My Friend

They say that before a person dies, they see a panorama of their life flash before their eyes. Of course, the existence of such a phenomenon has never been scientifically proven. Scientific research requires formulating a hypothesis and proving it through experimentation. But in this world, excluding Jesus Christ, no one has ever died and returned to verify if the hypothesis holds true. If anything, it was more accurate to say that the living were the ones who saw these flashes of the past. For Marx Stahl, who had never lost anyone as close to him as Sigmund Freud in either this life or his previous one, was currently seeing Freud’s life flash vividly before his eyes.

How had his first meeting with Freud gone? It was hardly a situation to laugh at. Yet, as Stahl recalled his very first memory of the man, a smile naturally formed on his lips. With white-hot rage mingling with fond, distant memories, his expression contorted into something so hideous it was difficult to look at.

"He seems to exhibit a love-hate relationship with his father. He simply refuses to accept this aspect of himself. That is why he is so violent..."

"Is this guy completely out of his mind?!"

Ha. Yes, that was how it went. Dr. Freud, operating as a urologist with his half-baked psychoanalysis, had mistaken Stahl for a homosexual. If Stahl hadn't been careful, he might have actually had his prefrontal cortex scooped out.

Then there was the memory of sitting gloomily in the laboratory after their research on Penicillin was utterly dismissed by the academic community. The memory of venturing into the filthy Vienna Slums with Dr. Karl Landsteiner to prove the antibiotic's efficacy. The memory of Freud moping because The Interpretation of Dreams had sold barely eight hundred copies.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

People often assumed Stahl’s closest confidant was Emperor Franz Ferdinand, or perhaps Cooperative Leader Adolf Hitler of the Hungarian Agricultural Cooperative. Since he had completely transitioned from a genius chemist to a professional revolutionary, that assumption wasn't entirely wrong. Yet, Stahl's ability to become a full-time ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠revolutionary stemmed entirely from his career as a chemist—an achievement that would have been utterly impossible without Freud.

The cruel, ruthless expressions once worn by his countless political adversaries—from Mayor Karl Lueger to Fuhrer Apis, Roman von Ungern-Sternberg, and even Winston Churchill—now manifested on Stahl's own face. As the brief flash of memories faded, his eyes grew ice-cold.

"I asked if you just laughed."

"Hahaha, my apologies. Pfft, pff-hah... It is just... I am simply overjoyed that our France has triumphed."

"..."

"Ah, by the way. I do have a question. A rather sudden turn of events has occurred back home, and it seems France might no longer exist. What happens if a nation's name changes in the middle of the Olympics?"

Georges Clemenceau felt a rush of pure ecstasy as he stared at Stahl's wrathful face. Hate and love are identical in that they are the most intense of all human emotions. Just as their outward expressions could appear similar, the essence hidden behind both emotions was virtually identical. Both hate and love, at their core, desired to dominate and possess an uncontrollable other according to one's own will.

Stahl's countless enemies, much like the Joker trying to tear open Batman's dark psyche, had always wanted to prove that Stahl was just another "politician" like themselves. By orchestrating the death of Stahl's friend, Georges Clemenceau had achieved a feat no one else ever had. Like a nine-tailed fox finally resolving a thousand-year-old grudge, Clemenceau asked Stahl with an expression of absolute, unburdened relief:

"What do you think of our victory?"

"I feel like severing that filthy neck of yours in a single stroke."

"Stahl, you are a greenhorn barely in your forties. May I offer you a piece of advice as an elder of the political arena? I, too, once foolishly chased after the ideals of the Republic. But looking back, it was all an exercise in futility. It is a profound irony of this society that while the most noble minds turn away from politics, only the most vulgar obsess over it. The most honorable duties are left in the hands of reckless, short-sighted gambling addicts. This is simply... a game. Those who lose must gracefully dust off their hands and rise from the table. You, too, are merely another player seated at this board. Look at your face. Haven't you become entirely consumed by the game before you even realized it?"

At first, Churchill had watched the situation unfold with sheer bewilderment, thinking, Has Stahl's true nature finally been exposed over some silly car race?! But gradually, Churchill's eyes filled with intense curiosity. The other global power players felt the same. Something had undoubtedly... happened in France! Within less than a day, they all realized what had transpired. France had collapsed, just as Russia once had.

Naturally, France was plunged into absolute chaos. While the fact of its collapse was known, the precise details of how it fell remained shrouded in mystery. Frankly, who hadn't anticipated a massive coup d'état in France? Unlike Stahl, who was receiving real-time, vivid intelligence on the French situation through the Prague Treaty Organization's espionage network, the general public's understanding was limited to a mere "coup." Meanwhile, the Olympics were not yet over. Though the violent events like martial arts and vehicular combat had concluded, there was still plenty of spectacle left to enjoy.

"Whoaaaa!"

"As expected of America. They're completely sweeping the medals in track and field and wrestling."

"Look at that! How can a human being run that fast?"

"Mom! I want to be a runner when I grow up!"

They cheered and applauded as they watched the medal ceremonies. The festival was far from over. And, in truth, a festival of a different sort was concurrently underway in France.

"Whoaaaa!"

"I was sick and tired of that bastard constantly wrecking the parliament anyway."

"Kill him now! We want the guillotine!"

The guillotine, which had vanished from public squares since the nineteenth century, made its dramatic return. Since ancient times, violence had been humanity's greatest festival. Everyone had been horrified by the atrocities of the Nazis in the original history, as well as the massacres perpetrated by Fuhrer Apis and Roman von Ungern-Sternberg. After all, hacking a human being to death with a blade is an unspeakably gruesome act. No matter how much one might enjoy violence, enjoying it without a shred of lingering guilt is impossible unless one is a psychopath born with a defective prefrontal cortex. However, the vast public square, characterized by absolute anonymity, completely dissolved any such guilt.

"Drag out Raymond Poincaré and kill him too!"

"How can a bastard who lost the war and brought ruin to our country just stand there like nothing happened?"

"Kill him!"

"To the guillotine with Raymond! To the guillotine with Raymond!"

The crowd, filled with manic excitement, gleefully pointed out who should mount the scaffold next. Obliging the public's bloodlust, Antonin Artaud sent one high-profile figure after another to the guillotine.

To a person of the twenty-first century, who has been endlessly conditioned to subconsciously abhor physical violence, this might be incomprehensible. How can human beings commit such atrocities? Yet, in reality, the blood festivals had not ended even in the twenty-first century. Modern people thoughtlessly drag public figures—celebrities who exhibit slightly "thoughtless" behavior—and display them on the digital guillotine of the internet.

Since passing judgment on the truly toxic people in their immediate lives—those who actually inflict tangible harm upon them—is practically impossible, they instead direct their fury toward these "public figures" who share similar unpleasant traits, relentlessly hounding them until they are driven to suicide. They vent the frustrations accumulated in their daily lives through this virtual guillotine. Naturally, it is far more exhilarating than a childish distraction like the Olympics! Catharsis! Give me endless catharsis! Thus, the thrilling dopamine festival in Paris drew to a close on almost the exact same day the festivities in Vienna concluded.

I gently stroked the photograph in the old newspaper until the paper was nearly worn thin.

"Your Imperial Highness, please stand in the center. Next to him, Mr. Marx Stahl! And Professor Freud, please stand near the center as well."

Haha. We really had a wonderful time back then. Taking Ferdinand, who had been pushed to his absolute limit both politically and mentally, Professor Freud and I had set off to the slums for a charitable publicity stunt. There, we gathered all sorts of red-leaning fellas and took a group photo. Back then, I had hoped the people captured in this photograph would one day become giants who shook the world. And... so they did.

"Stahl, may I come in?" Ferdinand knocked on the door of my office. I hurriedly wiped away the tears pooling in the corners of my eyes. Truly... His Majesty Ferdinand was a man worthy of respect. I hadn't felt this devastated even when my father-in-law passed away. Well, to be fair, my father-in-law was already well past his time.

"Yes, please enter."

"Are you... holding up alright?"

I forced a smile. "As the man who pulls the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠strings of this empire with Your Majesty as my figurehead, how could I allow myself to be incapacitated by grief over something like this?"

"Stahl..."

"More importantly, we must take action regarding the series of events unfolding in France."

"What sort of action?"

How could that place even be called a state? We cannot leave France in that condition. Whether it was my mistake, someone else's, or a cruel twist of fate... yet another batch of broken human beings had been unleashed upon the world! In terms of sheer danger, they were hundreds of times more perilous than the Nazis. We had to eradicate them from the face of the Earth immediately.

"Did we not establish the Treaty Organization for this exact day? We must mobilize the Revolutionary Guard immediately. France's defenses are not yet fully prepared."

"And what of Great Britain...?"

"At best, all the British can do is assemble their navy and attempt a continental blockade anyway, can they not?"

"You have always warned that a great depression is looming. From where I stand, that moment is fast approaching."

"Once war breaks out, the depression ceases to exist. The economic bubbles and surplus supply will be converted directly into military power. We must use war to consume the depression."

"It is a tragedy what happened to Professor Freud. But... to wage another war when the last one has barely concluded?"

"It is actually the perfect opportunity. Russia... no, the Soviet Union is currently on the ropes. Just forty-five days! Give me forty-five days, and I will lead Hitler and Stalin to sever Antonin's head myself."

At my words, Ferdinand’s face contorted sharply. Ah. I had failed to temper my tone. No matter how close we were, he was still the Emperor. Speaking so casually of decapitation was bound to cross a line.

"Stahl! Severing his head? What on earth are you saying?!"

"My apologies. Forgive me. At any rate, that filthy son of a bitch Georges has not yet departed Austria. I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠shall immediately dispatch the Austrian Agricultural Cooperative's audit team to apprehend him. We can torture him to extract information."

"That is too reckless! This time, the United States might actually intervene!"

"Haha, do not worry, Your Majesty. Are we not the Crusaders?"

"Vice Chairman Marx Stahl!"

The sharp reprimand from Ferdinand II snapped me back to reality.

"Why are you in such a rush? You may pull off elaborate schemes, but you have never acted with such reckless haste."

Dazed, I turned my head to look out the window, momentarily forgetting the Emperor's presence. The glass was polished so immaculately that it seemed as though there was no barrier at all; the only proof of its existence was my own reflection staring back at me.

In 1896, a thirteen-year-old Stahl had dropped into Austria. Back then, his hair had been a dazzlingly bright gold, and his skin was taut, completely free of wrinkles. The reflection in the glass, though youthful for his age, now showed hair that had darkened into brown, with fine lines etched across his face.

I had already surpassed the age Franz Ferdinand had been when we first met. I looked back at Ferdinand's face. Wait. Had the Archduke always looked like this? I rubbed my eyes and stared at the Archduke... at His Majesty the Emperor. In place of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand I had always assumed remained unchanged, an elderly emperor well past his sixties stood before me. Ah. So much time had slipped away.

"Your Majesty, looking back... I truly wanted to build a world where human beings could live decently. Serbia, Russia... did we not put an end to them? After all, we are the Crusaders. Thirty years have already passed. Has the world truly changed?"

I clenched my teeth, closing and opening my eyes. They promised to grant my wish as a reward for changing history. Yet, it feels as though I haven't changed a single thing.

Once more, Ferdinand shed the guise of the elderly emperor and returned to the middle-aged Archduke of my memory. It was no illusion. This was the Ferdinand who had been utterly sick of imperial authority, carrying himself more like a wealthy uncle than the crown prince of an empire.

On the other hand, he was a romantic who would gladly discard everything for the woman he loved. A political novice so overflowing with idealism that, having never wielded real power, he often made absurd blunders. The man standing before me remained exactly as he had always been. He firmly grasped my hand.

"A-Archduke?"

"I, too, have been happy to have you by my side."

Stripping away every ounce of imperial dignity, Ferdinand smiled warmly as my old friend and bowed his head. "Thank you for avenging Sophie, my old friend."

"..."

"You are doing well. You have done so incredibly well. But what does any of that matter? Even if you are abandoned by the world, or even by heaven itself, I will stand by your side. And if you ever stray onto the wrong path, I will be there to guide you back."

Ferdinand slowly raised his head once more, locking his eyes with mine. "After all... you are my only true friend, are you not?"