DAY 3.
I had successfully acquired an army.
This was either a tremendous victory or the opening chapter of an extremely detailed disaster report.
The distinction would become clear in approximately forty-eight hours.
Unfortunately, before military planning could continue, The fem-catboy had decided to remind everyone that he was technically a medical professional.
And medical professionals, apparently, were incapable of letting things go.
"Sit."
I blinked.
"Excuse me?"
"Sit."
Felix pointed toward a chair.
The smile on his face was cheerful.
The murderous intent behind it was less cheerful.
Ah.
Doctor mode.
The most dangerous mode.
I sat.
Immediately.
[ ─── ❖ ─── ─── ❖ ─── ─── ❖ ─── ]
"This won't take long."
Felix placed a hand against my shoulder.
Blue mana flowed through his fingers.
The familiar sensation spread through my body as healing magic examined muscles, bones, nerves, and everything else I preferred not to think about.
For several moments, the room remained silent.
Then Felix's expression changed.
Then changed again.
Then somehow became worse.
"...Nya."
That was never a good sign.
"What's wrong?"
Felix slowly looked up.
"What is wrong?"
"Yes."
"What is wrong?"
"That's generally how conversations work."
Felix stared at me.
I stared back.
Eventually he pointed directly at my chest.
"Your body is fine."
"Excellent."
"Your muscles are fine."
"Wonderful."
"Your leg is fine."
"Fantastic."
"Your Gate is not fine."
Ah.
There it was.
The hidden asterisk.
The Terms and Conditions.
The inevitable catch attached to every positive development in this world.
Felix crossed his arms.
"How did you even manage this?"
"I have several theories."
"None of them are helping."
The healer rubbed his forehead.
"The pathways themselves aren't the problem."
"Good."
"The structure isn't the problem."
"Better."
"The problem is that you massively overexerted it."
Wolgarm.
Naturally.
Nearly getting murdered by demon dogs apparently had long-term consequences.
Who could have predicted such a thing?
Felix's tail twitched irritably.
"I see."
"You don't."
"I don't."
"You really don't."
The healer pointed at me again.
"If you cast large amounts of magic right now, there's a chance you'll permanently damage it."
The room became quiet.
Even Crusch looked more serious.
Felix continued.
"Best case scenario?"
"You suffer intense pain."
"Manageable."
"Worst case?"
"It breaks."
Less manageable.
"How permanently?"
Felix looked genuinely offended.
"Very."
Ah.
Medical terminology.
Takehito's Gate Condition:
Status: Bad.
Recommendation: Use less Magic.
I nodded thoughtfully.
"Understood."
Felix narrowed his eyes.
"That's suspiciously cooperative."
"Because it changes nothing."
"What?"
I folded my hands.
"A prophet does not perform physical labor."
The room went silent.
"I outsource it."
Felix stared.
Crusch stared.
Even Wilhelm seemed mildly confused.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I possess military assets now."
I nodded confidently.
"The entire point of delegation is ensuring somebody else performs dangerous activities."
Felix opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
Then buried his face in his hands.
"I hate this."
"That's fair."
[ ─── ❖ ─── ─── ❖ ─── ─── ❖ ─── ]
Several hours later, the actual alliance negotiations began.
A massive map covered the center table.
Supply routes.
Roads.
Villages.
Military staging areas.
The Flugel Tree.
Every relevant location had been marked.
Crusch sat across from me.
Felix occupied a nearby chair.
Rem stood quietly beside me.
And somehow, despite being born in modern Japan, I was currently helping draft a military coalition against a flying whale.
Life was strange.
I pointed toward the map.
"Supply chains first."
Crusch nodded.
"Agreed."
"The vanguard cannot operate independently."
"Correct."
"Food distribution?"
"Already accounted for."
"Reconnaissance?"
"Scouts have been dispatched."
Excellent.
Professional.
Efficient.
I liked competent people.
They reduced the amount of work required.
The discussion continued.
Troop movement.
Communication.
Emergency contingencies.
Post-battle deployment.
By the end, the alliance resembled less of a heroic quest and more of a highly organized corporate acquisition.
Which was exactly how I preferred it.
Heroes died.
Managers delegated.
I intended to remain in the second category.
Across the table, Crusch reviewed the final draft.
Then signed.
Felix signed.
I signed.
The agreement was complete.
A formal alliance between the Emilia Camp and the Karsten Camp.
The White Whale now had an appointment.
Unfortunately for it, cancellation fees were not available.
While the documents changed hands, I noticed Rem quietly observing the proceedings.
She hadn't spoken much.
Didn't need to.
The faint expression on her face was enough.
Not excitement.
Not relief.
Something quieter.
Something deeper.
The mansion.
The village.
Ram.
Everyone waiting back home.
An army was now moving to protect them.
For the first time, their survival wasn't resting on luck.
Good.
That's the entire point.
[ ─── ❖ ─── ─── ❖ ─── ─── ❖ ─── ]
Later, after the meetings ended, I found myself alone.
For the first time all day.
Which naturally meant my brain immediately resumed processing every possible catastrophe.
Let's review.
Original timeline:
Subaru embarrasses himself.
Alienates potential allies.
Gets isolated.
Fails repeatedly.
Eventually organizes the Whale Hunt.
Eventually defeats Sloth.
Extremely painful.
Highly inefficient.
Current timeline:
No public meltdown.
No duel.
No exile.
No humiliation.
Military coalition acquired before the Whale appears.
Cult response planned before the Cult attacks.
Remarkable.
I may have accidentally discovered the benefits of basic communication.
Which brought me to another amusing thought.
Roswaal.
Somewhere back at the mansion, the clown was probably sitting in his study reading his Gospel.
Or attempting to.
The poor book must have been suffering.
Imagine spending centuries following a script only for reality to suddenly improvise.
Gospel:
Subaru requests aid.
Reality:
Subaru secured aid three days ago.
Gospel:
Subaru falls into despair.
Reality:
Subaru is negotiating logistics.
Gospel:
Events proceed according to plan.
Reality:
Events proceed according to plan.
At this point Roswaal was probably wondering whether he'd accidentally switched books with the Witch Cult.
Serves him right.
[ ─── ❖ ─── ─── ❖ ─── ─── ❖ ─── ]
As evening settled over the Capital, the Karsten estate transformed.
Preparation became action.
Orders became movement.
Movement became momentum.
I stood upon a balcony overlooking the courtyard.
And watched.
Ground dragons were being fitted with equipment.
Armorers inspected weapons.
Supply wagons rolled across the estate.
Messengers sprinted between buildings.
Officers reviewed deployment plans.
Entire sections of the military machine had begun turning.
Not because of a battle already happening.
Because of a battle that would happen.
Soon.
The scale of it settled heavily upon my shoulders.
This wasn't a theory anymore.
This wasn't planning anymore.
This wasn't a thought experiment anymore.
This was reality.
The White Whale would come.
The Witch Cult would come.
And when they did, every decision I had made would be tested.
There would be no reset.
No second attempt.
No checkpoint.
No convenient miracle.
Just one chance.
One timeline.
One army.
One increasingly stressed former Japanese teenager pretending to be a prophet.
I tightened my grip on the balcony railing.
Below, soldiers continued their preparations.
Thousands of people were preparing for an enemy that, in another timeline, nobody knew was coming.
The kingdom was moving.
I smiled.
I have just bet all of it on spoilers.