Her hands were trembling again. Kirihara Setsuna ignored the tremor and pressed her fingers into the rubble. The cold touch of stone traveled through her palms, up her arms, settling somewhere deep. It was still before dawn. When the edge of the sky had only just begun to pale, Setsuna had left the Memorial Management Bureau's headquarters and slipped through the south gate alone. A goblin guard had started to call out—"Kirihara, you're early again"—but stopped himself. It was the same every morning now. No one tried to stop her anymore. Two kilometers from Tempest's south gate. Beyond this point lay the scorched earth. Black, charred ground stretched endlessly. Broken trees reached toward the sky like withered arms. The soil was ash-gray, not a single blade of grass growing anywhere. Three months ago, something had happened in this place—and the answer was the wasteland itself. The Demon Lord's army had invaded Tempest exactly three months ago. In roughly two weeks of combat, Tempest's casualties had exceeded 1,200. The southern districts of the city still hadn't caught up with reconstruction. More than that, magical essence—the world's fundamental energy—still lingered in this scorched earth, spawning low-level monsters of its own accord. In other words, this place was still dangerous. Setsuna didn't care. A thin back draped in an ash-gray mantle moved through the rubble. Her short black bob swayed slightly in the dry wind. Clear blue eyes gazed quietly across the ground. Her pupils were faintly vertical—not quite like a human's. Setsuna had been human once. Now she was neither one thing nor the other. She moved rubble aside. She clawed through mud. A rusted sword hilt emerged. Setsuna picked it up with both hands and wrapped it in cloth. Carefully. Slowly. Someone had gripped this hilt. The shape of someone's hand might still remain in the rust. Her left shoulder ached. In that moment, memory flashed. A pillar of fire. A roar. Someone calling her name— Setsuna narrowed her eyes. She didn't stop moving. She'd already learned: she couldn't continue this work if she didn't kill her emotions. ＊ When the sun had risen a little higher, another figure appeared in the scorched earth. Her colleagues from the Memorial Management Bureau. Three goblin recovery workers descended at a distance and began their work. One of them started to call out: "Kirihara, today again—" The colleague beside him stopped him with a subtle elbow. A silent exchange. That was enough. The position of "remains recovery worker" had been created right after the great war ended. Recover belongings and bodies from battlefields, deliver them to families. The daily wage was three silver coins—about 4,500 yen at current rates. Too little for venturing into danger zones. Yet about thirty recovery workers did this work now. All of them had combat experience. Every weekend, the "Remains Return Ceremony" was held in Tempest's central plaza. When recovered belongings were handed to families, the recovery worker read aloud the name of the deceased. Setsuna held that role. No one had ever asked her why she read the names. She never explained. Only her voice, reading names in the plaza every weekend, rang out quiet and straight. After finishing the morning's work, Setsuna packed the recovered items into her carrying bag. One. Then another. Her hands held no emotion. But they weren't careless either. That, somehow, pierced the hearts of the watching goblins. No one spoke. ＊ Past noon, a figure appeared at the edge of the scorched earth. A white kosode. A pale cherry-pink sash. Long hair in thin purple, loosely gathered at the back, the ends curling softly. Slightly taller than Setsuna, with silver eyes holding a quiet light. Shuna. The closest aide to Tempest's supreme leader Rimuru, and the woman who effectively managed the government's domestic affairs. One of the oni-kin—a rare evolved species, once of the demon clans but named and transformed by Rimuru—with only about forty of her kind in Tempest. Her physical abilities far exceeded humans', her lifespan measured in centuries. A pillar of the government. That Shuna stood at the edge of the scorched earth with only a single goblin staff member. Setsuna understood it was nominally an inspection. But Shuna's gaze wasn't fixed on maps or buildings. It was fixed on one point. A black-mantled back. A girl crouching in the rubble, silently clawing through mud. Shuna's faint smile faded slightly. (This child...) Something caught in her chest. Like broken pottery, that back was so thin, yet her knees didn't bend. Shuna stepped forward. "[gentle]Let's take a rest. How about a meal at Kaede's?" Setsuna looked up. Blue eyes met Shuna's. "[cold]That won't be necessary." One sentence. Her gaze had already returned to the recovery bag. Shuna didn't back down. "[gentle]It's not an order. But I'd like you to come with me." Her voice was gentle. But there was something in it—a weight that couldn't be refused. Not quite kindness. Soft, yet unbending. Silence stretched. Setsuna sighed inwardly and stood, gathering her things. ＊ Kaede's was a wooden dining hall next to the government building's east side. About thirty seats. Though it was past noon, today had few customers. Tables sat empty here and there, and light streaming through the windows looked dusty. Shuna had opened this place right as reconstruction began, and it was said she'd stood in the kitchen herself, saying "Everyone needs a place to gather." The daily set meal cost one silver coin. The two sat facing each other at a table in the back. After a while, food was brought. Braised white fish from Jura Lake and root vegetable soup. Steam rose in thin wisps. Setsuna picked up her chopsticks. And held them still. Shuna watched. Not with an accusing gaze, just quietly. Outside the window, a bird flew past. Its shadow crossed the table. Shuna slowly reached out her hand. Across the table, she gently placed it over Setsuna's right hand. Setsuna stiffened slightly. Her gaze fell to Shuna's hand. "[whispers]You haven't cried, have you. It's alright to cry." Her voice was quiet. Not a whisper, just quiet. Something creaked in her chest. Setsuna lowered her eyelids. But tears didn't come. Her eyes felt dry inside. As if she'd left her ability to cry somewhere far behind. Shuna's hand was warm. She couldn't pull away. That much was certain. ＊ At the same time, something else was happening at the scorched earth's outer edge. About two kilometers from the south gate. At that point near the scorched earth's rim, two oni-kin were moving. One was a senior warrior. The other—Enyu Raika, with short black hair streaked with red, left slightly tousled, faced an Ashwolf. A low-level monster with ash-gray fur. In the scorched earth where magical essence lingered, such creatures were born naturally. Raika finished it in one stroke. There was no particular emotion. His deep crimson vertical-slit eyes glanced at the fallen monster, nothing more. His large 185cm frame returned smoothly to its original stance. "That's it, Raika. Let's pull back." His senior said. Raika was about to nod when—his feet stopped. There was a figure in the distance. Walking alone through the scorched earth. A small frame. Carrying a large bag, a black mantle swaying in the wind. Raika's eyes fixed on that gait. The shoulders were too tense. Yet the knees didn't bend. Exhausted, yet not stopping. That way of walking—Raika knew it. The gait of someone who'd lost comrades on the battlefield, yet still moved forward. "Raika?" His senior's voice sounded distant. For a while, Raika couldn't tear his eyes from that back. Just a stranger. He didn't even know their name. Yet—for some reason, he couldn't look away. (It's like resonance between survivors of the battlefield.) He told himself that, and finally followed his senior. ＊ A carriage rolled through Tempest's main gate when the sun had sunk considerably. The young man who descended had silver hair loosely tied back. A deep navy overcoat suited his composed bearing, and gold and silver heterochromatic eyes quietly surveyed Tempest's streets. Tooyama Kei. Twenty-three years old. A diplomat dispatched from the Ingrassia Kingdom's foreign ministry. After politely thanking the goblin guide and depositing his luggage at the inn Mizunagi, Kei immediately set out on inspection. Reading documents alone wouldn't show him the actual situation. That was Kei's way. Tempest was a strange city. Walking streets where stone and wooden buildings mixed, goblin merchants and human travelers haggled side by side. A lizardman fish seller gave extra skewers to a young goblin. The "Coexistence Edict"—the fundamental law of Tempest's founding, prohibiting harm based on species—wasn't just words on paper in this city. You could feel it simply by walking. Population approximately 15,000. The world's only nation where monsters and humans coexisted. Seventy percent of the national treasury invested in reconstruction efforts. The numbers he'd read in documents now carried different weight. When the inspection route reached the southern side, Kei stopped. Beyond the south gate, a black wasteland spread out. The scorched earth. Even from a distance, that land alone was a different color. Less ash-gray than dead-colored. Within it, a single figure moved. One person, silently excavating rubble. A small shadow. Movements precise as machinery, yet somehow heavy. "[serious]...What is that person doing?" He asked the goblin guide. The goblin hesitated for a moment. "...A remains recovery worker, sir." That was all he said, and the guide looked ahead. He didn't continue. Kei watched that back for a while. On paper, it was just one line: "Reconstruction Project—Remains Recovery Personnel." But in reality, this was how it looked—kneeling in dead earth, excavating alone. (So this is what the field looks like.) Thinking that, Kei moved on. Yet the afterimage of that small back remained in his mind. ＊ When the sun had tilted and the sky began to stain orange, Setsuna had returned to the Memorial Management Bureau's headquarters. The remains storage room on the first floor was a dim space with stone shelves lined with recovered items. About four hundred pieces of undelivered belongings. Rusted swords, dented shields, silver ornaments with names engraved. Each one was someone's final possession. Setsuna recorded each item she'd recovered today in the ledger, then arranged them on the shelves. "Rusted sword hilt, one piece, southern scorched earth sector B." "Leather coat fragment, blood-stained, same location." Only the sound of pencil on paper filled the room. Wind blew outside the window. Early autumn wind. Slightly cold, carrying the scent of earth. As she reached for the last item to record—Setsuna's hand stopped. Something remained at the bottom of the bag. Paper not wrapped in cloth. A sealed letter. She picked it up. Dirt and char covered it, the address nearly illegible. But—when she saw the characters remaining on the paper's surface, her fingertips froze. The handwriting. She recognized it. The peculiar stroke pattern. The way hiragana "tsu" was always written too large—that distinctive style— (Whose handwriting is this?) The moment that question crossed her mind, her left shoulder ached sharply. Setsuna quietly wrapped the letter in cloth again. She placed it beside the ledger. She didn't open it. Couldn't. One person remained in the dim storage room. From outside the window, Tempest's early autumn wind blew in a single gust. The lantern flame flickered softly. Setsuna stared at the letter for a long time. The warmth of Shuna's hand still lingered on her right palm.