The city woke up before the king did.
From his chamber window, he watched it come alive in layers—smoke rising from chimneys, merchants opening shutters, guards changing shifts with tired faces and practiced motions. Bells rang in the distance, uneven and imperfect.
They are living organisms.
Fragile, and can break with a powerful touch.
Three months, he thought again. That's generous.
He turned away from the window and sat at the small table near his bed, parchments spread out in careful disorder. They were not reports this time.
Maps.
Old ones. Updated ones. Some official, some… less so.
He ran a finger along a trade road that cut through the southern provinces like a scar.
There.
The southern grain route.
In the game, it was background flavor. A passive modifier. Something you ignored until it suddenly mattered.
In real life, it was a knife at the kingdom's throat.
A soft knock came at the door.
"Enter," he said.
The queen stepped in, already reading the room before her foot fully crossed the threshold. Her gaze flicked to the maps, then to his face.
"You didn't summon me," she said.
"I didn't," he agreed. "But I was hoping you'd come anyway."
She didn't comment on that. Instead, she moved closer, her eyes settling on the maps.
"You're studying logistics," she observed. "That's new."
"So is surviving an assassination," he replied lightly.
She ignored the joke.
"The southern route," she said. "Why that one?"
He leaned back in his chair.
"Because everyone else ignores it," he said. "The nobles care about armies. The council cares about gold. The generals care about glory."
"And you?" she asked.
"I care about who starves first."
Silence.
Not uncomfortable kind but a heavy one.
"You think someone is manipulating supplies," she said.
"I know someone is," he replied. "I just don't know who yet."
She folded her arms. "And your plan?"
He smiled faintly.
"I'm going to make it worse."
Her eyes narrowed. "Explain."
"Not yet," he said. "First, I need something."
She waited.
"Access," he continued. "Quiet access. To the lower administrative records. The ones no one reads because they're boring."
Her lips pressed into a thin line.
"Those records are controlled by—"
"I know, The treasury, right?" he finished. "Which answers to the council. I know."
"And you still want them?"
"Yes."
She studied him for a long moment.
"You're not acting like a man scrambling to survive," she said slowly. "You're acting like someone setting a trap."
He shrugged. " Just some old habits."
She turned away, pacing once across the room.
"If I do this," she said, "and someone notices—"
"They won't," he said calmly. "Because they won't believe you'd do it for me."
She suddenly stopped her movements.
And turned around.
That was the first time her composure cracked—just a fraction, which she quickly recovered from.
"You assume too much," she said.
"I only assume that you don't want this kingdom to burn," he replied. "And I also assume you're tired of holding it together alone."
Silence again.
This time it was longer.
Then she nodded once.
"I'll arrange it," she said. "But quietly."
"Always," he replied.
She moved to leave, then paused.
"You're changing things," she said without turning. "People will notice."
He smiled.
"That's the point."
The records arrived that night.
Not carried by servants.
Not announced.
Just… there.
Neatly stacked on his desk when he returned to his chambers.
After seeing them the first thing he did was to lock the doors by himself.
Then he started reading them.
Seemingly immersed in it for hours, like a story one can't get tired of.
Trade quotas adjusted slightly downward. Storage losses reported just a little too high. Transport delays blamed on weather that hadn't existed.
Just small things, which don't seem like a big problem.
Clever things.
There you are, he thought.
This wasn't rebellion.
This was preparation.
Someone was creating controlled instability—enough to apply pressure, not enough to provoke a response, which is a smart move.
In the game, this was Phase One of the Western Strategy.
Destabilize. Distract. Then strike.
He leaned back, rubbing his eyes, looking tired. Seems like the constant work after waking up in this world took a toll on his body
"Too early," he muttered. "You're moving too early."
Which meant one thing.
They were nervous. And the nervousness can be seen from their actions.
A knock came at the door.
This time, it was expected.
"Come in," he said.
The captain entered, armor subdued, expression tight.
"You asked for a report," he said.
"I did," the king replied. "Then tell me—quietly—who's been reassigned in the guard recently."
The captain frowned. "Reassigned?"
"Yes," the king said. "I am not talking about dismissed ones nor the ones promoted. But about the ones that quietly moved sideways."
The captain thought for a moment.
"…A few," he admitted. "Mostly competent men. No clear pattern can be observed from their actions, there shouldn't be any problem."
The king smiled.
"There is," he said. "You just don't see it yet."
He stood, chest aching faintly as he moved to the map table.
"These posts," he said, tapping several locations. "Who controls them now?"
The captain's brow furrowed as he followed along.
"…Different commanders," he said slowly. "But all of them are approved by the council."
"Of course they were," the king replied.
He straightened.
"Captain," he said. "Do me a small favor."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"Okay, then do nothing," he said. "Let the reassignments continue."
The captain stiffened. "That's—"
"An order, I am not asking favor, my dear captain" the king finished calmly.
The captain hesitated, as if struggling but that was just a momentary hesitation.
Then he bowed.
"As you command, Your Majesty"
When he left, the king returned to the desk and picked up a fresh parchment.
He began to write.
Not commands. Not decrees.
They were instructions.
Subtle ones.
Adjustments here. Delays there. Nothing overly dramatic or obvious.
By morning, grain would move slower.
Prices would rise slightly.
And somewhere, someone would smile, thinking their plan was working perfectly.
The king leaned back, satisfied with his work.
Take the bait, he thought. I dare you take it.
Outside, the city continued to breathe, unaware of the pieces shifting beneath it.
Seven days until the envoy arrived.
Seven days until everyone realized the board had changed.
He smiled.
"Tutorial phase," he murmured. "Complete."
And this time—
The game wouldn't warn them what came next.