The Emperor's Bastard (2)
“Whew… I really overdid it today…”
After finishing that long journey from Vienna all the way to the tip of the Iberian Peninsula in Malaga, I immediately met with my steward and chancellor. We talked about this and that, but decided to save the details for later and I headed to my quarters for the night.
A typical nobleman's bedroom. I sat there and started stripping off this irritating outfit piece by piece.
Noble attire. You see glamorous noble clothing in movies, comics, or dramas, but unfortunately, the noble fashion of this era was pure torture. Stockings originally meant for men. Tight pants topped with clothes embroidered in flashy gold thread—it was discomfort incarnate.
“Haa… Those island bastards need to hurry up and invent the suit already…”
Suits wouldn't be developed until the 18th century. Even frock coats had to come first for anything resembling modern suits, and in this 16th-century equivalent, they simply didn't exist.
1558. In Europe, which had moved beyond the Middle Ages into the early modern era, I had been reborn. Sitting on the bed, I couldn't help but think a million thoughts.
“I thought I'd adapted pretty well after twenty years…”
And so, I began ruminating once more on how I'd been reincarnated into this game world.
“Gonna slap on that fantasy skin today and knock out the Mare Nostrum achievement real quick.”
Gaming was one of my few joys after work. Among them, I'd been playing the historical simulation game Europa Universalis from way back. My one-trick Steam playtime clocked in at a whopping 1,362 hours.
Sometimes I'd play as Korea for world conquest, or as some tiny nation in Indochina for the “Daeunwoo” achievement, savoring the fun. Paradox's insane DLC prices were a pain, but as a working stiff with a full wallet, I'd curse them out while buying the full package every time.
This time, a user patch that straight-up ported the timeline from the new King & and Europa Universalis. I'd layered a personal fantasy skin over it and was grinding the “Ironman” achievement for kicks.
But lately, I'd been hyper-focused on hardcore achievements and needed some chill time. While browsing uncompleted ones, I spotted Mare Nostrum—restore the Roman Empire and own the entire Mediterranean and Black Sea coasts.
Usually an easy clear with kebab country (Ottomans), but today I felt like going right-side white boy: Austria. The top-tier powerhouse in 1444, right at the Emperor's seat. Sure, it was strong, but I wanted to prove who the true heirs of Rome were—not those dumb Russians or kebab Turks, but the Holy Roman Empire.
I started the game as usual after a quick shower, but it hung on infinite loading. I pounded the keyboard in disbelief.
“A 3080 and it's lagging on loading? For real?”
Graphics cards were already jacked up from mining. Sighing at my overpriced 3080 choking on this god-tier game, I tried Ctrl+F4—no dice. Forced to Ctrl+Alt+Del, then bam—blue screen.
“Hah… and the installments aren't even paid off yet…”
No choice. I held the power button for a hard shutdown. No response. Crawling under the desk, I yanked the cord. PC finally stopped. As I went to plug it back in, an inexplicable sensation hit me.
A chill ran down my spine. My post-shower hands still damp—water on them, and something intense surged through, straight into my body. A jolt of electricity like nothing I'd ever felt. I passed out before I could even process it fully.
“And when I opened my eyes… here I was.”
The place I'd been reborn wasn't anywhere else—it was inside the game. My go-to, Europa Universalis. But not the usual 1444 start; I spawned into the 1508 Cambrai League War scenario.
Born as the illegitimate son of Charles V, son of Philip I. Not the famous king Philip II, but the bastard Don Juan de Austria. Handsome as hell to look at. No Habsburg Jaw—the family curse—so this stunning face would stick around. Perfect.
The Habsburgs, infamous for inbreeding. My brother Philip the king and the rest suffered from severe malocclusion. But even as Charles V's bastard, carrying Habsburg blood, Don Juan—that's me—hadn't shown the curse at twenty. Rumors said my mother was pregnant by another man. The family hushed it up, but my jaw staying normal proved it true.
Fine by me. I'd barely seen Charles V, always off crushing Protestants in the Low Countries till he died. Hard to call him Dad.
“Haa… In historical novels, protagonists are always history buffs who crush it. What the hell do I even know…”
A groan slipped out. I was just your average office drone who liked history sims. I knew how to ally the eastern union or mass troops to smash France before they hit Elan. Telling me to build a domain from the bottom in this world? Might as well say drop dead.
Worse, this user patch mixed in King & systems. Fantasy race patch made it playable, but now I had to grow a domain like in King &—insane. Events shuffled by the patch meant I lost my memory of them. Basically an NPC now.
I wanted out, but twenty years of struggling taught me: impossible.
“At least I'm nobility, so life's livable…”
Problem: too many people gunning for my head. Closest threat: brother Philip in Toledo. Then Uncle, the Holy Roman Emperor. Even my own vassals in the domain were scheming to puppet me. Sigh after sigh.
“What do I need to do to survive?”
This habit started after rebirth—muttering to organize thoughts. Twenty years in, it was glued to my mouth.
“Maybe… just betray everyone…”
My last bastion for survival. Cross the Mediterranean to Turkish kebabs, hand over Malaga County, beg mercy, build an elf harem, live easy.
But Roman Catholicism. My fake Roman Emperor ally was hunkered in Istanbul. Convert to Islam and offer the domain? Sultan might not even help before brother and Catholic monarchs swarm me.
If my land was Sicily, Sardinia, or Palma in the Balearics, I'd grab a ship and run. But no—mainland Iberian Peninsula, solid land connection. Morocco sultans? They'd have to cross Gibraltar Strait—impossible.
I pondered sucking up to brother and Catholic lords for survival. Then a flash of genius. I hadn't wasted my gaming after all.
“I'll fill Genoa's empty shoes!”
Military expansion blocked. At Iberia's edge, only Atlantic ahead. My one path: benchmark a merchant republic.
Those ancient merchant republics had gravitas. Like Venice hoodwinking the Eastern Romans into the Latin Empire—money made anything possible.
France had gobbled Savoy, Milan, Genoa. Genoa barely clung to Corsica, herding sheep like hillbillies on that mountain rock. Milan and Genoa, Venice's old rivals, gone. Venice neutered by Ottomans—perfect timing.
“Problem is… what to sell…”
Spices from Egypt blocked by Ottomans. Detour via Africa from India was sane, but no ocean-crossers. Just fishing boats and galleys for chasing Moroccan/Tunisian pirates. Spice trade? Dream on.
“Can't even make soap, the webnovel cliché. Driving me nuts.”
Those long soap and fountain pen arcs—I always skipped 'em. Now I needed 'em and drew a blank. Frustrating.
Knock knock.
Deep in thought, the knock snapped me back. I hastily pulled on stockings and fixed my attire.
Clothes meant for servants to help with. But I'd shooed them out for alone time—had to dress solo, frantically.
Finally dressed, panting, I called “Come in.” Steward Isabel Gomara appeared.
“What is it, Isabel?”
She stared, expression oddly peculiar, but I brushed it off.
“Forgive the intrusion while you rest, my lord. Jewish merchants have come to offer tribute and pay respects to Don Juan de Austria, Count.”
“Tribute?”
“Yes. Sephardic Jews were mostly expelled, but some remained by the previous count's mercy, continuing trade. They seek to offer tribute to keep at it.”
Isabel's sharp explanation. Hearing it sparked a great idea.
“Let's meet them, then.”