For nearly two weeks, the coalition prepared.
And by "the coalition prepared," I meant:
I aged approximately twenty years.
The days following the War Council dissolved into a blur of logistics, reports, military drills, and increasingly creative forms of stress.
Crusch's forces assembled.
Anastasia's forces assembled.
The Iron Fang arrived.
Supply wagons multiplied.
Armorers worked around the clock.
Messengers sprinted through the Capital so frequently that I began recognizing individual footsteps.
Meanwhile, I spent every waking hour wondering whether I had forgotten some crucial detail from an anime I watched years ago.
A healthy leadership strategy.
Naturally.
The Headcount Doctrine spread throughout the army with terrifying efficiency.
At first, the soldiers thought it was strange.
Then the officers explained why.
Then everyone became uncomfortable.
Very uncomfortable.
I watched one drill personally.
A sergeant marched down a line of knights.
"Squad Three!"
"Twenty!"
"Squad Four!"
"Twenty!"
"Squad Five!"
"Twenty!"
Again.
And again.
And again.
By the end of the week, soldiers knew their squad numbers better than their own birthdays.
Good.
That meant they might survive.
Maybe.
The scouting reports continued arriving.
Every morning.
Every afternoon.
Every evening.
I read every single one.
No White Whale sightings.
No contradictions.
No unexpected disasters.
The clock continued ticking.
Day six.
Day seven.
Day eight.
Day nine.
Day ten.
Each report that matched my expectations made me feel better for approximately thirty seconds.
Then I remembered that being correct only meant the giant flying whale was still coming.
Which ruined the mood.
Eventually, Day Fifteen arrived.
The final reports were delivered.
The final preparations were completed.
And the predicted night approached.
The order was given.
March.
[ ─── ❖ ─── ─── ❖ ─── ─── ❖ ─── ]
The Lifaus Highway stretched endlessly beneath the moonlight.
A river of steel moved through the darkness.
Ground dragons carried armored knights.
Supply wagons rolled steadily forward.
The Iron Fang advanced alongside Crusch's vanguard.
Thousands of soldiers marched beneath a sky that appeared deceptively peaceful.
The sounds were strangely muted.
Clanking armor.
The rumbling of wagon wheels.
The steady rhythm of marching beasts.
Everyone knew why they were here.
Nobody spoke about it.
Far ahead waited a creature that had terrorized the kingdom for four centuries.
Far ahead waited a monster that erased people from existence.
Far ahead waited the reason my blood pressure had become a public safety concern.
Inside a reinforced logistics carriage near the rear of the formation, I sat quietly with my cane resting across my knees.
Outwardly, I projected calm professionalism.
Inwardly:
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! IF THE WHALE DOESN'T COME I'M COOKED!
The duality of man.
[ ─── ❖ ─── ─── ❖ ─── ─── ❖ ─── ]
The worst part wasn't the approaching battle.
The worst part was the worship.
At some point during the previous two weeks, the army had collectively decided that I was legitimate.
This was deeply unfortunate.
A young knight offered me water.
"Lord Prophet."
Oh no.
The title again.
I accepted the cup.
"Thank you."
The knight straightened immediately.
As though I had bestowed divine wisdom upon him.
I literally accepted water.
After he departed, I overheard several soldiers speaking outside the carriage.
Their voices were low.
Respectful.
Far too respectful.
"He's been awake for hours."
"The burden must be unimaginable."
"Navigating so many futures would break an ordinary man."
I froze.
What futures?
I was remembering television episodes.
That wasn't the same thing.
"...Look at his expression."
"A man carrying the fate of thousands."
I am trying to remember whether the clones appear before or after Wilhelm attacks.
The whispers continued.
"He has sacrificed so much."
My sleep schedule.
"Such devotion."
My sanity.
The imposter syndrome nearly achieved critical mass.
[ ─── ❖ ─── ─── ❖ ─── ─── ❖ ─── ]
Several hours later, the army halted temporarily.
The destination was close.
Very close.
Close enough that tension hung over the camp like a physical thing.
I stood outside my carriage, staring into the darkness.
Footsteps approached.
Measured.
Steady.
I already knew who it was.
Wilhelm van Astrea stopped beside me.
For several moments, neither of us spoke.
The old swordsman gazed toward the distant horizon.
Toward the place where everything would finally end.
Moonlight reflected softly across his face.
And for the first time since meeting him, he looked tired.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
A man carrying fourteen years of unfinished grief.
"Lord Takehito."
His voice was quiet.
"I wished to offer my thanks."
I remained silent.
Wilhelm continued.
"For fourteen years..."
His gaze never left the horizon.
"I pursued a shadow."
The words hung in the cold air.
"A beast."
"A memory."
"A regret."
His hand settled gently against the hilt of his sword.
"And now."
For the first time, he smiled.
Just slightly.
"I have a destination."
The simplicity hit harder than any grand speech.
Fourteen years.
Fourteen years spent chasing something that could not be caught.
Until now.
I tightened my grip on the wooden cane.
For once, I didn't need a prophecy.
I didn't need corporate jargon.
I didn't need strategic analysis.
The old man simply needed someone to acknowledge the journey.
"You've spent fourteen years chasing the thing that took her."
Wilhelm remained silent.
"Perhaps it's time to stop chasing."
The Sword Demon looked toward me.
"And finish the journey."
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then Wilhelm bowed his head.
Not deeply.
Not formally.
Just enough.
And somehow that felt heavier than any salute.
When he turned and walked away, his steps seemed lighter.
Not by much.
But enough.
[ ─── ❖ ─── ─── ❖ ─── ─── ❖ ─── ]
Eventually, the march resumed.
The highway continued.
The night deepened.
And then I saw it.
The Flugel Tree.
Even from miles away, it dominated the horizon.
A colossal silhouette rising into the heavens.
Ancient.
Immovable.
Waiting.
Around me, the coalition army continued advancing.
Knights.
Mercenaries.
Commanders.
Veterans.
Thousands of people moving toward a battle that should have caught them completely by surprise.
I stared through the carriage window.
At the tree.
At the army.
At the battlefield that had existed in my memory long before I ever arrived in this world.
The countdown had ended.
The preparations were finished.
The strategy is complete.