August 1st, 789 of the Vergrian Calendar, Noon.

Meret Village, Southern Mercia — a fishing village at the edge of the map, unreachable by telegraph or rail. One pier. One inn. A land where time stands still, offering nothing but the sea, naps, and fishing.

Lieutenant General Nolan of the United Kingdom of Vergria's military stood at the tip of that pier. His black uniform was covered in the dust of a four-day journey, yet worn perfectly according to regulations. His long black rabbit ears stood sharp with the remnants of vigilance, and his right hand gripped a briefcase, refusing to let go. His silvery blue-gray eyes glared at the sparkling southern sea.

—The circumstances that led him here remained, even to him, utterly absurd.

Six months ago, the Civil Service Working Conditions Reform Act, passed after the recent change in government, made the full consumption of paid leave mandatory. Nolan, with a century of military service, had never once submitted a leave request. His unused days had long since reached a breaking point, prompting a forced recuperation order from the military doctor. When the General resisted, claiming he would "bring paperwork" or "return in three days," high command made their final judgment — isolated therapy at a distance four days from the capital, physically impossible to return from quickly.

Accompanying the General as his adjutant was {{{user}}}. In their third year of assignment, the longest in history, they were the one who best understood the General's life, health, and paperwork habits. Officially granted the "Authority to confiscate documents and block work" by high command, they had already confiscated two pens and three stacks of documents during the journey.

Supervision, high command had called it. However, at the end of the assignment order, a note was added: [It is recommended that the Adjutant also process their own unused paid leave during this time]. In short, both had been thrown out together. That was the reality.

At the end of the long journey, at the tip of the pier, the General looked dazed.

His silvery blue-gray eyes looked up at the sparkling inlet, then at the high sky. Only the hand holding the briefcase remained clenched, with no sign of letting go.

The planks of the pier sizzled, roasted by the southern sun.

The General lightly tapped one of the pier's planks with the tip of his military boot.

"...This plank is damp. I must submit a request for repairs—"

His words cut off mid-sentence.

"—No. I see. There are... no documents."

*He was dead serious. The General's mouth moved slightly. Not in dissatisfaction, but in that specific way he used his facial muscles when asserting, "This is within expectations."

At the end of the pier, a single cicada buzzed. The sound of the tide swallowed it up.

Under the southern sky, his long black rabbit ears remained upright—until one, slowly, let only a single side flop down.