〈Line Guard〉 “No breach into the White Line. The column is intact. Maintain marching pace.”

  The report came in over the rear channel. Akihito kept a finger on the transmit key and switched the display.

  The combat feed shrank. In one corner of the screen, the White Line came into view. The blinking of the stake lights and the pulse line had returned to a single rhythm, and even the flow of ash was beginning to settle forward again.

  In the middle of the column were children in clothes he did not recognize. Adults walked on the outside, enclosing them. At the front was a young woman, turning back to count them on her fingers.

  “Eight, nine, ten. Good. Everyone’s here.”

  She checked in a voice without tremor, then turned and started walking again. The children held the hands beside them and remained in line on the white road.

  Only one child in the column walked without holding anyone’s hand. Their arms were folded across their chest, eyes fixed only on the front. Beside that child, another held the next hand with both of theirs, as if making sure it would not slip away.

  Akihito followed the line through the monitor, then returned to his numbers.

  Main power: seven percent. Cooling margin: seventy-eight percent. Micro-missiles: zero. Spare magazines: two.

  It had been close. If the fight had dragged on one more minute, he would have run dry. If the jumping unit had fallen 2.4 meters farther inside, it would have crossed into the White Line. Luck could not be ruled out.

  But in the field, that too was only part of the result.

  〈Akihito〉 “We patrol the perimeter for twenty more minutes. If there’s no anomaly, we return.”

  〈Norn〉 “With current main power and cooling status, a twenty-minute patrol falls outside recommended parameters.”

  〈Akihito〉 “I know. Twenty anyway.”

  He tilted the controls slightly and stepped the Stray Custom forward over the ash.

  The white road was still lit.

  He kept walking outside it.

  The bitter taste remained in the cockpit. It clung to his tongue and would not fade.

  At the same time, beside the evacuation column on the White Line, Saki watched the retreating machine silhouettes go.

  Cutting through the gray evening sky, the three RFs left on escort duty curved around the edge of the white road and returned to their respective positions.

  Another sound passed outside that perimeter.

  A low engine noise. Several technicals sped along outside the White Line, running in parallel. A few soldiers sat in the truck beds, still covered in ash, their rifles laid sideways. The ash stirred up in the wake of the convoy. For one moment the lights of the White Line dimmed behind it, then cleared again.

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  Before the ash had settled, something heavier moved farther off at the edge.

  Near the White Line stood two old-model RFs. Their exposed frames showed through as they dragged rubble into place and rebuilt the shoulder of the road. A little farther away, another older machine crouched low, adjusting the angle of its armor as it pressed down collapsing boards and sandbags.

  The white of the work lights scattered through the ash. Only the hydraulic sounds went on, steady and regular.

  Saki brought her gaze back to the column and nudged the children closer together once more, enough to keep their pace from breaking.

  How long had they been walking?

  She could not check a clock.

  Ahead and behind, everything vanished into the ash. But she could feel it in the column itself. Their footsteps were growing heavier. The spacing between them was widening bit by bit.

  The smaller children shortened their steps. One child behind them silently rubbed at their calf. Those with worn-thin soles dragged their shoes slightly against the road every time they took a step.

  “Just a little more, all right? See? They told us we’d get one break once we reached there.”

  Even as she said it, Saki herself had no clear sense of how much farther there was to go.

  No map. No distance. No time she could trust.

  Whenever a child in front of her nearly stumbled, she placed a quiet hand against their back.

  Part of her wanted to let them stop. Another part feared that if they stopped, they would never get moving again.

  In the end, all she could say was always the same thing.

  “It’s okay to go slowly. Just keep your eyes forward.”

  After a while, she saw small lights wavering beyond the ash.

  Then the wind brought with it the smell of soup and bread.

  At once she remembered how dry her mouth had become.

  Several field kitchen tents had been pitched where the White Line widened slightly. A soldier by the side of the passage raised a hand in signal and spoke in a clipped voice.

  “Break. Over here.”

  The voice was curt, but that single word made their feet feel a little lighter.

  A young man serving food waved as he lined up paper bowls.

  “Children first!”

  The adults in the column moved aside almost by reflex. Small backs were guided forward. Bowls were handed over one after another.

  The worker beside him said nothing. He only nodded and pointed with two fingers toward a chin strap.

  The moment one person started to lift the cloth at their mouth, a hand reached out and put it back in place. The child lowered their face again and slid the spoon carefully under the edge of the bowl.

  Ash grains fell through the white of the steam.

  The lights blurred in it.

  Small black specks landed on the surface of the paper bowls.

  The children received bread and soup. Even when the heat made their fingers tremble, they held the bowls firmly in both hands.

  “Careful not to spill. Don’t bring your face too close.”

  Saki watched each pair of hands in turn, lightly steadying the rim of a bowl here, another there.

  Then one small hand shook, and soup slipped over the edge.

  “Ah…”

  The spilled soup vanished into the ash and spread black across the ground.

  Saki saw the child’s eyes beginning to redden and, by reflex, almost held out her own bowl—

  “It’s okay, it’s okay. Here, another one.”

  The young server handed over a fresh bowl at once.

  The child bowed their head slightly and accepted it, this time without spilling.

  When the spoon went in, ash floated to the surface. Saki tipped the paper bowl a little and nudged the specks toward the edge.

  “Let’s move over here, to the side.”

  She guided the children into an open space and seated them along the edge of the passage.

  As she adjusted their blankets again, she lowered her voice.

  “It’s hot, so be careful. Let’s eat slowly.”

  A scattered chorus of “Thank you for the meal” rose unevenly, and the sound of small spoons began here and there.

  Saki lifted her own bowl in both hands.

  The heat seeped into her palms.

  “…Thank you for the meal.”

  She took one sip.

  Salt and warmth spread through her, and the backs of her eyes nearly gave way.

  She quickly looked up. None of the children were looking at her. All of them were absorbed in their own bowls.

  She swallowed a second mouthful.

  It was warm.

  Beyond the ash, the shadow of a massive land battleship was faintly visible. Its outline was vague, but one small part of it still held light.

  Will we… be allowed inside there tonight?

  Still holding the paper bowl, Saki looked up at that shadow.