Chapter 162: Carne day begins. Jircniv’s responsibilities. Elven Graveyard.

You laugh at Charlotte's exasperated complaint, the sound drawing her blue eyes toward you with narrowed irritation.

"You're exposing your beauty. That's hardly a tragedy."

"It is when I can't find a single garment in my wardrobe that doesn't make me look like I'm auditioning for a fantasy calendar," she mutters, tugging at the sportswear's neckline.

You turn to Villetta, who sits across the table, her dark skin warm in the morning light. "Villetta, I'd like you to take Lucy to Amagi Park today. A full tour."

Villetta blinks, her amber eyes flickering with surprise. "I haven't been there properly myself. Just heard about it."

"Exactly. You'll be experiencing it fresh. Lucy benefits from patient company, together you have companions who asks questions you'd never think to ask yourself. Take your time."

Villetta glances at Lucy, who is methodically demolishing a stack of toast with strawberry jam. The pink-haired girl looks up with jam smeared across her chin.

"Okay," Lucy says simply.

"I'll make sure she doesn't wander off," Villetta promises.

Breakfast winds down naturally. The twins finish their eggs and fruit, their matching teal dresses already slightly rumpled from enthusiastic eating. Arche collects their plates with practiced ease while Milly wipes Ureirika's face.

One by one, the household rises and moves toward the main hall exit. You watch them go with open appreciation. Lisara's sportswear clings to her athletic frame as she walks beside Charlotte and Neia, the three of them a matched set in charcoal grey. Charlotte's posture is rigid but her stride confident, her blonde ponytail swinging with each step. Neia walks close to Charlotte, her grey eyes bright with anticipation about explaining combat class.

Kallen leads Lacus, their matching bunny suits passing easily because everyone has seen stranger. Lacus's white ears bob as she walks, her pink hair cascading down her back. Kallen's pink version sits aggressively on her frame like a challenge issued to the universe.

Alicia strides past in her blue bikini armor, Prim fluttering beside her in transparent pink. Shirley walks with them, her half-cup maid outfit neat, her amber eyes meeting yours briefly with a warmth that makes her cheeks flush before she looks away. Euphemia follows, her identical maid outfit swaying with each step.

Arche guides the twins toward the school, Milly at her side. Orihime passes in her festival miko robes, grey eyes bright, offering you a small wave.

Villetta takes Lucy's hand gently. The pink-haired girl doesn't pull away. They step through the silver-edged portal together, Villetta's dark fingers wrapped around Lucy's smaller pale ones.

The hall empties. The plates vanish as the magic reclaims them. You settle into the quiet and cast a scrying spell, the image of Emperor Jircniv forming in the air before you.

He sits at his desk in the imperial palace office, a letter open before him. His weathered face carries an expression of careful neutrality as he reads, though the corner of his mouth twitches upward. He sets the letter down and reaches for a quill, drafting a response with the measured strokes of a man composing something deliberate.

You pluck two cups of fruit juice from the Heroes Feast table and cast Gate. The oval of silver light opens directly into Jircniv's office, the familiar mahogany desk and bookshelves visible through the shimmering surface. You step through, knocking twice on the wall beside the portal as you enter.

Jircniv looks up from his desk, his quill pausing mid-stroke. The weathered emperor sets it aside with a knowing half-smile.

"Good morning," you say, placing one cup of juice on his desk. "Has the Restful Pillow been useful?"

Jircniv picks up the cup and takes a long sip. "Useful is underselling it. I haven't slept this well since I was twenty. My strategists think I've found some new vitality tonic. I haven't corrected them." He reaches into a drawer and produces a folded letter sealed with Leinas's personal mark. "Here. She sent this via courier this morning."

You break the seal and read. Leinas's handwriting is precise and military, the language formal but the content unmistakable. She requests introduction to Blank for the purpose of curse removal, acknowledging that the price may be steep and accepting whatever terms are necessary. You chuckle.

"She's truly accepted any price for her beauty," you say, folding the letter. "I'll retrieve her this evening. Though I don't know how long she'll keep her job as a guard after tonight."

Jircniv's eyebrows rise. "You think she'll quit?"

"Finding someone able to remove her curse was the reason she took the job. Once that's resolved, what keeps her here?"

Jircniv leans back in his chair, considering this with the same analytical expression he brings to troop deployments. "Fair point. She was always more loyal to the solution than the position." He pauses, then shifts topics with the practiced ease of a man who manages multiple threads simultaneously. "The elves. The final count of elven slaves has been handed over to the ambassador. They should be departing to return today."

"Good. All accounted for?"

"Every one the nobles admitted to owning. The transfer was smoother than I expected. Fear is a remarkable motivator." He takes another sip of juice. "Though I suspect some tried to hide assets. Human nature being what it is."

You take a sip of your own juice and open a scrying window in the air between you, angled so Jircniv can observe. The image sweeps across the Baharuth Empire's territories, your magical senses reaching for elves.

The scan takes several minutes. You filter through thousands of signatures, dismissing the freed elves already in transit, ignoring the elven citizens who live freely within Empire borders. What remains is a scatter of anomalies.

"There," you say, pausing the image. A rural estate in the northern provinces shows three elves confined to a cellar beneath a wine storehouse. "And there." A merchant's townhouse in the capital itself, two elves in a household that apparently forgot to declare their presence during the transfer period.

Jircniv's jaw tightens. "The Varenne estate. And that's Duke Castellane's cousin in the capital."

"Five total hidden."

"I'll have them collected within the hour," Jircniv says, his voice dropping to the cold register of an emperor who has been disobeyed. "The Varenne family has been problematic before. This gives me justification to seize their holdings entirely."

"Tell the ambassador to plan his departure for six more," you say, setting your empty cup down on Jircniv's desk. "That should delay him long enough for your men to retrieve the five without disrupting his departure expectations. Saves you the cost of transporting them separately afterward."

Jircniv's eyes sharpen with appreciation. He reaches for a fresh sheet of parchment immediately. "Practical. I'll have the courier intercept him before he leaves the palace district." He scribbles a quick note, his handwriting swift and decisive. "The Varenne estate is only two hours north by horse. My knights can have them in the ambassador's custody before sundown."

"I'll leave you to it, then." You rise from the chair. "Unless there's anything else?"

Jircniv pauses, quill hovering. He considers for a moment, then shakes his head with a faint smile. "Nothing that can't wait until your next visit. Though I imagine you have a full day ahead."

"You have no idea."

You step back through the Gate, the silver oval closing behind you with a soft chime. The transition from imperial office to Nazarick's library is instantaneous, the temperature dropping from the palace's heated air to the library's cool, dry stillness.

- - -

Floor 1002 stretches before you in its impossible expanse. Shelves rise like cathedral walls, filled with volumes from every world you've touched. The scent of old paper and leather binding fills the air. Sunlight streams through stained glass windows depicting scenes from YGGDRASIL's final days, casting colored patterns across the reading tables.

Jibril stands at her usual table near the central catalog, her pink hair cascading down her back like a waterfall of silk. She's bent over a large tome, her wings folded tight against her spine, one finger tracing a line of text. Beside her, Irene sits at a reading table with three open books arranged before her, her scarlet hair loose around her shoulders, a quill moving steadily across notes she's compiling.

Jibril looks up the instant you enter. Her eyes brighten with a particular mix of intellectual delight and personal warmth she reserves exclusively for you. "Master. You're earlier than expected."

You cross the distance between you without breaking stride. Your hand finds the curve of her waist, pulling her against you. The kiss is slow, your lips pressing against hers. Jibril makes a soft sound of surprise that melts into contentment, her wings unfurling slightly behind her as her body relaxes into yours. Her fingers curl into the fabric of your clothing.

When you release her, her cheeks carry a faint flush that looks absurd on a being of her age and power.

You turn to Irene. The scarlet-haired enchantress has frozen mid-stroke, her quill dripping ink onto her notes. Her eyes are wide, fixed on you with an expression caught between embarrassment and something hungrier.

You lean down and cup her chin, tilting her face upward. The second kiss matches the first in its savoring depth. Irene's breath catches against your mouth, her body going rigid for a heartbeat before softening. Her hand rises, hovering near your chest as though uncertain whether to push you away or pull you closer. It settles against your collarbone, fingers trembling.

When you pull back, Irene's scarlet eyes are glazed, her lips parted, her quill forgotten and bleeding ink across her carefully organized notes.

"Good morning," you say simply.

"G-good morning," Irene manages, her voice unsteady. She glances at Jibril, who is watching with an expression of serene amusement, then back at you. "You could warn a person."

"Where would be the fun in that?" Jibril says lightly, smoothing her hair with practiced composure despite the lingering pink on her cheeks.

"Jibril, coordinates for the next graveyard please. We'll repeat yesterday's approach. Gate in, resurrect, Gate out before the crowd can get in a request."

Jibril's wings shift behind her, the feathers catching the stained glass light in prismatic fragments. She reaches across her table without hesitation, producing a leather-bound ledger open to a page marked with a silk ribbon.

"The eastern burial grounds. Approximately five hundred graves, all verified as Hougan-era victims." She reads off the coordinates with the crisp efficiency of someone who has prepared this information knowing you would ask. "The site is isolated. Nearest settlement is a two-hour walk. I've already confirmed with Therindor that the grounds have been cleared of debris and the grave markers cataloged."

"That's fine."

Irene watches from her seat, scarlet hair framing a face still flushed from the kiss. Her quill has bled a small lake of ink across her enchantment notes. She makes no move to clean it, her eyes tracking you with undisguised curiosity.

"You're going to resurrect five hundred people before lunch?" Irene asks, her voice carrying a particular blend of scholarly fascination and disbelief she wears whenever you demonstrate capabilities beyond her comprehension.

"In the next five minutes, ideally."

Jibril rises from her chair, folding her ledger closed. "Shall I accompany you, Master?"

"Not necessary. Stay here and keep Irene company. She looks like she needs someone to explain what just happened to her notes."

Irene's face darkens three shades. "My notes are perfectly fine."

Jibril glances at the ink-smeared parchment and says nothing, though her lips curve into a smile that communicates volumes.

The coordinates settle in your mind easily through the dungeon's connection. You extend your hand and cast Gate.

The silver oval tears open directly into the eastern burial grounds. Cold air rushes through, carrying the scent of pine and disturbed earth. Before you stretches a field of grave markers stretching across a gentle hillside, each one carved with elven script. The morning sun sits low over the treeline, casting long shadows between the rows.

No audience. No guards. Strange. Just the silent dead and the quiet wind.

You step through.

The resurrection takes less than ninety seconds. You raise both hands and speak the words of power, feeling the familiar surge of divine energy channel through your body like a river finding its course. The earth splits. Coffins rise. Five hundred and twelve souls return to their bodies simultaneously, the collective gasp of returning life creating a sound like wind rushing through a canyon.

Elves sit up in their graves, blinking against the morning light. Some scream. Some weep. A few simply stare at their hands as though confirming their own existence.

You are already stepping back through the Gate before the first coherent voice rises above the din. The silver oval closes behind you with a soft chime, cutting off the growing cacophony of five hundred confused, terrified, and overwhelmed elves discovering they are alive again.

The library's cool stillness replaces the graveyard chaos. Jibril looks up from where she has been explaining something to Irene, her expression one of serene satisfaction.

"Five hundred and twelve, actually," she says. "I noticed twelve unmarked graves at the eastern edge during my preliminary survey. I updated the count this morning."

"Twelve more than expected."

"Hougan was never precise about his recordkeeping. Therindor's records were kept precise, but they must have depended on those counting being as accurate. Or perhaps there was someone secret among those added to the graveyard at the time."

You cross back to Jibril and tilt her chin upward with your fingers. The kiss is brief but warm, your lips lingering against hers just long enough to feel her breath catch.

"Thank you for keeping everything organized," you say against her mouth. "The counts, the scheduling, all of it. I appreciate you staying on top of the daily task."

Jibril's wings flutter behind her, an involuntary response she quickly suppresses. "It is my purpose and my pleasure, Master. Though I confess the twelve unmarked graves were a pleasant surprise even to me."

You release her and turn toward the library's exit, your footsteps echoing across the polished floor. As you walk, you open a telepathic channel to Albedo.

"Today's batch is five hundred twelve. The patrolling guards should discover them within the hour at the eastern burial grounds. One thing bothers me though. Why was there no crowd waiting today? Yesterday's resurrection had spectators waiting."

Albedo's voice returns through the link, honeyed and alert despite the early hour she spent with you. "Ah. I instructed Therindor to announce the schedule unpredictably. No announced timing. The citizens have learned to expect resurrections but cannot predict when they will occur. It prevents the crowd from forming before you arrive."

"You. Are. Beautiful."

"I live to anticipate your needs, my lord."