Location: Road to the Warehouse District (Early Morning)
Itsuki Hiroto trudged down the dusty road leading out from Solencia's grand plazas, every muscle in his body insisting that he turn back to the comfort of his battered cot. In his hand, he clutched the appointment scroll from Chancellor Beltram:
By Imperial Decree,
Itsuki Hiroto is hereby designated
Regional Logistics Commander,
Effective immediately.
He stared at the official seal, blinking. Regional Logistics Commander? He ran a hand through his flour‑smudged hair. All I wanted was a quiet corner and a spreadsheet.
A cool breeze drifted through the morning air, carrying the faint scent of fermented grain from the nearby taverns. Sera marched three steps ahead, satchel jingling with unsipped potions. Virelya brought up the rear, sword scabbard glinting at her hip.
"Brace yourself," Sera called over her shoulder. "The Warehouse District knows no mercy."
Hiroto groaned. "I just saved the world by yawning. Surely organizing crates is the easiest task imaginable?"
"Said every hero before his first audit," Virelya muttered, adjusting her gauntlet.
Location: Grand Warehouse District Gate (Mid‑Morning)
A towering iron gate marked the entrance to the Warehouse District. Beyond it stretched row upon row of wooden and stone warehouses, each painted with the guild's insignia—a stylized crate under an upturned quill. The early‑morning sunlight glinted off piles of barrels and stacked sacks of grain.
As Hiroto approached, the gate's sentries snapped to attention. One guard, a burly man with soot‑streaked cheeks, paled when he saw Hiroto's baker's hat. The other swallowed hard, gripping his spear.
"Commander… sir," the first guard stammered. "The district… awaits your orders."
Hiroto dipped into a hasty bow. "Yes. Erm—good morning." His voice cracked. Commander?
Inside the gate, workers paused mid‑sweep and mid‑haul, letting crates collide. Forklift carts ground to a halt. Carpenters rested their hammers. Whispers rippled through the crowd:
"He's back…"
"Regional Logistics Commander…"
"We're already buried under paperwork god knows how deep."
Hiroto swallowed. "Please, everyone… carry on."
No one moved. He cleared his throat. "I just want to check on inventory."
A dozen pairs of eyes drilled into him. He forced a smile. "Any—any issues?"
A timid clerk stepped forward, quivering. "Sir… the north barn—its ledgers show a discrepancy of two hundred silk bolts and fifty crates of iron ingots."
Hiroto's stomach plummeted. "Discrepancy?"
Location: North Barn Office (Late Morning)
Hiroto and his retinue—Sera, Virelya, plus two newly sworn "disciples" (the assassins from Chapter 33)—climbed wooden stairs to the North Barn's cramped office. Rolled parchments and quills littered the desk beneath a single lantern. A stout dwarven clerk—Master Kaldin—blinked at Hiroto, clutching a ledger ragged with corrections.
"I—uh—didn't expect… the Commander to review my books personally," Kaldin stammered.
Hiroto pinched the bridge of his nose. Another ledger. He sat on a crate, opening the ledger to the flagged page. The numbers glowed faintly under his gaze, as though responding to his Presence of Data.
"Two hundred silk bolts missing," he murmured, tracing inked columns. He flicked a finger, and the ledger rattled like a trapped scroll. "And blank entries here—days fifteen through seventeen."
Sera edged closer, offering a vial labeled "Calm Clarity." Virelya stood guard by the door.
Hiroto closed his eyes. Focus. I can fix this with numbers, not magic. He took a deep breath and recited the procedural chant of the Guild Audit:
"Debit equals credit. Sum of inflows, sum of outflows. All goods accounted…."
To Kaldin's astonishment, the ledger's lines rearranged themselves. Columns paired, totals balanced, missing entries filled with neat script detailing transfers to the East Gate market.
Kaldin gasped. "You… you reconciled by will alone?"
Hiroto blinked, reading the corrected entries. "There was a reroute to the Imperial stables. Your clerk for horses requisitioned those bolts and ingots—no theft involved." He closed the book. "We'll update the district records and inform the stables. Apologies for the intrusion."
Location: Warehouse Docks (Noon)
Outside, the docks hummed with activity: workers loading barrels onto barges, porters heaving crates, and the occasional bark of a dockmaster.
Hiroto climbed onto a stack of empty boxes, calling for attention. "Everyone—listen!" The crowd stilled, eyes flicking to their Regional Commander. He swallowed, voice louder than he intended. "The district is secure. The discrepancy was a clerical transfer. No further action required."
Murmurs rippled. The dockmaster—a wiry man with aquiline features—stepped forward. "Commander Hiroto, that's remarkable efficiency. We feared embezzlement!" He held out a letter: "The East Gate stables send their thanks—and these orders for more supplies."
Hiroto accepted the letter, scanning the seal. He offered a weak thumbs‑up. "Glad to help." He jumped down, nearly tripping over a loose plank. Graceful.
As he dusted off his cloak, a cart of crates rolled past—one overturned, spilling sacks of grain. Workers froze. Hiroto leapt forward, scooping two sacks into each arm. The crowd gasped as he carried them single‑handed to the reloading zone.
Sera winced. "He's stronger than he looks."
Virelya stepped forward, voice carrying: "A demonstration of power… and logistics."
Hiroto set the sacks down gently. "Is that… what I just did?" He looked between curious workers and his companions. "Because I thought I was just helping."
Location: Guild Administration Hall (Afternoon)
At last, Hiroto entered the Guild Administration Hall—a vast chamber lined with filing cabinets, ledgers, and perfumed bureaucrats. Dozens of clerks looked up, faces pale.
The Guildmaster—a rotund man in embroidered robes—rose from his throne‑like desk. "Regional Logistics Commander Hiroto! Welcome back!" He beamed, then noticed Hiroto's exhausted expression. "We have a welcome gift—a mountain of paperwork for you to sign."
Hiroto's eyes widened. "Paperwork?"
The Guildmaster clapped. "Promotional forms, expense reports, a schedule for your inspection tours—there's even a bonus bonus I signed in your name." He handed Hiroto a quill and a stack of impetus sheets thicker than a brick.
Hiroto stared. The walls seemed to sway under the paper's weight. He swallowed. "I—uh—do I need a second signature?"
The Guildmaster frowned. "Your seal will suffice. After all, you're the seal's protector." He gestured grandly to shelves of ledgers. "Welcome to office politics—on crack."
Virelya paled. Sera bit her lip. The assassins bowed politely, awaiting instructions.
Hiroto closed his eyes. I just wanted to stay in a quiet warehouse. He took a deep breath, dipped the quill in ink, and prepared to sign his life away—figuratively and perhaps literally.
Across the hall, the clerks exchanged tremulous glances. Some bowed, some fled, some fainted. One wept into a ledger.
And as Hiroto pressed his seal onto the first form—bestowing authority he never asked for—he realized that returning to the warehouse meant stepping into a new battlefield: the endless war of paperwork and protocols, where every ledger was a potential ambush, and every form a trap.
He sighed, raised the quill, and whispered to himself, "Please let me stay here forever… just let me stay."