The outpost was rotting quietly before dawn. Eutie Silvanus placed her notebook on her lap and stared at the wall. More precisely, she was "appraising" it. [[Appraisal in progress]] [[Target: South wall of outpost—wooden section]] [[Durability: 18/100 · Decay progression rate: 4.2% annually · Estimated collapse: approximately 2.5 years]] "...Two and a half years." She spoke it aloud. It meant nothing. But somehow, when she converted numbers into sound, the reality of them felt a little more tangible. Beyond the wall, bird calls echoed from the still-dark primordial forest. Grentzer—the central settlement of Turarge, the easternmost frontier administrative district of the Velshen Empire—would greet the dawn emerging from the mist. The stone pavement was damp, and occasionally something stirred beyond the wooden palisade. Last night, the distant howl of a fang-jaw beast—a mid-sized magical creature with jaws of steel-like hardness, common in this region some 820 kilometers from the imperial capital Felgesstadt—had echoed three times. Eutie turned to the next page. The weapon storage shelves, one by one. [[Longsword, first: Durability 29/100 · Blade damage: 7 locations · Use not recommended]] [[Longsword, second: Durability 11/100 · Cracks in handle · Use deemed dangerous]] [[Short bow, one: Durability—target destroyed · Unable to obtain values]] The short bow no longer existed. Only the metal bracket that had held it remained on the shelf. When she pulled out the equipment ledger, the corresponding entry was written in faint handwriting: "Carried away by magical beast (reason unknown)." Eutie's expression remained unchanged as she drew a line beneath that single entry with her pencil. (The reason a magical beast would carry away a bow is unclear, but the fact that it was carried away is definite.) When she appraised the paper quality of the equipment ledger, the ink degradation allowed her to calculate that approximately three years had passed since the last entry. Since the previous administrator disappeared, no one had sent supplies here. The numbers told her this without emotion. When the window began to pale slightly, Eutie reached for her overcoat and noticed her sleeve was wet. More precisely, it wasn't the sleeve that was wet. It was blood. The laceration on her arm from last night's encounter with the fang-jaw beast had reopened during the night. Slowly, steadily, it had been staining the inside of her coat. Eutie appraised the wound. [[Wound: Left forearm · Depth 1.4cm · Length approximately 8cm · Infection risk: moderate · Recommended treatment: immediate]] "...I see." She opened the outpost's first aid box. [[Bandages: Degradation 100% · Unusable]] [[Disinfectant: Remaining quantity zero · Container only]] [[Medical needle: Rust · Use dangerous]] Total loss. Eutie quietly closed the first aid box, placed it back on the shelf, and picked up the "Frontier Duty Manual, Seventh Edition" resting there. She flipped through the table of contents and opened Section Twenty-Three. "Treatment of self-inflicted wounds shall be entrusted to local medical practitioners. Overconfidence in outpost supplies can be fatal." ...She didn't know who wrote it, but it seemed like appropriate advice. Eutie closed her notebook, put on her overcoat, and stepped out into the morning mist, careful about her sleeve. --- The Grentzer clinic was a small building two alleyways away from the outpost. A "In Service" sign hung on the wooden door. When she pushed it open, the scent of medicinal herbs leaked out. A thick, grassy smell—requiem grass, Eutie immediately identified. One of the primary harvested resources from the Schwarzwald primordial forest, used as a base ingredient for wound medicine. She pushed the door open. Inside, a girl with her back turned was chopping herbs. Pale green long hair was tied back and hung down her back. A small frame. A white apron was lightly stained with herb juice. The chopping motions were unhesitating, rhythmic. When Eutie closed the door, the girl turned around. Golden eyes. The moment those eyes saw Eutie—her face flushed bright red. Her gaze fell to the floor. Her body seemed to shrink slightly. "Ah...um, welcome..." Her voice cracked slightly. Neela Volt—the seventeen-year-old herbalist who ran the Grentzer clinic alone—had a shyness that was painfully obvious to observe. Eutie said nothing unnecessary. She rolled up her left sleeve and showed the laceration. The air changed. Neela's gaze flew straight from the floor to Eutie's arm. The moment her golden eyes saw the wound, the red faded from her face, replaced by the expression of someone at work. "Please sit, in that chair. Don't move it." Her tone of voice had changed. Not the hesitant voice from before. A voice without doubt—the voice of someone performing treatment. Eutie silently sat in the chair. Neela was efficiently pulling tools from the shelf—cleaning solution, clean cloth, suture needle, and what appeared to be a green paste made from several types of blended herbs. Her movements had no wasted motion. The cleaning began. Cold solution touched the wound. Eutie's expression didn't change. "...Does it hurt?" Neela asked while wiping the wound, her gaze never leaving her hands. "It is not pain," Eutie replied. "Then what is it?" Neela asked. "An unfamiliar sensation. Entrusting my body to another person," Eutie said. Neela's movements paused for just a moment. Then she continued. She said nothing. When the suturing began, Eutie's eyes stopped on Neela's forearm. The apron sleeve had ridden up, and she could see several burn scars running along the inside of the arm. Old ones, relatively recent ones, various sizes. The marks of treatment—from pots used to brew herbs, from heated tools—were etched into the skin. Eutie looked at them for a moment. It was unconscious. [[Appraisal—Target: Neela Volt]] [[Base vitality value: 71/100]] [[Immunity value: 68/100—marked adaptation to frontier environment]] [[Chronic fatigue accumulation: estimated sleep deprivation exceeding 62 consecutive days]] [[Overall evaluation: survival capacity significantly exceeds predicted values for environmental stress]] ...It was far higher than expected. Even physicians working in well-equipped medical facilities at the heart of Felgesstadt rarely possessed values this high. Maintaining these numbers while working alone in a crude frontier clinic. (What does this mean?) While Eutie was thinking this, Neela reached to secure the bandage around her wrist, her fingers gently repositioning Eutie's wrist. —It was warm. Eutie's breath caught. So slightly that she herself barely noticed. But it definitely stopped. Neela's gaze flickered to Eutie's face for just a moment, as if she'd felt the change. Then it returned to her hands. "Just a little longer," Neela said quietly. Eutie moved her gaze to the window outside. The mist had thinned slightly. "...Those burn scars," Eutie said. The words came out unbidden. She hadn't meant to ask something unnecessary. Neela finished tying off the bandage before answering, after a brief pause. "It was three years ago. My father was attacked by a fang-jaw beast...it was the middle of the night, so I rushed to brew medicine, and I didn't notice the handle had gotten hot." She said it with a laugh. Not a bitter laugh. A genuinely amused one. "I didn't make it in time, in the end. But...that's why I'm here now. So next time I will make it in time." Eutie found herself at a loss for words. She could laugh while talking about something that "didn't make it in time." That "way of laughing" was something Eutie couldn't process as numbers. Did she laugh because she was sad? Because she was putting on a brave face? Because she'd truly overcome it and could laugh? None of the numbers fit. --- Before the treatment was finished, the clinic door opened. "Neela! Could you take a look? Got a little scratch from a dog, that's all." A middle-aged hunter came in, holding his right forearm. The sleeve of the arm he was holding was stained red for about half its length. Neela approached and rolled up his sleeve. "...What kind of dog was this?" Neela asked. "A pretty big dog," the hunter said. "The bite mark width is about this wide," Neela said. She made a circle with her thumbs and index fingers. Nearly twenty centimeters in diameter. "A pretty big dog," the hunter repeated. "That's a fang-jaw beast," Neela said. "...Well, something like that," the hunter admitted. Eutie, listening from the edge chair, kept her expression neutral and lowered her eyes to her notebook. [[Appraisal—Hunter's forearm · Fang pressure mark analysis]] [[Jaw pressure: estimated 380-420kg equivalent—within standard range for adult fang-jaw beast]] ...A dog was impossible. Eutie considered for a moment whether she should point this out. She considered it, and then saw that Neela had already said "That's a fang-jaw beast" and begun treatment, so she closed her notebook. Before the hunter's treatment was finished, the door opened again. This time it was an old man. His entire body was discolored a pale purple. "Miss Neela, the season's changing too fast this year. My body's getting cold," the old man said. Neela gave the old man a single glance. Pale purple. Discolored fingertips. Dilated pupils. "You're displaying three or more symptoms of magical beast poison," Neela said in a flat, textbook-like voice. "Is that so? Well, I thought it was just the cold..." "Lie down. I'm starting right away," Neela said. "The cold, I thought..." "Lie down," Neela repeated. Her tone didn't change. But there was weight to it. The old man obediently lay down on the bed. Eutie watched quietly from the side. Just watching. Then a third person came in. A child, eight or nine years old, with a woman who appeared to be the mother behind them. "I swallowed a fang-jaw beast's fang whole at dinner yesterday," the child announced. Neela's movements stopped. "...That is..." "A big one," the child added. "That's an emergency," Neela said. She said it without any sign of panic. Her hands were already moving to gather the next set of tools. She began treating all three patients simultaneously, alone. Eutie watched the scene in a daze. (For seven years, I've known death through numbers.) The imperial magic academy library held records of frontier mortality statistics. Turarge administrative district's average lifespan: 42 years. Death rates from magical beast attacks. Medical inequality. As numbers, Eutie knew these things. But. She had never seen face-to-face someone who laughed in the face of death while living. "I didn't make it in time, but next time I will." To say those words while laughing—what was that? What numbers could express it? Eutie still didn't know. During a break in treatment, Neela glanced briefly in Eutie's direction. "You're the new frontier police officer, aren't you?" Neela said, her gaze slightly averted. The shyness had returned. "Please take care of me," she added. Eutie paused for a moment. "...Likewise," she said. --- The commotion at the clinic settled down as the sun began to set. After seeing off the last patient—the child with the fang—and the mother, Neela let out a single sigh. Not tired so much as the quiet breath of someone whose work was done. "Um..." Neela said hesitantly, her gaze still slightly averted. "Would you go to the Soot Lantern? It's easier if you know people's faces beforehand," Neela said. The Soot Lantern—Grentzer's only inn and tavern, and also a place where information gathered. Eutie considered for a moment. The judgment came first: effective as a location for information gathering. "I'll go," she said. --- The Soot Lantern's interior was filled with smoke from curing and the sound of voices. Stone walls, wooden tables, a low ceiling. The proprietor, Vera Munt—a woman in her fifties who had once been a