[[Title: <<Survival>> confirmed]] [[Unique Skill <<Unyielding Loyalty>> has been reactivated]] [[Tactical Link <<Reinhard & Kirchheis>> connection strength has surged to 400%]] ——Three days had passed since the victory in the Leutenberg system. The Fifth Military Dock of the frontline base, Iserlohn Fortress, was enveloped in its usual clamor. The angry shouts of maintenance soldiers, the sparks of welding machines, the grinding drive sounds of rugged work mechs dragging fuel pipes. The smell of coffee and lubricating oil mixed in the grimy air, and on the catwalk near the ceiling, a bored security guard stifled a yawn. In the control room overlooking the dock, Reinhard von Müsel glared at the supply list displayed on his terminal. A jet-black military uniform. On his left chest, a silver brooch given to him by his sister. His blazing golden hair swayed faintly in the breeze from the air conditioning. "...We're out of tea." "[surprised]Huh?" The newly appointed adjutant, Lieutenant Colonel Kaltenborn, let out a startled yelp involuntarily. The supply list? Not ammunition or fuel? "The Assam is no longer in stock." Reinhard's voice was utterly serious. His azure eyes traced the materiel data with a severity as if analyzing an enemy fleet's formation. "Kirchheis was supposed to have arranged to have it sent from the Imperial Capital." "[gentle]A-Adjutant Kirchheis, you say..." The Imperial Capital. Just a few weeks ago, the adjutant had been shot in a corridor of the Ministry of Military Affairs. A laser gun fired at point-blank range. The perpetrator was shot dead on the spot, and the background connections were still shrouded in darkness. Kirchheis had fallen into a three-week coma in the regenerative medicine ward of the Imperial Capital Central Hospital and had miraculously survived. "[cold]That is not all, High Admiral." The communications officer's stiff voice changed the atmosphere in the control room. "A communiqué has just arrived from the Imperial Capital's Ministry of Military Affairs. The special supply convoy accompanying the Leutenberg victory—seven transport ships fully loaded with ammunition, provisions, and medical supplies—has been seized by the Imperial Supply Bureau, under Article 3 of the Noble Privilege Law." Everyone in the control room held their breath. The Noble Privilege Law. Enacted four hundred years ago, it was the very skeleton of the corrupt Empire, allowing the high nobles to maintain private armies, exercise independent judicial authority in their domains, and—even hold the right of priority distribution of wartime supplies. "The reason?" Reinhard's voice was as cold as ice. "[serious]'The defense of the Imperial Capital should take precedence over supplying a frontier fleet'—a notification was issued in the name of the Supply Bureau Chief, Count Strahl." "Hmph." Reinhard snorted shortly. Count Strahl. A member of the Seekwalt Faction Alliance and a hanger-on of Duke Krausewitz. The recent sniper attack on Kirchheis—that too was undoubtedly the work of this noble coalition. "Did you protest to the Ministry of Military Affairs?" "[sad]We did, but... they stubbornly insisted that 'the authority of a High Admiral cannot overturn the Supply Bureau's decision.'" Reinhard's fingers tapped the edge of the console. (*The authority of a High Admiral, huh.*) His rank alone was high. In his early twenties, he was the second-highest-ranking officer in the Imperial military—but he was ultimately of lowborn noble stock. He had neither the bloodline of a great faction, nor a domain, nor a private army. To those people, he was nothing more than an "upstart brat." And—he was still the child who had his sister taken from him. "...How long can we last without supplies?" "[serious]Provisions for ten more days. Medical supplies are nearly depleted. Ammunition for one month, barring any large-scale battles." A heavy silence fell over the control room. It was then. "—High Admiral! A high-speed military cutter is approaching Dock Five! Its identification signal is... Adjutant Kirchheis's personal vessel!" Reinhard's azure eyes widened. "[surprised]What...?" In that instant, the mask of the "Admiral" fell away from his face. What remained was just a twenty-year-old youth, unable to hide his emotions upon hearing his best friend's name. He broke into a run. He kicked open the control room door and dashed down the stairs, taking three steps at a time. Kaltenborn hurriedly followed. "[scared]Admiral! Please wait! Admir—" The dock's heavy blast door slowly opened. The high-speed military cutter, scarred from battle, slid in, scattering steam and sparks. The hull was dented all over, and the port side armor was covered in welding marks. The gangway lowered. What emerged was— "[whispers]...Kirchheis." A figure wrapped in bandages. His crimson hair was disheveled, and thick bandages wrapped around his left chest were visible beneath his uniform. His complexion was as pale as paper, and a faint trace of blood seeped from his lips. And yet, Siegfried Kirchheis stood on his own two feet. His warm, deep green eyes slowly caught sight of Reinhard. "[gentle]Hey, Reinhard. Did you come to meet me?" His voice had the same gentle tone as always. Reinhard rushed over. He was about to yell. Why did you move on your own, what about your wound, what did the doctor say, you shouldn't be in any condition to move yet— "[angry]...You damned fool!!" His voice trembled. The words of reprimand turned to tears deep in his throat. Ignoring the eyes around him, Reinhard buried his face in Kirchheis's shoulder. The shoulder cloth of the military uniform was crumpled tightly in his grip. "...I thought you were dead." It was a voice wrung out from his soul. "[gentle]I'm right here, Reinhard." Kirchheis gently placed a hand on Reinhard's back. It was a calm gesture, as if soothing a child. "[gentle]A High Admiral shouldn't make such a face. The soldiers are watching." "...Let them see." Reinhard spoke without raising his face. His voice was still trembling. "If anything happened to you, I—I wouldn't care about this rank, the fleet, any of it." The dock workers, the security guards, Kaltenborn—everyone was speechless, staring at the scene. The Grim Reaper with golden hair. The ruthlessly brilliant tactical genius. The ambitious man who had risen to High Admiral in his early twenties. That man was now burying his face in his best friend's shoulder, trembling like a child. "[gentle]Reinhard." Kirchheis spoke quietly. "[gentle]I'm all right. More importantly—did something happen? Your face looks like it was burning with anger just a moment ago." Reinhard slowly raised his face. Deep within his azure eyes, a cold flame flickered. "...Come. We'll talk in my office." --- The ceiling lights in the office hummed faintly. On the large monitor, the list of seized supplies was displayed dispassionately. Food, medicine, ammunition—every item was stamped with the red mark of "Imperial Capital Supply Bureau Hold." "[cold]I see. The Noble Privilege Law, is it?" Pressing his aching left chest, Kirchheis quietly stared at the monitor. His crimson hair made the whiteness of the bandages stand out even more. "[cold]They seriously intend to crush us. Since the assassination failed, they're aiming to starve us out this time." "[serious]What about the Ministry of Military Affairs?" "[sarcastic]The culprit who shot you was killed on the spot, and the investigation has made zero progress. The same people who control the Supply Bureau. They told me protesting is useless." Reinhard tapped the desk with his finger. "[cold]Enough. I'll return to the Imperial Capital alone. I'll negotiate directly with the nobles." "[serious]Please don't, Reinhard." Kirchheis's voice grew slightly stronger. "[serious]If you return to the capital, they will kill you this time for sure. Poison in the mess hall, a sniper in the corridor, or throwing you out of an airlock disguised as an accident. There are countless ways." "[angry]Then what am I supposed to do?! Just stand by, unable to do anything, and watch the soldiers of my fleet starve—" The moment Reinhard stood up, Kirchheis's hand grabbed his arm. That hand was trembling. "[whispers]...Please stop, Reinhard." Cold sweat beaded on Kirchheis's forehead. His wound was throbbing. The color drained from his lips, and his deep green eyes narrowed in pain. "[whispers]If I lost you—I wouldn't know what I was shot for this time." "...Kirchheis." "[gentle]Rather than let you die alone, I would take a bullet again and again. That would be... far better." Reinhard stopped moving. A sharp pain gripped his chest, as if it were being squeezed. (*This man—he's always like this.*) He treats his own life far too lightly. That was unbearably infuriating to Reinhard, and—sad. "[whispers]...I'm sorry, Kirchheis. I was about to say something reckless again." Reinhard slowly sat back down. He let out a deep breath, as if to calm himself. "[serious]Promise me, Reinhard." Kirchheis looked him straight in the eye. "[serious]No more recklessness. Not from me, and not from you. We—we fight together." "...Yeah. I promise." Reinhard gave a small nod. It was then. The ship-wide broadcast sounded an alarm announcing an emergency. *'—A ration riot by lower-ranking soldiers has broken out in the Fifth Block Provisions Storehouse! Security personnel, respond immediately!'* Reinhard and Kirchheis raised their heads simultaneously. The seizure of the supplies—its effects were already reaching the rank-and-file soldiers. "[cold]Let's go, Kirchheis." The two of them dashed out of the office. --- The area in front of the provisions storehouse was filled with a strange atmosphere. The line of soldiers waiting for rations was stirring restlessly and ominously. Some clenched their fists, some sat on the floor with exhausted faces, and some pressed close to the security guards, shouting. "What the hell is this?! Today's rations are less than half!" "I heard... the whole supply convoy was stopped." "Have we been abandoned?!" Amidst the rough shouts of anger, one young soldier muttered. "[whispers]...It's no use. It's only natural a fleet like this gets abandoned." That voice was steeped in despair, visibly withering the morale of the surrounding soldiers. Just then— "Everyone, stop where you are!!" Reinhard's voice echoed through the provisions storehouse. The agitated soldiers froze in an instant. The gazes of nearly a hundred soldiers who had gathered, drawn by the commotion, were nailed to the young admiral standing there, his golden hair swaying. Azure eyes, burning with an icy coldness. Just by standing there, he changed the density of the air. "[cold]Who do you lot think is responsible for this situation?" Silence. "[cold]Is it the corrupt nobles? Yes. You're not wrong. They seized the supplies. They're trying to leave us to dry up on the front lines—that's also not wrong." Reinhard stepped forward into the line of soldiers. The crowd parted swiftly. "[cold]But—you, who mutter about being 'abandoned' by such people and sit down, are equally guilty." The young soldier's shoulders trembled with a start. "[cold]Listen well. I will not abandon you. Absolutely not. Don't think that mere pressure from nobles will starve my fleet to death." Reinhard clenched his fist and declared to the soldiers. "[cold]What you should be gripping is not a hand begging for food—but a weapon. Anyone who dampens the fleet's morale, be they noble or enemy, will not be forgiven by me, Reinhard von Müsel." Silence. But—the air of despair from moments before had changed, just a little. In the soldiers' eyes, one by one, a dark flame began to flicker. It was then. "[gentle]—Everyone, please listen." Kirchheis quietly stepped forward. Though wrapped in bandages and bead