Elias Wise had never been a man of office, nor had he ever entered the imperial court seeking recognition. His name first appeared outside the state's records, during the years when schools began closing their doors one after another, when education became one of the first things sacrificed whenever the treasury ran dry.
When the treasury could no longer pay the teachers' salaries, he quietly covered them himself, sending the money through intermediaries as though they were ordinary business obligations rather than an effort to keep education alive. And when the imperial presses ceased operating, he purchased neglected private printing houses and restarted them with his own wealth—not in pursuit of profit, but because, in his eyes, the disappearance of books was not merely a cultural crisis. It was an unwritten declaration of the Empire's own death.
Being a son of the West, he carried the old values of its people—those who weighed knowledge before the sword. He possessed no land bearing his name, nor soldiers marching beneath his banner, yet his name continued to appear in places the nobility rarely noticed: in the records of the schools that remained open, in contracts for paper and ink, and in the lists of students whose education continued while other provinces slowly faded into darkness.
As the years passed, he became one of the foremost figures responsible for preserving the bridge that allowed knowledge to cross the years of collapse without falling.
In practical terms, he had become the unofficial patron of the last six schools still operating throughout the Empire. It was a fact well known throughout the West, and known to its Duke as well, yet it had never been a matter that concerned the imperial court... until today.
That was why, when invitations were sent to those who had contributed the most to preserving what remained of the Empire, he was invited neither as a merchant nor as a patron of learning, but as a man who had already proven through action—not title—that he carried what the state itself had abandoned.
Only now, inside the great hall, did those present begin to realize that what had just occurred was not the making of a new choice... but a belated acknowledgment of something that had existed for years.
The silence did not last long after he stepped forward.
Sislin took a step ahead and opened the ceremonial case once again without announcement, as though the movement were merely a continuation of what had come before rather than the beginning of a new ritual. Inside rested the pen bearing the title (Foundation), a symbolic key engraved with the title (Architect), and the ministry's official seal.
The eyes of the assembly followed the scene with quiet caution—not because it was grand, but because its simplicity felt strangely unsettling, as though everyone were trying to determine exactly when the moment had passed without noticing.
Elias accepted the pen.
No speech.
No oath.
Not even a remark from the throne or from Morgana.
Only the quiet transfer of an object from one hand to another.
For a brief moment, the scene felt almost excessively administrative... until some of those present realized, a little too late, that this was precisely what made it unsettling. The state had not created this man; it had simply discovered that he had been working without it.
Elias offered a measured bow—neither deep nor merely ceremonial—then returned to his seat as though he had simply stepped out of a classroom to answer a question before taking his place again before the chair had even grown cold.
Ray glanced toward Morgana in silent question.
She answered with a calm gesture.
This is a man who neither needs words nor waits for them.
She had dealt with each person according to what suited them after long consideration, and Ray had no reason to doubt her judgment.
As Elias settled back into his seat, Rei turned the next page.
The Empire had not paused for applause.
Another moment of silence followed.
But it was no longer the same silence.
Rei did not raise his head.
He allowed that realization to pass as naturally as any ordinary note in an official record before carefully arranging the papers before him without the slightest hesitation. Every sheet contained the name, background, and qualifications of each candidate for every position.
Then, as though nothing extraordinary had happened—as though another item on the agenda had simply been completed—he continued.
The previous page slipped beneath his fingers, revealing the next.
In a steady voice, he said,
[We shall proceed.]
Only then did he lift his eyes toward the assembly and calmly announce a ministry that had never before existed within this Empire.
[The Ministry of Health and Public Welfare: responsible for hospitals, epidemic control, and safeguarding the well-being of the people.]
Rei had not yet finished when his voice halted at the title.
A slight movement came from the throne as Ray raised his hand—not merely to interrupt, but to take hold of the moment itself.
"It would seem this name is unfamiliar to everyone in this hall."
It was neither a sarcastic remark nor a grand declaration.
It was spoken the way one records a statement in official proceedings.
Nothing more.
Those present understood its meaning without needing further explanation.
Throughout the Empire's long history, matters of this kind had always been managed outside the government rather than within it.
Whenever the familiar cycles of collapse swept across one frontier after another, no one waited for the capital to intervene. Instead, they turned to institutions that had long operated beyond the administrative system—and were often quicker to respond than it ever could be.
It was an old arrangement.
It had endured because it worked... not because anyone had planned it that way.
As that understanding quietly settled across the hall, no one voiced opposition. Yet the atmosphere changed.
The announcement was no longer understood merely as the creation of a new ministry.
It was the transfer of something that had always existed outside the government... into its very structure.
Only then did the Duke of the East request permission to speak.
After a brief gesture granting him leave, he addressed Ray, attempting to clarify his intentions.
"Your Majesty... should we understand from the establishment of this ministry that the state will assume responsibilities traditionally entrusted to the religious institutions?"
He paused, adjusted his tone, and repeated his question.
"Are we reorganizing this domain... or taking it away from them?"
The words were spoken with impeccable courtesy.
Yet the true question was unmistakable.
Did Ray intend to provoke the Church—a sacred institution under the Empire itself—by interfering in its long-held interests while the Empire stood at its weakest?
Ray paused, as though considering not the meaning of the question, but its wording.
"Duke of the East, what worked for thirteen centuries stopped working a century ago. It is not as though the world suddenly changed... we simply noticed its change far too late. That delay was not born of negligence, but of strength. We became powerful enough to purchase what we needed instead of creating it ourselves."
He raised his gaze toward the hall.
"When our sphere of influence was vast, guilds, alchemical houses, medical centers, and churches all functioned within our world, even without belonging to us administratively. That was never a flaw... because we were the ones who created the conditions that allowed such a world to exist."
"But during the last century, the sphere we guaranteed steadily contracted, while our institutions continued to operate as though it had not. We came to depend on things we no longer controlled... and called that continuity."
Ray stopped there before delivering the conclusion he wished to make.
"So this ministry is not something new.
It is the correction of a delay that has lasted an entire century."
His eyes swept briefly across the assembly before settling upon the representative of the Church, who observed the proceedings calmly, possessing neither the authority nor the intention to interfere.
"I do not deny that the churches cared for the people when the administration was absent. But that role was born from a vacuum—not from a system. Therefore, we are not abolishing that role.
We are simply ending the vacuum, so that every institution may once again focus upon its own responsibilities."
The Duke's expression shifted ever so slightly.
He remained silent for a brief moment, weighing the gravity of the words.
"Then... we are not speaking of transferring authority.
We are speaking of reclaiming a responsibility that has long awaited someone willing to bear it."
The words hung in the air.
Neither agreement nor opposition.
A perfectly diplomatic statement—fit for the official record and broad enough to accommodate every possible interpretation.
Ray offered no reply.
He merely gave a faint smile, a silent seal marking the end of the discussion.
Only then did Rei announce the person who would assume the responsibility.
He did not raise his voice.
Nor did he wait for the assembly's attention to settle upon him.
He simply fixed the page before him, exactly as he had done each time he moved to another matter, and read the first line exactly as it was written, without introduction or ceremony.
[Countess Beatrice Lily... please step forward.]
The words were read plainly, without the grandeur usually reserved for noble titles.
No whisper followed the announcement.
It was as though everyone had allowed the name to establish its own meaning.
Slowly, almost naturally, every gaze turned toward Lily's row and settled upon her in silent anticipation.
There was nothing about her that resembled the commanding presence of those accustomed to authority.
She looked far more like a woman who had been hurriedly pulled away from her books than someone summoned from the ranks of government.
She glanced around to make sure, as though the name still felt unfamiliar even to herself.
Then she stepped forward cautiously.
On her very next step, the hem of her dress caught slightly beneath her foot.
She quickly regained her balance.
A faint blush spread across her cheeks, but she never raised her head to see whether anyone had noticed.
Instead, she simply continued walking as though nothing had happened.
For a brief moment, the scene made it seem as though Ray had placed the wrong person in the most formal position within the Empire.
Yet from his seat upon the throne, Ray saw no contradiction at all.
He watched her with quiet attention...
The attention of a man searching not for someone capable of managing what already existed—
but for someone capable of creating what had never existed before.
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End of Chapter
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[Side Information: Beyond the Walls of the State]
Throughout every age of its prosperity, the Empire had never possessed what could be called a public hospital.
This was not due to a lack of medical knowledge, nor to shortcomings in medicine itself, but rather the result of an entirely different system.
People traditionally received treatment through independent professional networks—healing houses, surgeons' guilds, and alchemical laboratories—which operated under direct contracts with cities, noble families, or merchant caravans.
The churches fulfilled a parallel role as well.
They received the helpless and travelers, providing care—especially for childbirth and related matters—as an act of charity rather than an administrative service.
Thus, an unwritten balance emerged:
The body belonged to the professions.
Weakness belonged to faith.
The state guaranteed the roads, the currency, and protection... then entrusted everything else to the vast market it had created.
As long as the imperial sphere remained as expansive as it once had been, this arrangement proved so successful that creating a centralized health system seemed entirely unnecessary.
But what functions in an open world does not necessarily continue to function once the borders begin to shrink.