「能く士をして,其の事を知ること無からしむ」
"The skilful leader makes his troops follow him without them knowing his plans."
— Sun Tzu, The Art of War,
The Art of War Chapter 11
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Morning of the Second Day
He woke before everyone else.
His body simply decided it had had enough — switched off sleep without warning and returned him. The first seconds he lay motionless, listening to the silence around him. A foreign smell. A foreign place. Beyond the metal shutters — a barely audible shuffling. Already familiar. Almost background noise.
Beside him — Veridis.
She was truly asleep — not like at night, when she dozed with one eye open and lifted her head at every suspicious sound. Now her flanks rose and fell slowly; her breathing was deep and even. In sleep she seemed different — not physically smaller, just less taut. Like a bow finally allowed to unstring.
He watched her for a while.
Then he closed his eyes and let himself drift inward.
It was quiet and white there — that space he was beginning to consider his own. Somewhere in that whiteness lived something warm and growing, slow and patient. He felt it the way you feel warmth through a closed door — you don't see the source, but you know it's there. And in the depths of that warmth — something else. Dark. Alien. Breathing in a rhythm not his own — slower, heavier, like something very old that is simply waiting. Not threatening. Not pressing. Just — there. And that was enough to remember: he was not alone inside himself. And never would be again.
He thought about the stars.
He remembered them well — warm, alive, faintly vibrating in his palm. He had gathered them at night in the Erlingor Forest, risking zombies and Demon Eyes. Then there was captivity. The Altar. And he had sacrificed them then — right in captivity, without a ritual, simply concentrated and gave them to the system. Not out of despair. Out of calculation. Because in his pocket they were just stones — but inside the system, they could become something more.
It had worked.
The progress remained. All of it. Down to the last percent — and even a little more from the sacrificed stars. The transition hadn't touched him. The explosion hadn't touched him. The system followed him like a shadow — silent, patient, waiting.
That meant something important.
It wasn't tied to one world. It was tied to him. Growing alongside him. And in each new world — its own currency, its own way to feed it. He just needed to understand what.
There were no falling stars here.
But there were main characters.
He thought about this methodically, the way he had thought about deals in his former life. Takashi had given the sprout — the first branch, the first beginning. Others would give growth. Not new branches — just nourishment. Like fertilizer for a young tree just beginning to take root.
He had not yet decided when. Or how.
But he knew he would decide.
And also — he didn't know how to return. Or move further. The portal had opened on its own in Terraria — in the moment of the explosion, in the moment of chaos. How to repeat it deliberately, he didn't understand. The system was silent. The blueprints hung as grey shadows.
So for now — here.
And if here — he needed to use this time. Build something. Take a place. Not by force — by calculation. He was better at that than anything else.
He opened his eyes for real — and saw them.
He hadn't noticed them yesterday.
Yesterday, his body and mind had been running on minimum — registering only the necessary. Threats. Routes. The living who needed to be brought to shelter. Everything else — background.
But now it was morning. His head was clear. And the shopping center, in that meager light seeping through the cracks in the shutters, looked completely different.
There were far more people than he had thought.
He began counting — slowly, methodically, face by face. And the longer he counted, the more clearly he understood that yesterday he had been almost blind. Fatigue is a poor ally for an observer.
Five girls slept together — in identical school uniforms, pressed against each other. He recognized them at once. Not because he'd met them personally — from that other life, from the screens he'd drifted across at night, searching for something he couldn't name.
The Nakano Quintuplets.
Ichika — the eldest, light hair with a pink tint, even in sleep holding herself slightly apart from the others. Like a person used to bearing responsibility and unable to rest from it even when no one was watching. Nino — bright pink hair spread across the floor, butterfly pins askew — even in this dishevelment she managed to look as if she were posing. Miku — dark blue strands covering her face, headphones still around her neck though there was nothing to listen to. She slept the quietest of them all — almost invisible, as if trying to take up as little space as possible. Yotsuba — orange "rabbit ears" sticking out in all directions, the only one of the five who slept with a faint smile. Even here. Even now. Itsuki — reddish twintails, glasses lying nearby — without them her face seemed younger.
He looked at them and thought that in his former life he would have called this rare. Five identical, yet so different — each with her own particular way of existing in the world. He collected rare things.
This was rare.
Further — two alike as reflections in mirrors of different ages. Hana Uzaki — small, silver hair, even in an uncomfortable position on the floor had somehow managed to take up twice as much space as her hundred and fifty centimeters allowed. Beside her — Tsuki, with the same silver hair but longer, with that characteristic squint even in sleep.
Further — Gojo and Marin.
On Gojo, he paused.
Tall, black hair, even lying on the floor holding his spine with a straightness that betrayed a person accustomed to discipline. Grey eyes closed. Face calm — that particular calmness that comes not from an absence of thoughts, but from their presence in some steady, stable state.
A main character.
Arthur felt it — not magically, he simply knew. Knew from that life where he'd watched their stories on screens. Beside Gojo — Marin. Without her pink lenses, she looked different — younger, softer.
He shifted his gaze further.
The Shirakawa sisters — Ayane and Kotone. Ayane — the elder, confident even in the pose she'd chosen for sleep. Kotone beside her — small, with an expression of innocence that Arthur had already learned not to take at face value.
The Komiya family. Yuria — the stepmother, tall blonde, sleeping apart from the girls with that maternal directness that doesn't disappear even in sleep. Anna beside her — black hair to her shoulders, even unconscious her face held the expression of a person carrying an inner weight. Rina — the youngest, two light twintails, sleeping curled up. In that pose, all her feigned audacity had vanished — what remained was simply a girl who was frightened.
The Mitsuya brother and sister slept at opposite ends of the hall. Arthur noticed this at once. Deliberate or accidental — unclear. Yuuichi — dark hair, face tense even in sleep, as if fleeing from something even in dreams. Hana — a light blonde with long wavy hair, naive even in the posture she'd chosen for sleep.
The loners — Yui, Megumi, Hinata, Ono. He found each one with his gaze. Memorized them. Filed them away.
And finally — those whose names he didn't know.
About twenty people. Various ages — from thirty to sixty. They kept to a separate group in the far corner — quiet, weary, with the faces of people who had survived enough not to panic at every new blow. Among them — the elderly man who had opened the door for them yesterday. Several women. Two men who had clearly once been military or police — from the way even in sleep they chose positions with a good view of the room.
He looked at all of them — at the quintuplets, at the Uzakis, at Gojo, at everyone else — and thought that in his former life he had collected things.
But things don't look at you when you're not expecting it. Things don't jump from a rooftop because you asked. Things don't stand beside you in battle, covering your flank.
People — that was different.
He didn't yet know what to call that difference.
Beside him, Veridis stirred. Opened one emerald eye. Looked at him. Then at the hall full of sleeping people. Then back at him.
"Good morning," he said quietly.
She snorted — short, nearly soundless — and closed her eye again.
Somewhere at the other end of the hall came a sound — quiet, cautious.
Someone was waking.
The day was beginning.
Saeko woke first.
He noticed it not because she made a sound — she didn't. It was simply that at some point, he felt a gaze on him and turned. She was already sitting up — straight, with the wooden sword across her knees, her blue eyes as clear as if sleep were merely a technical procedure that her body had performed and set aside.
They looked at each other.
She nodded — short, wordless. He nodded back.
That was enough.
Then — Hirano. He woke abruptly, jerked, grabbed for his weapon. Then realized where he was. Exhaled. Adjusted his glasses. Looked around.
Then saw Veridis two meters away from him.
And froze.
"Good morning," Arthur said quietly.
Hirano turned to him. Then back to Veridis. Then back to him.
"She's still here," he said in English. "Every time, it's like I'm surprised all over again."
"You'll get used to it."
"Really?"
"No," Arthur said. "But you'll learn to pretend."
Hirano looked at him for a second. Then unexpectedly smiled — brief, a little bewildered. The way you smile when you weren't expecting a joke.
The hall was waking — slowly, reluctantly. First, rustles. Then quiet voices. Then someone wept in the far corner — and quickly fell silent.
Arthur watched.
The Nakano quintuplets woke in sequence — first Ichika, then Yotsuba, who immediately began saying something in a quiet, animated voice. Nino lifted her head, saw that her pins had slipped, and her first action was to fix them — before she even looked around. Miku didn't get up — simply opened her eyes, surveyed the room, and closed them again. Itsuki's first act was to find her glasses, put them on, and only then permit herself to look at the world.
He noted all of this — coldly, methodically, filing it into that internal catalogue he had begun compiling at dawn.
Nino fixes her pins before looking at the world. Meaning — the external is armor for her, not adornment.
Itsuki doesn't feel safe without a clear picture of the world.
Miku checks that the world is in place — and decides that's enough for now.
Hana Uzaki poked her mother with an elbow.
"Mom. Wake up."
Tsuki opened one eye.
"I see," she said. "Alive."
"Is that good or bad?"
"Alive is always good."
Arthur watched this exchange and thought that before, he hadn't known how to notice the small things. Only the big things. Only the significant things. Only what affected the outcome.
Something had changed.
He thought about this without anxiety — simply registered it as a fact.
Kenji Mori was already on his feet — had woken even earlier than Saeko; Arthur simply hadn't noticed when. He stood by the shutters, peering through a crack at the street. Spine straight. Hands behind his back.
A professional.
Arthur rose.
Several people who were already awake but didn't dare to move looked at him. The way people look at someone they expect to tell them what to do next.
He saw this.
And understood that the moment had come.
Not to declare himself leader — no. Simply to give people what they needed. A hungry, frightened person doesn't listen — they react. And Arthur needed people who listened.
He walked over to Keiko Fujita.
He had identified her as a cook yesterday — by the way she had wordlessly checked the supplies in the grocery section. Now she stood by the shelves, looking at them with that professional expression people have when they're automatically calculating portions.
"Takagi," he called quietly.
She wasn't sleeping anymore — sitting to one side with her notebook. She raised her head.
"Translate. Ask her how much food and for how many days."
Takagi looked at him. Then at the cook. Then translated.
Keiko answered — quickly, businesslike.
"Ten days if we ration," Takagi said. "Seven if not. Water — five days."
"Less water?"
"The toilets don't work — they've been using the water."
Arthur nodded.
Five days of water. The real problem — not zombies, not weapons. Water.
"There's a sporting goods store on the second floor," he said. "They should have camping water filters. Have Mori and Sato check."
Takagi looked at him.
"You know their names?"
"I've been observing."
"Since when?"
"Since dawn."
Takagi wrote something in her notebook. Then translated his words to Mori.
The man turned. Looked at Arthur — attentively, appraisingly, with that professional suspicion that doesn't vanish even after retirement.
Then nodded.
Once. Briefly.
And something in the hall imperceptibly shifted. People who a moment ago had been staring into nothing began to look at him. Not because he'd announced anything. Simply because he knew names. Knew where to find filters. Knew what to ask the cook.
That was enough.
For now — enough.
Gojo caught his gaze as Arthur walked past.
He looked — direct, without aggression, but with that evaluating directness of a person accustomed to forming an opinion about someone quickly and precisely. Then he shifted his gaze to Veridis. Then back to Arthur.
"Who are you?" he said in English. Quiet. Without a questioning intonation — simply a fact needing an explanation.
Beside him, Marin raised her head. Without her pink lenses, her eyes were different — darker, more attentive.
"Arthur," he answered.
"That's a name. I asked who you are."
Arthur stopped.
Gojo Wakana. He knew his story — knew where this person came from, knew that beneath the outward calm stood something very alive and very real. A main character in his own world. A person who was used to answering for others — not because he'd been appointed, but because he'd decided that himself.
People like that either become allies — or a problem.
"A person who knows what will happen next," Arthur answered. "And knows how to survive."
"Everyone says that."
"Not everyone knows the names of the people in this hall before they've even woken up."
Gojo looked at him.
"You want to lead this group," he said. Not a question.
"Yes."
"Why should we trust you?"
"You don't have to," Arthur replied calmly. "You can choose not to trust me. But I know what will happen next. And you don't."
A pause.
Marin looked from one to the other. Then quietly said something to Gojo in Japanese. He didn't answer her. Kept looking at Arthur.
"Fine," he said at last. "For now."
That "for now" carried weight.
Arthur nodded and moved on.
Mori and Sato returned from the upper floor half an hour later.
The filters had been found — three of them, camping ones. Besides that — sleeping bags, ropes, solar-powered flashlights.
Mori laid everything in front of Arthur and gave a brief report. Takagi translated.
Arthur listened and thought that the old policeman was reporting to him the same way he would report to a superior. Not because he'd acknowledged his authority — simply because he'd seen a man who knew what he was doing. Experienced people instinctively gravitate toward those who know what they're doing.
Pragmatism. Arthur understood it well.
"Filters to Nakamura," he said. "He'll figure them out."
Mori nodded and went to carry out the order.
Hinata appeared beside him.
He had noticed her before she spoke — standing two steps away, watching the exchange with Mori. Dark bob, light-violet eyes, straight back.
"You're giving orders," she said through Takagi. "What do I get if I follow them?"
A direct question. No extra words. She wasn't pretending to be acting out of altruism.
He respected that.
"Protection. Food. Information about what happens next."
"Information doesn't protect against zombies."
"No. But it helps avoid them."
She looked at him for a long time. Then gave a short nod and stepped away.
Not agreement — acknowledgment. She would observe before deciding.
Arthur filed that away and switched focus.
By midday, the hall had changed.
Not outwardly — the same people, the same shelves, the same shutters. But something in the air had become different. People were beginning to move — not chaotically, but with purpose. Keiko had organized a kitchen corner. Masaru was tinkering with the wiring in the back room. Noriko, along with Sato, was reinforcing the side entrance with additional bolts.
Takagi came and stood beside Arthur, looking at all of this.
"You did this in half a day," she said quietly. In English.
"What, exactly?"
"This." She nodded at the hall. "They're working. Yesterday they just sat and stared at the wall."
"Frightened people need a purpose. As long as they're doing something concrete — they don't think about what they're afraid of."
Takagi looked at him.
"You're manipulating them."
"I'm giving them what they need."
"That's the same thing."
"Not quite."
A pause.
She opened her notebook. Wrote something. Closed it.
"I'll be watching you," she said. Without threat — simply information.
"I know," he answered.
She nodded and walked away.
Arthur watched her go.
In his former life, he'd had competitors — people who saw his game and played their own in response. Most of them eventually became partners or disappeared. Takagi wouldn't disappear. And she would become a partner — sooner or later.
It was just that for now, she didn't know it yet.
Veridis came over and lay down beside him — heavily, with effort. She placed her head on her paws and stared at the hall.
"You're observing too," he said quietly.
She didn't answer — merely glanced at him with one emerald eye and turned away again.
Arthur looked at the hall — at all these people who still didn't understand that they had already become part of something larger. Part of him.
For now, they didn't know it.
But they would.