White headlights painted over his vision, and Kurose Kenji's consciousness vanished without a sound. The feel of asphalt, the blare of a horn, the sensation of scattering glass—all of it melted beyond the white light, leaving nothing behind. When sensation returned, the first thing Kenji perceived was a ceiling. A high, arched ceiling of stone. Flames flickered in candelabras. Orange light traced the joints between stones, casting shadows that danced in complex patterns. Kenji gazed blankly at the wavering light for a moment. It was nothing like a hospital's fluorescent bulbs. The color was warmly hued. (Where am I?) When he tried to sit up, his palm met a soft sensation. Fabric. Expensive fabric at that—smooth enough to cling to his fingertips, embroidered with gold thread or something similar. Luxurious sheets. A canopied bed. In the dimness of the room, a shadow stood against the wall. Armor. A figure clad in full-plate armor of an unfamiliar style stood motionless like a statue. Kenji breathed quietly. Panic could wait. First, gather information. His body felt light. Unnaturally light. Something was fundamentally different from the bodily sensation he'd grown accustomed to over 26 years. When he lifted his arm, the sleeve was too long and slipped down. A thin arm. The shape of the joints was that of a child. (I need a mirror.) He lowered his feet from the bed. Bare feet touched cold stone. A chill, hard surface. Kenji looked around the room. Two candelabras, a large clothing chest, a tapestry hanging on the wall—and in the far wall, a tall silver mirror leaned against the stone. He walked toward it. He stood before the mirror. What reflected back was an unfamiliar boy. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Those transparent blue pupils held a pale color that existed only in dreams. A thin face with a sharp jawline. Not particularly tall—perhaps sixteen or seventeen years old. There was no trace of the 26-year-old engineer with short black hair and red streaks. A thin scar ran along his left cheek. That scar alone, out of place on a boy's face, gave Kenji a faint sense of recognition. The boy in the mirror moved in sync with Kenji. It was him. (I see.) Kenji looked away from the mirror. He took one deep breath. When his gaze shifted to the window, he saw stone walls and a distant starry sky. Moonlight illuminated the stone pavement. Where am I—the thought had barely formed when something appeared in the upper right of his vision. A search bar. A white, familiar search form floated, overlapping his view of reality. The cursor blinked. A colorful logo. Google itself. Kenji wondered for a moment if he was dreaming. But the cold of the stone floor didn't fade, and the candelabra flames continued to flicker. He tried entering text through thought. —Granveld Kingdom. Search results: 0 items. Right. This world's information doesn't exist. Kenji's expression didn't change as he typed the next keyword. —Three-field crop rotation system, yield improvement, medieval Europe. This time results flooded in instantly. Academic papers, agricultural economics journal archives, university lecture materials—English, German, and Japanese mixed together, flowing like a waterfall in the upper right of his vision. Productivity improvement rates from three-field crop rotation, averaging 30-40% increases. Application conditions by soil type. Key points for fallow land management. All existed as accurate data. Modern knowledge was completely usable. Only information unique to this world was restricted. Kenji confirmed this and quietly closed the search bar. The boy in the mirror had a different expression now. Not the confused face of a child—but the face of a man narrowing his eyes quietly, as if measuring something. The night was deep. The cold of the stone floor crept up from his soles. For a while, Kenji watched the candelabra flames cast shadows. --- The next morning, a knock on the door woke him. "[serious]Your Majesty. Today marks your first council session since your ascension." The man who introduced himself as Erik—a meticulous-looking middle-aged official serving as chamberlain—waited for Kenji to rise before helping him change. The garment offered was a jet-black robe. Silver thread embroidered the royal crest across his shoulders and chest—an eagle with spread wings and a sword. It was heavy. Impossibly heavy for a 16-year-old's frame. When the crown was placed on his head, it became heavier still. The moment he stepped into the corridor, the air changed. Courtiers lined both sides of the hallway. All bowed deeply, yet their gazes flickered and moved in time with Kenji's steps. They were watching while bowing. Observing. The voices were quiet. But the stone corridor carried sound well. "[whispers]...What could a child possibly accomplish?" "[whispers]The late king deserves pity." Kenji didn't stop walking. Keeping his gaze forward, he recorded every voice that reached his ears. Appraisal. Contempt. Or simple doubt. Any of it was fine. There was no point in letting emotion move him in this corridor right now. The grand hall of the council chamber was more imposing than he'd anticipated. Morning light streamed through the high arched ceiling, casting long shadows across the stone floor. Twelve noble seats were arranged in a semicircle, with the royal throne directly opposite. Each noble seat bore its house crest and was already occupied. The twelve upper nobility—the Noble Convent, the council of nobles that formed the governing body. Kenji lowered himself onto the throne. All eyes converged. He examined each face in turn. One seat remained empty. The chancellor's seat. The name was in his memory. Valdeus Crawford. The chamberlain had mentioned him in fragments. The man who had effectively ruled this kingdom since the late years of King Verner. The seat was empty. (Intentional?) The Finance Minister rose. He unrolled parchment and began reading. His voice was flat. "[serious]Last autumn's wheat harvest was seventy percent of normal yields. In three southern agricultural districts—the periphery of the Millenia Plain—deaths from malnutrition have been confirmed." Only numbers fell into the room. Silence continued. No one changed expression. Kenji immediately ran a search in his mind. —Medieval Europe, agricultural productivity, two-field crop rotation, problems. Results flowed in. The two-field crop rotation system—managing farmland divided between cultivated and fallow land—had slow soil recovery and low productivity ceilings. Switching to three-field rotation could theoretically yield 30-40% more from the same area. Combined with compost use and soil improvement through lime, further gains were possible. He understood. The problem was clear. So was the solution. The Finance Minister continued. "[serious]The royal treasury holds reserves equivalent to approximately three months of annual kingdom revenue. Additionally, reports indicate that the Dorgan Empire to the northeast has been conducting military movements and demonstrations near Greyfolk Ridge." The Dorgan Empire. A military superpower with a population of eight million. This kingdom had two million. The standing army's size, national power—incomparable. A triple crisis. Food. Finance. Military pressure. All three converged. And more than half the people in this room either lacked the will to change this situation or actively didn't want to. "[serious]May I be permitted to speak, Your Majesty?" The words came out. His own voice was higher than expected. A 16-year-old's vocal cords. The room's atmosphere shifted slightly. In that instant, an elderly courtier rose smoothly. A white-haired man with a gentle expression. "[cold]Your Majesty would be well-advised to first understand the customs and precedents of the kingdom, I humbly submit." His voice was soft. His phrasing was polite. But the meaning was clear. Stay silent. Kenji met the elderly courtier's gaze directly. The man didn't hold it, pretending to study the parchment instead. The room's air carried the weight of acceptance. No voice rose in objection. No one moved to Kenji's side. He clenched his teeth. Hard enough that the sound nearly escaped. But Kenji said nothing. --- After the council session ended, Kenji remained seated on the throne for a while. The courtiers withdrew. Footsteps. The rustle of fabric. The last person closed the door. The vast hall fell silent. He was alone. (Customs and precedents.) He turned the words over in his mouth. They tasted bitter. Halfway back through the eastern corridor, he stopped before one of the castle's high windows. Beyond the stone frame, the city spread out. Weltheim—the capital of the Granveld Kingdom. A mid-sized castle city with a population of roughly 180,000. The Frontier River flowed, bouncing light. Along its banks, carts moved and people carrying loads formed lines. The main thoroughfare—Linden Avenue, as it was apparently called—had stalls set up, and people crossed the stone pavement. The real world. Not a screen. Not data or numbers. The smell of burning wood reached his nostrils. The stench of horses. The noise of the morning market drifted faintly beyond the walls. The smell of living, breathing humans lay beyond the data and figures. When his gaze turned to an alley, Kenji's movements stopped. In the shadow of a stone building, at the end of an alley. A single child sat hugging their knees. Linen clothes. Bare feet. Cheeks sunken with hunger, holding a hard piece of bread in both hands, chewing it slowly. No light in the eyes. Not hunger—eyes that had already grown accustomed to it. Kenji gripped the window frame. The Finance Minister's numbers returned to his mind. Deaths from malnutrition in three southern agricultural districts—. Deaths. Numbers processed into abstraction, now wearing a living face in the alley below. He knew how to increase agricultural productivity. The implementation steps for three-field crop rotation, the timing of soil improvement with lime, the process of compost generation—all searchable. From agricultural research station papers to large-scale farming case studies. Knowledge that humanity in this world might never reach in a thousand years was packed into his head right now. There was no reason not to use it. The engineer's instinct awoke quietly within him. Back when he'd been designing large-scale infrastructure—late nights in the office, drawing blueprints, making schedules, running cost calculations. It didn't matter if no one understood. The only language he had was creating things that worked. That hadn't changed. There was a problem. There was a solution. After that, it was just execution. If a 16-year-old body got in the way, he'd find ways to work with a 16-year-old body. If courtiers blocked him, he'd find ways around them. That was all. The child in the alley finished the last piece of bread. They stood and disappeared silently into the alley's depths. --- Night came. The guards changed every two hours. Kenji had naturally extracted this information during conversation with the chamberlain. After confirming three rotations, he rose from his bed. He took a candelabra and stepped into the corridor. King Verner's study was in the depths of the eastern wing, on the floor above the chancellor's office. When Kenji asked the chamberlain for directions, Erik looked slightly puzzled but drew a map of the castle on parchment. Following that map, Kenji moved through the corridors. Moonlight streamed through stone windows, creating thin bands of light on the floor. Words the chamberlain had spoken kept nagging at him. —Until the day before, the late king had been in good health, but suffered a sudden heart attack. Forty-eight years old. Healthy. Yet sudden death. He had no memory of being related—or rather, memories of Alexis Granveld existed only as a faint mist—but he felt a sense of wrongness abo