The morning after the Royal Selection declaration, Ayanokoji rose before dawn and made his way to the library.
The mansion was quiet, the servants not yet stirring, and he welcomed the solitude.
His mind was still processing the events of the previous day—the speeches, the politics, the subtle power plays that had unfolded beneath the surface of the ceremony.
Emilia had made a strong impression, but impressions were fleeting.
The real battle would be fought over weeks and months, through alliances, achievements, and public perception.
One good speech wouldn’t win her the throne.
She needed results.
He found what he was looking for in a dusty corner of the library: a detailed account of the Sage Council, the body of wise men who advised the Dragon and oversaw the Selection.
According to the text, the Council was composed of the most powerful and influential figures in the kingdom—nobles, scholars, and military leaders who had proven their wisdom over decades of service.
The Council holds the real power, Ayanokoji realized.
They’re the ones who will ultimately decide the winner.
The public perception matters, but it’s the Council’s approval that counts.
He spent the next several hours studying the Council’s members, their backgrounds, their known biases, and their relationships with the various candidates.
It was tedious work, but essential.
Every piece of information was a potential advantage.
When Rem found him hours later, he was surrounded by open books, his eyes bloodshot from reading.
“Ayanokoji-kun, you’ve been here all morning,” she said, concern evident in her voice.
“Have you eaten?”
“I’m not hungry,” he replied without looking up.
“I need to understand the Sage Council.
Their decision will determine the outcome of the Selection.”
Rem moved to look at the books spread before him.
“You’re studying the Council members?
That’s…
very thorough.”
“Thoroughness is the difference between victory and defeat.” Ayanokoji finally looked up, his expression focused.
“The Council has seven members.
Each one has their own agenda, their own biases, their own vision for the kingdom.
If we can understand what they want, we can position Emilia to appeal to them.”
Rem nodded slowly.
“What have you learned?”
Ayanokoji gestured to a stack of notes he had compiled.
“Three of the seven are traditionalists—they value stability above all else.
They’ll likely support a candidate who promises to maintain the status quo.
Two are reformers—they want change, but within established structures.
One is a military hardliner—he’ll support whoever can guarantee the kingdom’s security.
And the seventh is a wildcard—his voting patterns are unpredictable.”
“And which ones matter most?”
“All of them.
But the traditionalists are the key.
If we can win them over, the others will follow.”
“That’s easier said than done.
The traditionalists are suspicious of Emilia because of her heritage.
They see her as a threat to the established order.”
“Then we need to change their perception.
We need to show them that Emilia is not a threat, but an asset.
Someone who can unite the kingdom and protect it from its enemies.”
“How do we do that?”
Ayanokoji leaned back in his chair.
“By achieving something tangible.
A victory that demonstrates Emilia’s value to the kingdom.
Something that even the traditionalists can’t ignore.”
He stood, his movements decisive.
“I need to speak with Roswaal.
There may be opportunities we’re not seeing.”
The meeting with Roswaal was productive but unsettling.
The Margrave listened to Ayanokoji’s analysis with his usual theatrical amusement, but his eyes betrayed a sharp, calculating intelligence.
“You’re right about the Council,” Roswaal said, leaning back in his chair.
“They’re the real power behind the Selection.
But winning their approval isn’t just about achievements.
It’s about relationships—alliances, favors, debts.
The Council members are human, with human weaknesses.
They can be influenced.”
“I assume you already have such influence,” Ayanokoji observed.
Roswaal smiled, his mismatched eyes glittering.
“Some.
But not enough.
The other candidates have their own patrons, their own networks of influence.
We’re playing catch-up.”
“Then we need to move quickly.” Ayanokoji paused, considering his next words.
“What about the military hardliner?
The one who values security above all else.
What would it take to win his support?”
Roswaal’s expression became thoughtful.
“Bordeaux Zellgef.
A stubborn old soldier who believes the kingdom is surrounded by enemies.
He’ll support whoever can demonstrate the strength to protect Lugunica from its threats.”
“And what are those threats?
Specifically?”
“The Witch’s Cult, obviously.
But also the neighboring nations—Vollachia to the south, Gusteko to the north.
And beyond them, the unknown dangers that lurk at the edges of the map.”
“Then we need to demonstrate that Emilia can protect the kingdom.
Not just from the Cult, but from all threats.”
“That’s a tall order for a half-elf with no military experience.”
“Then we give her military experience.
Or at least the appearance of it.”
Roswaal’s eyebrows rose.
“You’re suggesting we manufacture a victory?”
“I’m suggesting we create an opportunity for Emilia to prove herself.
The Cult is already active.
If we can defeat them in a way that’s visible and dramatic, the Council will take notice.”
There was a long silence.
Then Roswaal laughed, a low, rumbling sound.
“You really are something, Ayanokoji-kun.
Most strategists would play it safe, build alliances slowly, avoid confrontation.
But you want to take the fight to the Cult directly.”
“I want to win.
And the fastest way to win is to eliminate the competition’s ability to compete.
If we can cripple the Cult, we not only strengthen the kingdom—we demonstrate Emilia’s value as a leader.”
Roswaal studied him for a long moment.
“Very well.
I’ll have my network gather intelligence on the Cult’s current activities.
If there’s an opportunity to strike, we’ll find it.”
Ayanokoji nodded.
“And I’ll continue my research.
The more we know about the Cult’s leadership, the better prepared we’ll be.”
The meeting ended, and Ayanokoji returned to his room.
His mind was racing with possibilities.
The Selection was not just a political contest—it was a war, fought on multiple fronts simultaneously.
The Cult was the most visible enemy, but there were others lurking in the shadows: rival candidates, ambitious nobles, and forces he had yet to identify.
I need to be ready for anything, he thought.
The game is just beginning, and the stakes couldn’t be higher.
As he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, he felt something strange—a flicker of anticipation.
It was the same feeling he had experienced in the White Room, when facing a particularly challenging opponent.
The thrill of the game.
This is what I was made for, he realized.
Not just survival, but conquest.
The White Room created a weapon, and this world is the perfect battlefield.
He closed his eyes, allowing himself a rare moment of satisfaction.
Tomorrow, the work would continue.
But tonight, he would rest.
The game awaited.