The Dog Needs a Master

“Sure, I’ll drop by,” the Count said, offering his usual mild-mannered reply.

A young yet successful businessman with a laid-back, fatherly air—someone who somehow managed to bring his perpetually bickering children along on vacation every single year. It had taken Erabelle quite a bit of effort over the past few years to cultivate that image. He had taken the bait completely. If not for that, she would never have involved herself with the nobility in the first place.

“I’ll walk back later,” Erabelle said offhandedly as they stepped out of the restaurant, tossing the remark over her shoulder toward the two Vermilions before heading down to the beach alone.

She dropped onto a shadowed bench on the cool sand and pulled a frost-rimmed beer out of Miro. The whale-shaped license spirit seemed far more at ease by the sea; in her mind, the distant, echoing songs of a whale pod resonated faintly. Whether it was identical every year or not, the kids still adored this annual seaside trip.

...Am I turning into one of these outsiders?

The realization that the jumbled whale songs had come to feel so natural left Erabelle faintly uneasy.

“Feeling a bit more relaxed?” a familiar voice asked.

Erabelle, who had been sitting quietly with her eyes closed, turned her head to find the Count seated beside her.

“Why’d you follow me again? Do you like me that much?”

“You get more shameless by the day.”

“Being this popular is exhausting, I tell you.”

The Count ignored her nonsense. “I asked if you were feeling more at ease.”

“It’s the beach. Of course I am.”

“How is life treating you otherwise?”

“Not bad.”

She offered little else. Her stubborn silence drew a quiet sigh from the Count.

“How much longer do you plan to remain in the military?”

“Indefinitely.”

“No thoughts of returning to the County?”

“Not even a fraction of one. Honestly, why do you keep asking me the same thing? Is life really that hard without me around?”

“An old father gets lonely.”

“See? Popular people suffer.”

The Count nearly forgot his original purpose and toyed with the urge to smack her upside the head.

His adopted daughter was, once again, deflecting with a half-hearted joke. Yet how could he not worry? She had already spent over two full years in active service.

Even as a Count, his influence was negligible in the outer territories. And even for the central nobility, exerting sway over a militarized force that functioned essentially as its own private army was nearly impossible.

In short, his daughter was entirely beyond his protection.

“I still believe it’s time for you to come home.”

Her abrupt enlistment had never sat right with him. Two years ago, she had seized the opportunity to return to the Capital, claiming the path home had finally opened up. Then, completely out of nowhere, arrived her notice of enlistment. It was absurd.

He had tried every avenue to uncover the reason, but she had never once opened up. Then again, he was used to her silence. She had chosen the life of a support division officer despite possessing an S-rank Signum. Easygoing as she appeared on the surface, she was as stubborn as they came.

She held no real attachments to this world, which meant in every disagreement, it was always the Count who ultimately yielded.

“I hear your division commander is a decent young man, so that offers a bit of relief...”

“Come on now—a nobody like me, a mere second lieutenant—what interaction would I possibly have with a division commander?”

Erabelle neatly deflected, steering the conversation into dynamic nagging instead.

“Stop worrying about me and tell me about yourself. Found a new boyfriend yet? You’re not dating another loser, are you? Not another gambler like last time...”

“I think I’ll head back inside now.”

The moment the topic shifted, the Count executed a swift retreat.

“...Unbelievable,” Erabelle muttered with a click of her tongue. He takes just as much work as Sanche.

Turning her gaze back to the sea, she popped open her beer and took a few long sips. Full stomach, cold drink—time for the real task.

She powered on her handheld pad and linked it to two auxiliary spirits. Local resident profiles and recently docked visitor logs appeared across the split screen. One by one, she cross-referenced the records against the faces she had noted inside the restaurant.

She had spent far too long as someone toyed with by fate; keeping tabs on her environment had become second nature.

“...Nothing.”

I was hoping I was wrong.

Tuia Beach was a small, close-knit colony. Its location was far too inconvenient to serve as a proper waypoint.

What were the odds that people would appear here without ever registering? Worse, that they would end up in the exact same restaurant at the exact same time?

What were the odds of someone traveling all the way to a settlement that cost thousands of credits just to reach—and not even booking accommodations? What kind of wealthy vagrant does that?

She powered down the pad and slumped heavily back against the bench.

Seriously... why am I always so damn unlucky?

***

“I’m going to go check on the bunker,” Erabelle said just as the Count received an unexpected call from Sanche’s academy.

The summons came directly from the disciplinary committee—unauthorized absences, leaving campus without permission, involvement in a physical brawl.

“But it was mutual! Both sides were at fault!”

“...Keep your mouth shut.”

Sanche protested his innocence, but the Count’s patience had worn thin years ago following the dormitory drinking incident.

“While you’re there, check on his study habits as well. I worry the boy is simply sleeping through his classes. He sleeps far too much.”

“How could I—what?! No way! I don’t sleep! It’s her—my sister is the one who sleeps all day!”

“Why don’t you calm down and try saying that without crying?”

“......”

The Count fixed him with a freezing glare. Feeling guilty, Sanche clammed up instantly.

With his son silenced, the Count turned back to his adopted daughter, who remained outside the shuttle—though Erabelle preempted him before he could speak.

“I have bunker inspections to attend to.”

“That damn bunker...!”

Erabelle shrugged nonchalantly, looking up at the Count, who was practically fuming with exasperation.

“You know the routine, right? If anything happens, head straight for the bunker. Whether it’s some random good news out of the Capital or the princes suddenly deciding to hug it out—if anything feels even slightly off, you go straight to the bunker. No questions asked.”

Her nagging continued like a broken record. The Count released a tired sigh.

“Isn’t a reconciliation a good thing?”

“No. It’s definitely not a good thing.”

“Even if you’re right and something goes wrong, do you truly think I would abandon my people and run?”

“To the bunker. Yes. That is precisely what I am telling you to do.”

“...Fine. Contact me the moment you return.”

Shaking his head, the Count turned away.

From behind them, Erabelle offered a faint wave—aimed particularly at Sanche, who looked thoroughly defeated.

Hang in there, she thought. Time to toughen up, little princeling.

She was fortunate that her precious, only brother happened to be the exact type of target useful for distractions like this.

Once the Count’s party and the escort shuttles disappeared from view, Erabelle closed the hacking tool on her pad. She had already transmitted a complete dossier of evidence to the disciplinary committee, including full surveillance footage. That would keep them far too occupied to pry into anything else for a while.

...Though in all seriousness, I really do need to check the bunker.

With a faint look of regret, she cast her gaze toward the wooded hill rising behind the colony. Tucked deep beneath that earth lay the subterranean bunker she had spent years constructing.

Back when she had first been dragged along by the two Vermilions—fully aware that a civil war would soon reduce this otherworldly empire to ash—there was little a stateless, undocumented outsider like her could do. Especially given that she had never relinquished hope of returning to her original world.

And so, she had begun building the bunker.

She had combed her memory for the safest geographic coordinates, poured her entire fortune into carefully selected materials, and outfitted it with an advanced defense grid.

Apart from essential medications, daily living expenses, and a handful of personal vices, every single credit she earned had gone into that site. It still did.

I need to repair the mana circuit, check the oxygen filter in the waste tank... Ugh, this whole week is cursed.

Maintenance was mandatory. That was her sole reason for returning to this dull little beach colony every year under the guise of a ”vacation.”

Yet this year, it appeared that plan had gone straight out the window.

Abandoning her lingering regrets, Erabelle began scanning for the nearest temporary outpost operated by the 41st Division.

...Son of a—

The closest one was four hours away by Type-B shuttle.

Unbelievable.

And Miro—her whale-shaped license spirit—was slower than a Type-B shuttle when transporting a living passenger. Worse, it was forced to manifest physically in this realm to carry her, which rendered travel even slower and more cumbersome.

No matter how she calculated the variables, there was no scenario in which she made it out unscathed.

And her instincts—infuriatingly enough—were always dead-on in situations like this.

“...Goddamn it.”

Erabelle barely crossed the threshold of the temporary base before slamming the Signum blocker lever down and hurling curses under her breath.

“Shit...”

Twisting her body, she pressed a regenerative bandage over the gaping gash on her arm and gasped sharply through gritted teeth.

Is this how you treat a law-abiding imperial citizen?! What the hell is wrong with those AT bastards? Every last one of them is trash... Well, except the Vermilions, I suppose.

She popped open a vial of recovery potion, downed it in one gulp, and yanked the bandage’s tension strap to pull the torn flesh back together. Her arm was manageable.

Her thigh, however, was in far worse shape.

“...Tch...!”

Still, nothing immediately fatal—for now.

BOOM! CRASH—!

Go ahead and fire all you want, she thought viciously. Without a Signum, you aren’t penetrating my shield.

The blocker was rated for Class-AA threats.

And she... she was Class-S.