The Chaos Within the order

"The first duty of a revolutionary is to survive."

---

"If a friend who has been through life and death with you committed treason against the state — would you shield him, or hand him over to the law?"

"I would protect him. He's a friend I hold dear."

"No. You cut him loose, immediately. From then on, whether he lives or dies is no concern of yours."

That was what my father taught me — my father, a Judge of the Imperial Guard. When I asked him what would happen if, at a critical moment, someone showed vulnerability and feeling as a gesture of goodwill, the question left him deeply disappointed in me. He turned away without looking back — wouldn't even meet my eyes.

He also told me that the ability I was born with was something rare, that one day I would become a great pillar of the Archadian Empire. And yet I was only twelve when he sent me off to the Empire's youth corps. More than a few of his subordinates and relatives thought my father had simply lost his mind, shipping a girl who looked so thin and fragile off to march with soldiers — as if he no longer recognized me as his daughter at all.

I followed my father to the military offices beneath the palace, and I could read exactly what their eyes saw: a girl in the neat, immaculate dress of a noble house, a face pale as snow — the kind of ordinary townsperson you'd see fleeing in every direction on a battlefield. Even from a distance, I could hear the soldiers sitting by the candlelight — even the Judges among them — whispering, sneering.

*"He can't be serious… this Judge is really bringing this — this little girl into the army?"*

*"Let's hope she doesn't wet herself at drills… hahaha."*

*"Honestly, I can't wait to see which Judge Magister ends up with her. The poor man's in for a headache."*

The words stung. But I paid the noise no mind. And the soldiers who had planned to keep laughing found, soon enough, that the fun had gone out of it, and shut their mouths.

What puzzled me far more was this: how had my father managed to persuade the officers of the general staff to let me into military training at all? After a round of persuasion and paperwork, my father completed my enlistment — then vanished into the darkness beyond the door without a backward glance, as if leaving me here to endure a trial out of hell, delivered once more into the army's embrace. Memory, and one's own fate — how strangely alike they are…

They thought the frail-looking girl in front of them was just one more thing to be sacrificed. They had no idea she would become a presence that could not be ignored.

---

But the moment I stepped out of that door, I saw another figure planted squarely in my father's path, refusing to let him leave without a word of explanation.

"Mother — it's so late… why are you suddenly blocking Father's way home?" I asked. She was only a teacher at the Royal Academy, spending her days on the same quiet work of passing knowledge to the next generation. But having married into House Stewart from foreign blood, she also carried the duty of guarding something equally precious: the documents handed down through our family.

The casket she was holding at that very moment was exactly that. On it sat a lock no one could open — because rather than a passcode made of strings of numbers, it was more like an intricate, tangled equation, standing guard over the memories of generations, and their unfinished story…

My parents never said outright what our family's mission was. But through the knowledge I'd been raised on since childhood, through every formula I worked out on paper, it was as if the laws of this world were whispering to me:

*The history of this world has always been bound by gods. And yet — escape is not beyond us.*

She brushed her fingers gently over the thin dust on the casket, her eyes lowered to the lock, still and undisturbed as ever. Regret settled over her face. She didn't believe I should be taken away like this, to be made a soldier.

"Chara — forgive me and your father. We are powerless. Your brothers died in the war, one after another, and now the last hope of continuing our bloodline is…" She looked toward the tall building in the distance — the hall where the Imperial Senate convenes. A hint of what I was meant to guard… or perhaps to watch. Relatives of ours, from the branch family, sat there.

"The Empire's expansion has grown reckless lately. Ever since it swallowed the Republic of Landis with such ease eleven years ago, it's ridden that momentum to occupy the entire northwest, and taken in no small number of promising people along the way. Which means its gaze will soon turn to those two kingdoms in the southwest. Military power is about to become the Empire's single most important priority."

In truth, when it came to actually going to war — setting aside everything I'd studied, reaching instead for the Imperial code of law — my hand didn't resist. Rationally speaking, this was no era for discussing mathematics or science. And if I'm being honest, I never thought of myself as a woman who would die cheaply on some battlefield.

Even back in my school days, people said I had the makings of a commander. You only had to see the scenes that left onlookers speechless whenever boys a few years older tried to bully me in the street… in the end, the ones carried off to the physicians were the boys.

"Mother…"

"I'll do my work in the army properly. Someday I'll get my hands on this mysterious black box again — though, saying that, it looks like it'll be a long while before I can touch it." I answered with a wry smile.

My mother fell silent for a moment, and glanced back at my father — at eyes that were stern, but held a bitterness they couldn't voice. It wasn't that he wanted his daughter to spend her life making cruel decisions, sacrificing, one by one, the people she truly trusted. It was that if she didn't, the next to die might be him.

Having scolded me one last time before my enlistment, she stepped forward and laid a hand on my shoulder, as if to ease the invisible weight resting there. Then she reached up and touched the mask I already wore, heavy as forged metal — not only a symbol of the Empire's iron law, but the shell that hid the true shape of what I was inside.

"Listen well to what your father tells you… He had no choice either, when he abandoned his research to join the army. The things we truly need to do — someday, we will do them. But right now, for people like us, it would cost us our lives."

That was what my mother said. But whether in time or in chances, there wasn't much left to us. Our family had always been brushing against some nameless existence — whom punish without mercy — carried down through generation after generation. Call it a reckoning of misfortune, or a slow, deliberate sentence passed on our house. Our family's research had long been marked by the gods; our fate was already in Their hands. And Theirs was no swift physical annihilation — instead, through generations of accidents and wrongful banishments, They sent their message to the Empire and to the world: *this family walks the wrong path. Humanity is not meant to shape this world by its own hand.*

At the very least, my mother — married in from outside — never abandoned my father and me because of the curse. Even though she understood nothing of the research itself, she never left.

---

**— 704 Old Valendian —**

I was holed up in the arsenal assigned to my own detachment, the air thick with the mixed smell of raw copper and machinery. Apart from the few small aerial combat craft parked a short distance away, the whole place was littered with airborne military parts awaiting repair — warship shells, gears, firearms and the rest — and the armor piled at my feet was still waiting for me to give it proper maintenance and sorting.

Before long, two soldiers in full armor approached, their footsteps ringing with the crisp sound of hard iron. Recruits who had joined a term after me — which meant they treated me like something of a senior, an older sister of the trade.

"Sister Chara, you'd better get ready. If you're not prepared before the mobilization, the Commander-in-Chief will chew your head off," one of them reported, all seriousness.

"The Commander's only calling us because His Majesty ordered the weapons readied for war — and it's going to be a big one this time! We've been pulling all-nighters for days sorting everything out. Ugh, I'm half dead, my back is killing me~" The other's voice carried a note of mischief.

"Slience, This is part of the job too. Now listen, both of you. I've received your reports. The objective of this campaign is to break the two small western kingdoms that just concluded their political marriage — Nabradia and Dalmasca. The marriage was meant to resist us. And yet…"

I paused, one hand tapping lightly on the table as I thought it through. The troop strength this requisition called for was nowhere near what you'd expect. Even with the two kingdoms allied, the force the Commander had ordered didn't exceed half the usual count — when the soundest strategy would be to guard against a joint offensive from both of them. Unless…

What can't be broken from the outside by force of arms might instead be worked from within — from the cracks already running through it, chiseling a small hole in that wall, little by little, until the whole thing shatters from the inside out.

What made me curious, though, was the reason. Simple hunger for resources? Invading small kingdoms with practically nothing worth plundering — that pretext seemed far too thin. Hm… was it for the princess and the prince of those two nations, then? They're said to be descendants of the Dynast-King who united the continent some seven hundred years ago. Was there something in them worth taking? But they've never displayed any tangible power. Their descent itself is the entire proof of who they are — and in my eyes, that's nothing more than bloodline. Blood alone proves no extraordinary ability, and it's certainly not a self-evident justification for conquering a continent or leading a nation. What I value is real will, and the resolve to carry the weight of decisions. As for whose shoulders that rests on — I'm still looking.

"Sister… something's going on outside. I'll go take a look." The quieter, more serious of the two voices had picked up on something, and went ahead of me to check.

I nodded my permission. With the Judge Magister in charge of our bureau away, he'd left clear instructions that I was to hold down this crowd of fellas.

But within moments he came running back, completely out of breath — and from the panic on his face, this was obviously no small matter.

"The Commander of the Western Armies is coming to inspect the state of our armaments — a surprise inspection! Everyone, straighten your uniforms, mind your etiquette!"

The soldiers fell into formation as one — backs straight, ranks orderly, not a single man out of place, not a single error. Discipline carved into the bone, and a soldier's absolute respect for the Commander about to arrive.

Soon, the sound of heavy war boots began echoing down the corridor in steady rhythm, each stride keeping a precise interval — the ingrained result of countless campaigns and military drills.

I alone signaled my two juniors to stand at my side. In all my time dealing with superiors, this was the first time I'd faced a presence that pressed down on the air like this.

I adjusted the two belts hanging slightly loose at my waist, re-fastened the heavy faulds that had begun to slip, and made sure there wasn't a single crease or loose fitting on me before I spoke.

"Third Bureau, Armaments Division, greets His Excellency the Commander of the Western Armies!" My voice rang sharp through the entire arsenal. The man before us said nothing.

"…Lord Vayne Solidor." I added, out of the courtesy that surfaces require. Not that I didn't know his name. As the strongest candidate to succeed House Solidor, his name was known throughout the capital — among the shinmin (middle-class citizens) who hold the vote for Emperor, the so-called themselves, and among the military, where his support ran deep.

Even after that, he gave no response. Instead he turned and walked into our arsenal, his gaze settling on the few small combat craft parked in the distance. I couldn't tell what he was thinking, but from the faint crease of his brow, I could see it for myself — he was calculating something…

"Forgive my asking directly: is this the whole of the armament we possess?" His opening question was delivered in a tone so level he hardly seemed angry at all.

"The information we received was that this post's allotment need only be half that of the Imperial 12th fleet." I answered honestly.

"Insolence! With nothing but the *Antlion* and the *White Dragon*, forget holding a screen at the center of the battlefield — you couldn't even get through the entrance! You think this is some casual day job, girl? Are you treating an order of attack like it's nothing?!" barked the Judge from another bureau standing beside him.

Those were the designations of a few small combat airships. If we were talking about an assault by conventional procedure, then yes — our entire Third Bureau, Armaments Division, really would look like it was phoning it in. But I had only followed the instructions written in the requisition… and since these were the numbers he himself had requested, I rather suspected the Commander had some other card to play.

The Judge was about to cut in again. Vayne immediately raised both hands, signaling the two Judges to be calm.

"There is no need for concern. This Judge has met my requirements precisely. For the operation at hand, the strength allotted will suffice."

At that, no one dared make a sound… the air itself seemed to freeze. A conclusion like this had clearly been prepared long in advance.

"Are there any further questions?" Vayne's voice was perfectly calm — as if this campaign were already as good as won.

And no one present had any intention of speaking. Because if the troop strength was confirmed sufficient, then where to deploy from, what formations were needed — all of it had already been arranged.

Satisfied, he turned to leave the arsenal…

But just as he was about to pass me, a drawer somewhere in my mind slid open — a small conversation from only a few hours earlier. An odd moment for it to surface, but it was directly connected to this campaign.

---

In an indoor training hall with bare walls on all four sides, where only a few wooden pillars stood, I was swinging a pair of katanas through my forms.

Off to the side, a middle-aged man in the standard armor of a Judge Magister watched my movements closely. Without his helmet, his bald head was plain to see. And his eyes weren't only following my movements…

They were also quietly studying the two katanas — their appearance, their construction.

One blade bore a pattern of dark purple, giving off a faint aura of dark-element energy.

The other had the coloring and presence of a bright moon — first light of dawn was the best description for it, the complete opposite of the dark.

Just as I decided the day's practice was finished and moved to return both blades to their sheaths, he broke into loud applause.

"That's you, all right, Judge Stewart. It seems my family's twin-blade style has found its successor."

The corner of my mouth lifted slightly, and as both swords rang cleanly home into their scabbards, I answered with due modesty.

"No — the true heir of the twin blades is still you, master Zecht… I mean, Judge Magister."

"That's not for you to decide. In an age like this, the higher a general's rank, the heavier the responsibility."

Zecht's expression suddenly turned grave.

"But there's one thing you need to know, Judge Stewart. Even though we stand in a place where every command of the crown must be obeyed…"

He paused there, and his voice took on more weight.

"…never forget the conviction you carry. What is it your heart holds onto?"

The air froze for a moment after he said it — and then he threw his head back and laughed heartily at the ceiling.

"Anyway — here's the situation. I'm being sent to Nabudis to carry out a secret assignment. I don't know what Lord Vayne and Doctor Cid intend by it. But orders are orders, and I have to see it through."

"The contents?"

Hearing so blunt and concise a question, Zecht let out a wry smile.

"Transporting an asset to Nabudis and give it a test."

Put that way, it sounded far too simple. If it was just *an asset*, then everything hinged on what kind of asset it was.

"Then, if I may be so bold: what sort of asset is it? Do you know its full particulars?" The question left my mouth the instant his words ended.

The smile vanished from Zecht's face again. His stance snapped from relaxed to rigid, feet drawn together, the web of his thumb slowly rubbing the pale stubble on his chin.

"Chara." It was rare for him to call me by name.

"If you're prepared to trade your own safety — even your life — for that information, then you may go and seek it."

His face drew closer, and the pressure radiating off him sent a sudden chill down my back.

The room stayed silent around us. The man straightened up and walked away, and the sight of his retreating back was itself a final warning — a line that was not to be crossed.

---

But my heart refused to let an unknown like that escape my grasp.

I had entered the Ministry of Law; I had Imperial law and military strategy to memorize. Even so, I never abandoned the knowledge and materials my family left behind. Those intricate theories and formulas, tied to numbers by a thousand threads — the Mist of this world, which is to say, the movement of power itself. *Why does the flow of that energy follow rules?*

Beyond a certain hunger to know, there was an unfinished conviction in me.

Even in a place like this, I wanted the truth.

When Vayne drew level with me, I lowered my voice, making sure it reached only the two of us.

"Your Excellency. Forgive my asking directly."

His footsteps stopped.

"Since you have stated that the troop strength is sufficient, it follows that Nabradia's key positions require only a single point of breakthrough — with no need to invade through any other ground… such as Nabudis."

Vayne stood unmoving as a mountain, giving no reaction whatsoever.

"And yet — according to our own reconnaissance, Nabudis will still maintain a garrison. To reach the central domain, one must first pass through their air defense network. No commander would commit zero forces to that ground. Unless…"

"Unless Your Excellency has privately prepared some means, or some asset, sufficient to physically erase the forces stationed there."

At this, Vayne's expression darkened — or perhaps he had seen through something, and was running some further calculation of his own…

The soldiers around us had already drifted back to the work in their hands, paying no attention to what was passing between the two of us. As a rule, none of them would have dared step forward to disturb the Commander again anyway.

But my two juniors, still keeping watch at my side, had never taken their eyes off me — and by now, their gaze was reading the Commander's expression as well.

A moment later, their eyes met his. And what they saw there hadn't darkened at all. Instead, somewhere inside it, a point of light had appeared.

Then, after a beat, came a soft laugh.

"So — you wish to know."

He said nothing more. His footsteps started up again, until they disappeared entirely from my sight.

My two juniors exchanged glances. They hadn't caught a word of what passed between us, but once it was over, they still came up to check on me.

"Sister… are you all right?"

Even I hadn't fully surfaced from that tension. Vayne's intentions, the true identity of that object, the shape of the coming operation — my thoughts were racing far ahead of anything my mouth could keep up with.

"It's nothing…"

And yet there was a strange feeling I couldn't name. A greater responsibility — or was this the place where fate would begin to turn?

---

***Royal Office***

By then the night had fully darkened. Inside an office lit by magicite lamps — stones condensed from the gathered Mist — a man stood behind the door in robes of authority, the heel of one white boot resting against the wall, wearing gold-chained spectacles in the style of a bygone era: the very image of an old house's refinement. He murmured to himself about one thing and another, exchanging pleasantries and the day's intelligence with Vayne — until, on the matter of a certain Judge who had set her eye on *the asset*, the man asked with a touch of urgency:

"That girl — are you really going to let her know it exists?"

Vayne, seated at his desk, heard this without the slightest disturbance, hands folded on the desktop — as if, in the events of the day, he had found a new piece to place on a board whose course had been set long ago.

• Seimin (政民)

The ruling elite of Archadia, composed exclusively of ancient noble houses whose bloodlines predate the modern Empire itself.

Imperials possess significant voting rights in the imperial succession and maintain dominant representation within the Senate—an institution formed entirely of hereditary aristocracy. This body functions as both an advisory council and a restraint upon the Emperor’s authority, reviewing policies and sanctioning state action.

• Shinmin (新民)

Those permitted the residence and operate within the capital, including common-born individuals who have risen through military distinction or wealth.While granted limited civic privileges—including a minor share in imperial electoral influence—their political weight remains marginal compared to that of the Imperials.

• Gaimin (外民)

Conquered peoples, war captives, and the destitute.

They are denied entry into the capital and possess no political agency within the Empire.

Chara Stewart was born an Imperial, heir to a house both revered and feared.

House Stewart traces its lineage back centuries, its name woven into the earliest annals of Archadian history. At its zenith, one of its ancestors ascended even to the imperial throne by going through mastery of nethicite theory and the persuasive power of knowledge itself.

Yet this ascent provoked a force far beyond mortal politics.

The rise of House Stewart was violently opposed by the ecclesiastical authority centered in Mt. Bur-Omisace, stronghold of the Kiltian faith—a religion devoted to the worship of the Occuria.

The Stewart lineage was defined by a singular creed:

“All problems of this world are solvable by human hands.”

A principle rational, even admirable—within the bounds of human philosophy.

But in Ivalice, such a belief borders on heresy.

For beyond the veil of history stand the Occuria—self-proclaimed arbiters of fate—who have, since antiquity, guided mankind toward predetermined outcomes. It was they who bestowed the power of the Nethicite upon chosen rulers, enabling dominion over Mist itself: its flow, purification, and transformation.

To challenge this system is not merely rebellion—it is defiance against the architects of history.

House Stewart’s research into the mathematical modeling of Mist flow—aimed at stabilizing and ultimately liberating humanity from reliance on divine intervention—drew the ire of the Occuria.

Their downfall did not come through open war.

It came through interference.

Critical formulae became unsolvable, as if reality itself resisted comprehension.

Key figures within the house fell victim to inexplicable misfortune—exile, assassination, sudden ruin—events too precise, too consistent to be dismissed as chance.

Such calamities bore the unmistakable signature of unseen influence.

The Occuria, after all, are not limited to the physical realm.

They shape thought, perception—choice itself.

Before their near extinction, the remnants of House Stewart concealed their final work within an encrypted vault of their own design.

Their research had come within a single step of completion:

A fully realized model capable of defining the laws governing Mist, and more critically, establishing a method to stabilize it without reliance on divine artifacts.

A world where humanity would no longer require the Occuria.

They left behind not a solution—but a promise.

That one day, a descendant would emerge—

one capable of resolving the final equation, and ending the chain of misfortune that had bound their bloodline for generations.

As for Chara Stewart—

She did not inherit merely a legacy.

She inherited a warning.

Before her stood a fallen imperial soldier, lifeless—his defiance extinguished in an instant.

Which is more pathetic and the cruelness they show. That soldier is her father.

And beyond him, a presence not bound by flesh nor form.

A voice, neither loud nor soft, but absolute:

“Child of man… do not presume to challenge the natural order of this world.”

“Walk not the path of forbidden knowledge.”