalent to final phase deliverable verification. Even after everything was finished, the pen moved. That was her way, unchanged from her previous life to this one. One lamp. Outside the stone window, darkness. The lights of Felthain's old city glowed faintly in the distance. The door opened. It was Reon. He had removed his armor. A subdued-colored jacket, close to casual wear. The dust had been cleaned off, but the scrape on his cheek remained. Hours had passed since the battle ended, yet he showed no sign of fatigue—perhaps it was this prince's habit. He entered the office and looked at Misaki standing before the desk. "You're still at it?" N