The silence stretches out, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the rhythmic creaking of the old inn as the wind hits the eaves. Aldo does not answer immediately. He looks slowly around the dilapidated room, his eyes scanning the cracked plaster, the rusty hinges of the door, and the narrow window before he finally turns his head toward Hano.
"Hano," Aldo says, his voice low, steady, and entirely level. "I still remember the conversation we had some weeks ago. You wanted us to stage a military coup against the local lord."
Comtois's eyes instantly light up in the darkness, his entire body tensing with a sudden, wild energy.
[Freedom? A real, honest-to-god rebellion? Just like the movies?]
"Freedom?" Comtois whispers excitedly, leaning forward until his nose almost touches Aldo's shoulder. "Are we talking about breaking the chains? A real liberation?!"
Hano lets out a short, bitter bark of laughter, his face instantly clouding over with a deep, dark shadow as he turns back to the ceiling.
"No," Hano snaps, his jaw clenching tightly. "Forget I ever said that. That was nothing but a stupid piece of nonsense I blurted out in a fit of pure anger when the tax collectors raided the sector. Now that I've had time to look at the logistical data, I see that possibility is entirely absurd. It's a fantasy."
He rolls onto his side, his shoulders hunching as if a physical weight had just been dropped onto his spine.
"Besides," Hano continues, his voice dripping with a cold, hard cynicism, "look at the reality of our situation. We are nothing but merely Earthling slaves here. We were summoned to this dirt world without a single scrap of personal power or innate magical ability. We don't have the fireballs; we don't have the legendary swords. We can't do anything against their knights."
Hano's face darkens further, his eyes narrowing as he glares at Aldo through the gloom.
"Why the hell are you even bringing this up now, Aldo?" Hano demands, his tone turning suspicious. "What's your angle?"
Instead of answering, Aldo reaches into the inner breast pocket of his apple-red suit. His fingers close around a thick, folded piece of heavy parchment. He pulls it out, the paper crisping loudly in the quiet room, and unfolds it flat across the blanket between the three of them.
"Take a look at this," Aldo says calmly, pointing a thick finger at the neat, dense columns of ink dominating the page. "This is my initial operational blueprint for a post-coup Provisional Government."
Hano and Comtois's eyes widen in unison, their heads snapping down to stare at the document. The page is covered in meticulous organizational charts, transition phases, resource distribution networks, and judicial restructuring plans—all written in Aldo's flawless, tiny handwriting.
Hano's breath catches in his throat, a look of profound, genuine shock breaking through his cynical mask. He hadn't just blurted out a wild dream; Aldo had actually spent days mathematically mapping out the systemic reality of a revolution.
"You... you actually thought of it," Hano whispers, his fingers trembling slightly as he touches the edge of the paper. "You ran the numbers."
Comtois, on the other hand, lets out a nervous, high-pitched giggle, shaking his head as he looks at the red-suited commander.
"Oh, man, Aldo," Comtois laughs, though his eyes remain wide. "You're completely crazy. This is a joke, right? You're playing with us. There's no way you're serious about this."
Hano doesn't laugh. He slowly reaches down, folds the heavy paper back into a neat square, and hands it back to Aldo, his expression returning to its flat, hardened state.
"So, Aldo, you're trying to tell us you don't actually want traditional freedom?" Hano says, his voice low. "But think about the structural reality, man. No one in this world recognizes our status. We aren't heroes to them; we're just government Rogues—glorified, disposable mercenaries used to clear out monsters. Let's just forget about it. It's a death sentence."
Aldo takes the folded paper back, his face a perfect mask of complete indifference as he slips it securely back into his pocket, pretending not to care about the dismissal. He shifts his weight on the creaking mattress.
"The topic is closed for the current hour," Aldo states flatly. "Let let me ask you both an alternative question. When we cross through the high mountain passes of Heilop on our way to the capital tomorrow, do you intend to take time to explore the natural surroundings of Thromium?"
Hano blinks, the tension leaving his shoulders by a fraction of an inch. "Yeah. I suppose so. The scenery is supposed to be unique."
"Heck yes!" Comtois chimes in, his excitement returning instantly. "I want to see the big valleys! Let's look at the trees!"
Aldo nods once. He reaches down into the heavy leather travel bag resting at the foot of the bed and begins pulling out a massive, bewildering array of precision brass instruments.
First comes a heavy, polished brass Theodolite, its oiled leveling screws and silvered vernier scales catching the light, while its gleaming glass lens promises flawless angular measurements. Next sits a towering Zenith Telescope, equipped with a delicate spirit level and fine-focus knobs to track the stars, alongside a complex, multi-mirrored Sextant whose arc is meticulously engraved with microscopic degrees.
For tracking distance, they unpack a pocket-sized, mechanical Pedometer that chimes softly with every simulated stride, followed by a brilliant Advanced Hodometer—a wheel-mounted contraption fitted with custom-cut, precision gear teeth designed to count revolutions without slipping a single digit.
Time itself is guarded by a heavy, wooden-cased Marine Chronometer, suspended in brass gimbals to defy gravity, ticking with absolute, unyielding regularity. Finally, the intellectual backbone of the operation appears: thick, leather-bound volumes of Logarithm Tables and detailed Trigonometry Charts smelling of ink and old parchment, accompanied by several massive, heavy stacks of blank grid paper ready to map the unknown.
Resting right on top of this magnificent pile of engineering is an official, signed job offer for a certified Cartographer.
Comtois stares at the mountain of brass and glass occupying the center of the blanket, his face completely blank with innocent confusion.
"Uh... Aldo?" Comtois asks, his voice small. "Why exactly are we going to enjoy the beautiful, serene natural scenery with a bunch of heavy engineering equipment? Are we going to bird-watch through a military telescope?"
SMACK.
Hano reaches over and taps Comtois sharply on the back of his head with his knuckles.
"Think for once in your life, you idiot," Hano snaps, his eyes locking onto the brass instruments with a sudden, chilling realization. "Those aren't tourist toys. Those are precise, industrial-grade tools for measuring the exact geography, topography, and ecological boundaries of a region. This means Aldo is still actively planning the logistics of a coup."
Comtois rubs the back of his head, his eyes darting between the two. "But why the hell does a military coup need geographical measurement? You just fight the knights, right?"
"Knowing the precise geography is absolutely essential for good strategic planning," Aldo answers, his voice steady as he adjusts the focus ring on the theodolite. "An army without maps is an army that marches into a meat grinder. You must know the choke points, the water sources, and the grade of the slopes."
Hano turns his full body toward Aldo, his dark blue suit wrinkling as he leans in, his expression dead serious.
"How the hell do you expect us to fight against the central government, Aldo?" Hano asks, his voice tight with an urgent, protective anger. "Don't be so incredibly naive. They have three standing legions, two hundred battle mages, and a network of fortified castles that have stood for five hundred years. We are three men with muskets and swords."
Aldo stops adjusting the brass instrument. He turns his head slowly, his dark eyes locking onto Hano with a gaze so piercing, so cold and analytical, it feels as though he is looking directly through Hano's flesh to read the bones beneath.
"The central authority?" Aldo posits, his vocal timbre dropping into a chilling register that perceptibly depresses the room's temperature. "The sole institutional apparatus achieving true centralization within this realm is the martial infrastructure. Beyond that, cohesion ceases. The extant feudal architecture is by no means a monolith, Hano; rather, it represents a highly volatile paradigm of extreme systemic fragmentation and rampant bureaucratic malfeasance that actively corrodes the socioeconomic foundation of Heilop from within. It operates as a terminal pathology. Based upon the empirical tax metrics and agrarian yields we scrutinized in the fields this morning, this institutional decay is on the precipice of systemic metastasis."
Comtois sits up like a shot, his face lighting up with a manic, chaotic joy as he pumps his fist into the air.
"Holy crap, Aldo!" Comtois shouts, his voice full of a wild, revolutionary fire. "Are we about to start a literal, full-blown proletarian revolution?! Are we going to seize the means of production?!"
Aldo turns his gaze to Comtois, his face remaining a wall of stone. "Not really proletariat but...Do you genuinely want to participate in the restructuring of this world, precisely, this Heilop ?"
Comtois nods his head rapidly, up and down, looking exactly like a hyperactive woodpecker drilling into an oak tree. "Yes! Yes! Count me in! Let's tear it down!"
Aldo gives a single, slow nod of affirmation. "Understood."
He begins packing his precision brass instruments back into the heavy leather bag, his movements slow, deliberate, and perfectly synchronized.
"The blueprints for these specific instruments had to be drawn up in detailed, manual schematics by myself, Ryong, and Onaga," Aldo notes as he slides the marine chronometer into its velvet sleeve. "We had to have them custom-made by independent dwarven smiths in the lower districts because these items are rather modern for the current chronological era of this world. The standard guilds do not possess the machining tolerances required for these measurements."
He zips the bag closed with a sharp zip, places it securely beneath the bed, and pulls the thin blanket up to his chest as he lies flat on his back.
"The operational parameters for the day are concluded," Aldo says into the darkness. "Go to sleep."
Comtois instantly lets out a long, loud whine, thrashing his legs against the mattress in a fresh wave of childish complaint.
"Oh, come on, Aldo!" Comtois whines, kicking the wall. "You can't just drop a bomb like that and tell us to go to sleep! Where is the manifesto?! Where are the pamphlets?! I want to read the dynamic revolutionary theory!"
"I'm sleepy," Aldo's voice drifts back from the edge of the pillow, flat and unbothered. "I am going to sleep right now. The manifesto can wait until tomorrow morning. Close your eyes."
The room plunges into a heavy, dark silence. Minutes tick by, measured only by the steady, mechanical ticking of the chronometer beneath the bed frames.
In the absolute darkness, Hano shifts his weight carefully. He leans his head over toward Aldo's side of the mattress, his voice dropping into a barely audible whisper that stays beneath the rafters.
"Hey, Aldo," Hano whispers, his eyes wide in the dark. "Is there anyone else in the company who needs to be informed about this plan? Anyone we need to bring into the loop before we hit the capital?"
"No," Aldo's voice replies instantly out of the blackness, sharp and absolute. "Absolutely not. Compartmentalization is vital for survival. Sleep now."
The fourth day of July, 1300, arrives with a dramatic shift in scenery.
The carriage finally rolls past the high, wrought-iron gates of the northern district, pulling to a smooth halt before the large and magnificent stone mansion of Duke Ferris of Thromium. The estate is a towering masterpiece of classical architecture, its high marble pillars catching the bright afternoon sun, surrounded by perfectly manicured green lawns and spraying fountains that hum with a rich, continuous drone.
The carriage door clicks open. Officer Watkins, his plum-red suit immaculate, steps out first, followed closely by Onaga Kei, whose dark green suit looks sharp against the white marble steps. The two of them march straight inside through the open double doors of the grand entrance.
At the base of the steps, standing beside the open luggage compartment of the carriage, the Duke's personal head butler stands waiting. He is an older gentleman with pristine white gloves, a stiff posture, and an expression of extreme, professional vigilance. He watches Watkins and Onaga disappear into the hall, then turns his cold, gray eyes down toward the remaining three figures—Aldo, Hano, and Comtois—who are currently hauling a massive, unusually bulging leather travel bag between them.
The butler steps into their path, his arms crossing behind his back as he glares down at the bag.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen," the butler says, his voice a low, smooth purr of polite suspicion. "Before you proceed into the main ballroom for His Grace's gala, I must inquire as to the specific contents of your luggage. What exactly are you hiding in that exceptionally large bag?"
Comtois instantly freezes. His face goes completely pale, his eyes darting around wildly from the marble pillars to the fountains, his knuckles turning white as he grips the leather strap.
Beside him, Hano's jaw tightens, his eyes darting sharply to the far left, his breath holding steady as his muscles lock under his blue suit fabric.
Aldo steps forward first, his apple-red suit bright against the stone, his face an unmoving, tranquil pond of absolute innocence. Without a single trace of hesitation, he reaches down, unzips the top compartment of the bag, and pulls out a thick, beautifully illustrated hardcover volume.
"I came over to the estate with the specific intention to read some of my favorite books during the dull moments of the evening," Aldo states cleanly, holding the volume up for inspection.
The cover of the book clearly displays a large, detailed color drawing of a common field beetle, titled An Analytical Guide to Lowland Insects.
The butler blinks, leaning forward to inspect the title. His stiff posture relaxes by a fraction of an inch, a faint, condescending smile gracing his old lips as he nods his head.
"Ah, I see," the butler murmurs, his tone softening. "He's quite a remarkable fellow, then—a man with a profound fascination for the natural world and a desire for solving God's intricate riddles. A noble pursuit for a quiet mind. And what about you two?"
Hano recovers his composure instantly. He reaches into the side pocket of the bag and pulls out a small, polished metal trowel along with a slender, green-bound text.
"I enjoy learning about local flowers," Hano says, his voice adopting a surprisingly gentle, soft cadence that sounds completely natural. He holds up the book on botany. "They're beautiful to study during the summer months. It calms the nerves."
Comtois snaps his fingers, jumping into the conversation with a wide, rapid grin. "And I am completely obsessed with playing chess and similar strategic board games! We brought some sets along to pass the hours!"
The butler peers deep inside the open upper compartment of the bag, seeing nothing but rows of dense text-books, a wooden chessboard, and botanical specimens. He steps back, bowing low from the waist with absolute, deferential courtesy.
"Thank you very much for your cooperation, gentlemen," the butler says, gesturing toward the grand entrance. "I merely want to ensure the absolute safety of His Grace's guests. Excuse me for interrupting your arrival. Please go ahead and enjoy the party."
The three men nod politely and step past him, walking through the massive arched doorway into the grand foyer.
The moment they clear the threshold and find themselves behind a heavy velvet curtain, away from the butler's line of sight, Comtois breaks into a joyful, silent skip, his boots lifting off the polished marble floors as he lets out a triumphant whisper.
"Did you see that?!" Comtois hisses, his face glowing with a smug, intense satisfaction as he nudges Hano with his elbow. "See how incredibly clever I am? I told you two back at the inn to buy some fake books and sew a specialized bag with hidden, fake compartments! My tactical deception worked flawlessly!"
Aldo stops in the shadow of the grand staircase, looking down at Comtois with a rare, quiet intensity in his dark eyes.
"You guessed the butler's security parameters perfectly," Aldo admits, his voice low and serious. "Now I think entirely differently about your operational capacity, Comtois. Your utility is proven. Put the bag away for now in the cloakroom, and we will use the hidden contents later."
Comtois's grin spreads from ear to ear. With their hearts beating in a synchronized, thrilling rhythm, the three of them excitedly follow the distant green and plum silhouettes of Onaga and Watkins through the crowded hall, their minds perfectly aligned as they begin hatching the opening phases of their grand plan under the brilliant, glittering chandeliers of Thromium.