Tokyo Settlement, Governor's Palace.
While Area 11's garrisons and Ghettos bustled under the draft for the [Honorary Eleven European Expeditionary Corps], an informal family meeting was taking place—its outcome tied to countless lives and fates.
"The Knightmare production lines in the Ural Industrial Zone have entered operation, officially linked into the Empire's logistical network. Including the currently deployed Fifth-Generation Sutherland units and Sixth-Generation Gloucester Kai models, next cycle's output is projected to rise by 46%."
The stately Governor's Office—spanning two entire floors, with lofty ceilings and lavish décor. The gold-framed paintings on the walls were remnants of the previous Governor. Three princesses sat around the table.
Two in person, one by projection.
On the silk-covered desk rested a marble-patterned holographic display.
"Expendable line-fillers are also an indispensable part of war. Corne—since you are Governor of Area 11, as compensation for drawing manpower from your jurisdiction, Lord Rohn will pass along my gift to you."
The glowing figure spoke, then paused, stirring her tea with a spoon before sipping. "Don't rush to refuse. Think of it as a technical and tactical exchange. After all, with Area 11 being the world's largest Sakuradite reserve and production site, one must grease the palm of the local governor."
"Heh~ A gift without cause means a price to pay."
Cornelia interlaced her fingers under her chin and smirked.
"You've set your sights on the upcoming Sakuradite Production Conference at Lake Kawaguchi, haven't you? I'll say this much: I can influence things from the sidelines to raise Euro Britannia's quota, but the main allotment is fixed. Don't complain if the increase is small."
Sakuradite, indispensable for producing high-temperature superconductors, was a critical strategic resource directly tied to global security. Each year, in the town of Fujikawaguchiko, the conference determined its production and distribution.
One of Britannia's chief motives for conquering Japan was this very resource. But Britannia also exported Sakuradite. At high prices, of course.
Wars raged, but trade went on—openly and covertly. Profits, alongside distant resource cultivation, were nothing to scoff at.
Would Vela, who controlled Northern Asia and most of Eastern Europe, truly lack Sakuradite?
Hardly. Just a pretext.
Even though Area 11 held 70% of global reserves, Siberia's deposits were also substantial. At current consumption rates, enough for Britannia to last centuries.
Cornelia knew well. Vela's words were just courtesy—a gesture of respect.
It also tied into Britannia's energy strategy: even with untapped reserves in the Americas and Europe, the policy was to strip colonies like Area 11 and Middle Eastern Area 18 first, then stockpile the surplus in homeworld depots.
"One can never have too much Sakuradite."
Vela smiled faintly. "But let's set Sakuradite aside. In terms of propaganda effect, the son of a fallen Prime Minister, Suzaku Kururugi, is not enough."
As she spoke, she leaned forward slightly, her indigo eyes suddenly cold.
"Sister, that so-called 'eternal imperial line,' the remnants of Japan's royal family—have they been wiped out?"
"Oh? You noticed?"
Cornelia's expression sharpened as she asked.
"Empire operatives stationed in India, where the Federation is stirring independence, report that Six Houses of Kyōto are commissioning foreign technicians to develop their own Knightmares. Their specs are said to rival the Seventh-Generation prototypes of that 'Earl of Pudding' in the Special Dispatch Guidance and Technology Division."
Vela spoke evenly: "On the surface they aid the Empire, but in secret they back Japan's underground resistance. ZERO is most likely working with them—perhaps even their creation. Clovis, that fool, left these remnants alive. Once the situation stabilized, he let them fatten instead of purging them."
She shook her head.
"That was his governorship…"
"Indeed, Clovis was a fool."
Cornelia did not ask where Vela's intelligence had come from.
The more she unraveled the mess her half-brother had left behind, the more Cornelia felt that Clovis' assassination was no accident.
Old retainers gathering, rebel remnants everywhere, local garrisons acting on their own, nobles wallowing in decadence, Pureblood cliques festering in the military, signs of infiltration from the Federation and even the E.U.'s intelligence agencies…
Even the classified research projects Clovis had funneled resources into had been sabotaged—their results reportedly stolen by terrorists?!
Ah…
This needed a thorough cleansing!
Cornelia's eyes gleamed with ruthless resolve.
"Thank you. I'll handle our incompetent brother's aftermath."
Truth or falsehood hardly mattered. In her plans, Six Houses of Kyōto were destined to be abolished.
What she lacked was the right pretext. Best not to kill without justification. Legitimacy mattered.
For now, Six Houses of Kyōto still served, nominally, as Britannia's collaborators in governing Area 11—intermediaries. If they were discarded too blatantly, it would crush the faint hopes of Elevens aspiring to become Honorary Britannians…
"Royal Sister…"
Across the desk, Euphemia looked worried at the cruelty and coldness in her elder sisters' words.
Between Britannia's two most powerful princesses, a few casual remarks had sealed the fate of families whose lineages stretched back centuries in Japanese history—the Tsuchimikado of the Heian era, the regent-governing clans of the Kamakura era. Six Houses of Kyōto were doomed to become relics of history.
How many families would be broken? How many lives condemned? She could not say.
When Vela and Cornelia shifted from Eastern Front military reforms—firepower superiority doctrine, compensation for conscription—to matters like equipping Second Princess Guinevere's guard with prototype Seventh-Generation Vincent units, then drifted to small talk of Pendragon court gossip, only then did they notice Euphemia's growing gloom.
Vela shot Cornelia a glance.
Such different sisters, in temperament.
"She, living in a world of fairy tales, is unfit for the harsh reality of Area 11. At least for what Area 11 is now."
With this gentle admonition, Vela turned to Euphemia.
"Euphie, life is no ballad. One day, you may be gravely disappointed."
"Forgive me. Euro Britannia's affairs keep me too busy to visit Area 11. And the Far East's situation is too volatile—I won't fan the flames unless it's to launch a full purge of the islands."
"If you have time, you should come to Northern Europe for a change of pace."
As she prepared to end the call, Euphemia suddenly spoke up.
"Vela, will you treat the [Honorary Eleven European Expeditionary Corps] on the Eastern Front equally?"
"…Sigh."
Cornelia rubbed her forehead, brow twitching slightly, her mature, beautiful face filled with helplessness.
On the holographic display, Vela's hand paused mid-motion. She let out a sigh, then leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs, folding her hands over her lap.
"I won't lie to you, Euphie."
Her tone was steady, unwavering.
"The answer is no. I am Britannia's Third Princess, heir to the throne, ruler and sovereign of the Britannians. Every decision I make must be from that standpoint, with reason."
"Area 11 accounts for less than one percent of the Empire's vast dominion. Aside from Sakuradite and its strategic location, its weight in imperial administration is negligible."
At her words, Euphemia's eyes dimmed.
"Royal Sister, your 'negligible' is everything they have."
"I know."
Vela sipped her tea calmly.
"That is why—I will reward merit."
"Although Honorary Britannians of Area 11 begin lower than true citizens and face harsher trials—and though ZERO's assassination of Clovis ensures their promotion ceiling won't change for years—I will still give them a chance. On the battlefield, they can prove their loyalty and courage to the Empire, become my blade, and slaughter those treacherous compatriots who chose the E.U., crushing the Empire's enemies. Forged, tempered, they will emerge reborn as true Britannians!"
"Their families will be accepted into imperial society. The rights of citizens will open to them."
"No privileges, no favoritism. But pensions, death benefits, and paths of advancement—I will personally ensure them."
Vela fixed her gaze on Euphemia, who was still processing her explanation of the Merit-Based Elevation Policy.
"Euphie, I know your compassion and kindness. These are not wrong. But kindness alone is useless."
"I want you to restrain your impulses. Some things cannot be solved in one stroke. That extraordinary right—we each only have once. Once returned, once surrendered, it is gone forever."
The cold voice from the speaker pulled Euphemia back from her secret thoughts, ones she had barely dared form, not yet shaped into a plan. Her expression wavered, eyes darting as though to hide—but in the end, she met Vela's gaze with stubborn resolve.
A strong, unyielding stare.
Vela only smiled.
"That is all. Euphie, remember these words."
The holographic board, crafted in Euro Britannia at no cost spared, replicated her features perfectly—every detail of her face, the solemn indigo of her eyes meeting Euphemia's soft violet.
"All Hail Britannia!"
Vela spoke.
Beep… Beep…
The image vanished. Vela had ended the call.
Only Euphemia remained, her shoulders trembling.
"Euphie, that 'right' Vela spoke of—do you mean to renounce your succession? For those numbered Elevens?!"
Cornelia's harsh voice cut from behind her.
The Witch of Britannia's face no longer carried its usual calm poise. Staring at her sister, she looked ready to lash out.
The right of succession—granted to every legitimate child of the royal family at birth.
It was not only the qualification to become Emperor, but a symbol of royal privilege. To hold it meant that even without inheriting the throne, you remained a royal, life secured unless you brought ruin upon yourself.
In special cases, it could be used as currency—like a royal pardon, a decree, a blank check signed by the Emperor himself.
But only once. Afterward, legally, you were no different from a commoner. How many still acknowledged you would depend on personal ties.
"Euphie, banish that thought! I won't allow it! Nor will Mother!"
Cornelia knew well her sister's anguish over Britannia's wars of conquest and its racial hierarchy. She knew Euphemia's grand wish—that all people live equally and happily.
But—
A few visits to the Ghettos, to the slums, and for Elevens who had assassinated Clovis, you would consider this?
No. Such dangerous ideas could not be allowed, not even the slightest trace.
"You're far too willful, Euphie! I'll send you back—"
"Forgive me, Sister."
Choking, Euphemia lowered her head under Cornelia's fiercest glare.
Knock, knock.
The sudden, polite knocking broke the silence.
"Your Highness, Lord Rohn has arrived."
It was Gilbert G.P. Guilford, Cornelia's Knight.
"Enter."
Taking a deep breath, Cornelia forced her composure back, though she shot Euphemia one last glare. "Reflect."
Creak—
The door opened. A bespectacled man with long black hair tied in a ponytail stepped in.
Cornelia and Euphemia turned, watching as a towering figure followed Guilford inside.
The man wore a specially tailored pure-white knight's uniform, draped with a cloak permitted only to twelve in the whole of Britannia.
His identity needed no words: the Eighth Knight of the Round, Albrecht von Lohengramm.
He hailed from the Hohenzollern-led faction of military nobility. Alongside the Fifth Knight of the Round, Moltke, he stood as one of the Empire's blades openly aligned with the Third Princess.
"Princess Cornelia, Princess Euphemia."
After saluting, Lohengramm briskly handed Cornelia a datapad.
"This is Princess Vela's list of gifts in return."
Cornelia accepted the device, scrolling through its contents.
"Seventh-Generation Vincent… What's this? A special forces unit of cybernetic soldiers, rehabilitated veterans, cyborgs? UAV operators—this reconnaissance efficiency… Hmph. Autonomous robots?"
As she read the project summaries, Cornelia's expression grew increasingly strange. Tch.
...
Meanwhile, in Pendragon.
Camelot Palace.
"All Hail Britannia."
Expressionless, Vela sipped her tea.
She was reminding Euphemia.
Do you understand where your rights and position come from, if you wish to play the great philanthropist transcending nation and race?
Compassion was not impossible—but the timing was not ripe.
Recalling Euphemia's idea: as a Britannian princess, to trade her succession rights in exchange for cabinet approval of an Administrative Special Zone. To restore the name "Japan," abolish Britannian privileges and jurisdiction within its borders.
But such a zone itself was born of privilege.
This path was unstable. Unsustainable.
Most Britannians would resent her. The Elevens would not remain grateful for long.
Desire could never be sated.
A few years of peace might follow, perhaps a decade. But when the next generation grew? Demands would rise—expand the zone's borders, loosen the eligibility, spread prosperity wider. In time, it would become a cradle of independence, and at the end, war.
Assimilation remained the true course—striking with the stick, soothing with the sweet date, breaking identities and reforging classes.
Vela bore Euphemia no malice. Kindness was precious, always. She was no hypocrite—what she believed, she would act on, and if you fell she would help you. No double standards. But realistically? A harmless ornament.
Her stage should be diplomacy, public relations, softening Britannia's image.
Enough. The warning was delivered. She had done her part.
Just then, a soft rustle and a gentle woman's voice came from behind her.
"Vee, finished with your talk with little Corne and little Euphie? Then you're returning to your frontlines?"
In Camelot Palace, only one woman could speak to Vela in such a tone.
Princess Consort Victoria Adelheid.
"Yes, Mother."
Vela turned, straightened, and smiled as she embraced her.
"The night before last, what did you and your father talk about? All night without pause. And this morning you went to Avalon Palace again, only back by midday."
Victoria's delicate fingers gently straightened Vela's cravat and uniform buttons as she asked curiously.
"Some issues of military reform, and authorizations for expanding the E.U. war. I call it Grand Artillery Doctrine. Saturation bombardment. The path of automation and unmanned systems. And minor matters, like differentiated merit elevation policies."
Recalling her discussion with the old Emperor, Vela answered.
The 'artillery' in question was not just cannons and tubes.
It meant missiles, rocket barrages, multipurpose man-portable breaching warheads—faithful old chemical-explosive arms. And it meant railguns, phase-shift diffusion cannons, charged particle guns, hadron weapons—the new frontier of high-energy arms.
"Grand Artillery Doctrine…"
Victoria gave her daughter a sidelong look.
"You've always loved things grand, unified, shining bright and loud. Like a dragon."
Vela laughed it off.
Once her mother finished fastening her cloak, Vela grabbed the folder from the table, flicked her cape back, and smiled boldly.
"Mother, next time I return, I'll bring you Kyiv."
She had nearly said Warsaw, but thought better of it. Warsaw was too formidable—headquarters of the E.U. Eastern Front, fortress-city hardened for decades. Without nukes or a FLEIJA warhead, it could not be taken swiftly. So she chose Kyiv instead.
Stepping out through Camelot's gates, as her guards bowed and opened the car door, Vela glanced at the folder in her hands.
—[AREA 11 Honorary Britannian Files]—
ID: 11th Army, No. 14107.
Rank: Private First Class.
Name: Suzaku Kururugi.
Ethnicity: Former Yamato.
Sex: Male.
Date of Birth: Imperial Calendar 2000, July 10.
...
"Notify Lohengramm. Bring back my Eleven Expeditionary Corps at once. Selective, but aim to fill the first quota of 3,000."
"Yes, Your Highness!"
Vela entered the car.
It was time to return to her dominion.