On the last page of the notebook, a single line remained. "The numerical value of life could not be rewritten." ユーティエ・シルヴァニス read those characters three times under the lamplight. She had written them herself. The events from last night in the abandoned mine—the death of a man she couldn't save, the single phrase Nila had carried with her, "I decided I would make it in time"—still caught somewhere inside her and wouldn't let go. She measured everything that could be measured by numbers. That was ユーティエ's way. But last night's death couldn't be measured. Couldn't be rewritten. (Should I add this to the record too?) She held the pen in her hand, but it wouldn't move. Beyond the window of the outpost, mist flowing from the Schwarze Forest was dyeing Glentzer's wooden palisade white. In the deep silence of night, all she could hear was the wind passing through the gaps in the palisade and the distant cry of something unseen. ユーティエ leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. Or trie