<CHAPTER 3>
After thinking for quite some time, Victor reached out, took hold of the silver bell on the table, and gave it a shake.
The clear metallic chime spread through the quiet study.
Summer air slowly seeped in through the half-open window, gently stirring the curtains.
The warm breeze carried the scent of grass and the lingering heat of the garden, baked beneath the sunlight.
“Bring me the newspaper.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
At the sound of the bell, the butler, Willen, hurried in from the bedroom and immediately noticed that something about his master was slightly different from usual.
Something must have gone wrong in the capital. Well, that must be why His Grace came back to the estate after such a long absence.
Thinking that, Willen decided not to pry and promptly returned with today’s newspaper and a glass of cool water.
Whatever the circumstances, his duty was to serve his master faithfully, not concern himself with the complicated political situation in the capital.
“……July 1, 1867?”
It was only after Victor had emptied the glass completely that a disbelieving laugh escaped his lips at the absurd date.
On the battlefield, even a single glass of uncontaminated water was an extravagant luxury, so Victor ordered the butler to bring him something else to drink.
He also added that he wanted a cup of coffee.
Have I finally gone mad?
His last memory was of the makeshift field hospital.
It had been bombed, and he had probably died there.
And yet somehow, he had returned four years into the past with all four limbs perfectly intact.
Calmly going through the articles in the newspaper, he recognized the events they described—events he had already witnessed.
Then he walked toward the mirror.
It was an object he normally had neither the time nor the reason to look into unless he was dressing for a formal banquet, but right now, it was remarkably useful.
“……”
A broad-shouldered, imposing man stared back at him from the full-length mirror.
Amazingly, the scar beside his eye—the one he had received during the great war with Franche—was completely gone.
Though, technically speaking, he simply had not acquired it yet.
The knee that had been grazed by a bullet and plagued him with discomfort was perfectly fine as well.
But more than anything, his eyes were different.
Anyone who had repeatedly come close to death and somehow survived inevitably carried a trace of bloodlust in their gaze.
Yet the man staring back at him in the mirror was quite… handsome.
In other words, he did not look like a dangerous explosive waiting to go off.
“So this is what I looked like back then.”
He soon began undoing the buttons of his shirt.
Even at home, his suffocating preference was to button his shirt all the way to his throat and wear a waistcoat on top of it.
But there was nothing he could do about that now.
He needed to examine his body first.
“The gunshot wound here is gone, too. Though this body is practically useless.”
The butler, who returned with water and coffee a moment later, pretended not to hear his master talking to himself.
It did seem rather strange to him that his master had suddenly stripped down in broad daylight and was criticizing the perfectly impressive muscles of his upper body.
But in the venerable House of Bayern, even asking about something the head of the family was doing without permission was considered an act of overstepping one’s bounds.
Instead, the butler simply bowed his head at his master’s command.
“Go out and bring me the most famous newspaper reporters.”
“Understood. Would Your Grace prefer a political daily? Or are you looking for something more… gossipy?”
Victor’s lips parted quietly after a brief moment of thought.
“Both. I’m going to place a matrimonial advertisement.”
This time, even the seasoned butler could not stop his eyes from widening.
—
A day later, Victor realized that he was still at his estate.
I never imagined returning like this.
Perhaps God scraped together whatever mercy He had left and granted it to me.
Thinking about it indifferently, his next course of action was to take out a stack of paper and write down every piece of information he could remember.
From trivial details, such as the personal information of officers and soldiers, to larger matters, such as where and when various battles had taken place.
On the final pages, he meticulously recorded why he had been abandoned, where that had ultimately forced him and his men to retreat, and exactly what had prevented them from surviving.
The future war between Franche and Richter is something only I know about at this point in time.
If preventing it was what God wanted of him, he was more than willing to comply.
Even during wartime, international agreements prohibited attacks on locations where wounded soldiers were being treated.
If either side violated that rule, the surrounding nations were supposed to join the two countries in condemning them.
But Franche had apparently disregarded all of that and launched an attack anyway.
Which means the beloved King of Richter must have given his permission.
He had been caught between two kings taking out their frustrations on each other.
That was the simplest way to put it.
And in the process, his officers, his soldiers, and his doctors had all died.
Crack.
Perhaps he had gripped the fountain pen too tightly, because it snapped in his hand.
He paused for a moment of silence over the remains of what had once been a beloved fountain pen, then took out a new one without hesitation.
At least he could afford to do that now.
He was not back at the point where he had been clutching charcoal and issuing orders for guerrilla warfare.
First, I need to identify the subordinates who were most loyal to me.
War revealed the ugliest depths of human nature.
There had been deserters and traitors, but there had also been many comrades who had fought alongside him until the very end.
Abel.
The elegant fingers holding the fountain pen suddenly stopped.
The only noncombatant.
The person who had desperately tried to keep him alive until the very end.
What did he say at the end? Told me to survive, didn’t he?
He had no idea why this miracle had happened.
There was no way all of it had been a dream.
After contemplating it for a long time, Victor’s thoughts inevitably returned to Abel.
If I wasn’t the one who caused this miracle, then it must have been Abel. Perhaps he returned with me.
If Abel really was the one who brought him back to life…
Bayern always repays its debts.
But what would be the best way to repay him?
Where in the world was he supposed to find someone who had supposedly been a commoner?
Victor remembered at least the school Abel had graduated from; it had been recorded in the documents.
But finding him with nothing more than that would be extremely difficult.
Come to think of it, Abel always had a way of cleverly concealing the truth.
Victor had simply assumed Abel did not realize he had noticed and had let him keep up the pretense, secretly rather amused by how proud the man looked of himself.
After all, lying and concealing a few truths one did not wish to disclose were slightly different matters.
Yes.
Even that much was—
“Woof! Woof!”
“Ahh! Stop that! How dare a descendant of the Great Bayern behave like some beast!”
“Grrr! Woof! Woof!!!”
“Do you think I don’t know you’re doing this on purpose? I told you to stop! Oh, God!”
……
The moment Victor heard the commotion outside, his expression turned completely blank.
The corners of his mouth, which had softened for a brief moment as he thought of Abel, hardened again.
His posture became rigid as well.
Yes.
Victor Bayern had a few secrets of his own.
Secrets he had no intention of telling anyone.
—
“When are you finally going to send that boy to a mental hospital?”
That evening, at dinner—the very day Victor had finished piecing together the circumstances of his current situation—his aunt, Genevieve Bayern, flew into a rage.
Anyone looking at her face could clearly see the marks where she had been scratched.
“The eldest is so intelligent, so why is the second one like that?! You need to have him admitted immediately, if only for his own sake. At this rate, the Bayern family will become a laughingstock.”
Despite being fairly advanced in age, Genevieve still wore her hair long and remained unmarried.
The reason her unmarried status was worth mentioning was because it was precisely why she was here, at the estate.
After making a reckless investment that had nearly amounted to fraud and losing her share of the family inheritance, Victor’s aunt had begun living here around the time his younger sister, Susanna, died.
The house was spacious enough, and Victor rarely crossed paths with her.
Moreover, they needed someone to look after the twin boys Susanna had left behind, so Victor had willingly agreed to let her stay.
But things hadn’t turned out as expected.
The nine-year-old twins had an extremely poor relationship with Genevieve.
If things had gotten bad enough for her to start talking about a mental hospital, there was really no need for further explanation.
What did I do at this point in my previous life?
Victor merely stared at her without answering.
Genevieve flinched, then hurriedly swallowed whatever she had been about to say.
“No, of course, the honor of House Bayern wouldn’t be ruined over a single child… but the younger one’s condition is still serious. You wouldn’t know since you’ve only returned here after two years.”
“A mental hospital……”
