Four Years Rewound
After much deliberation, Victor reached out and grasped the silver bell on the table, giving it a shake.
A clear metallic chime spread through the quiet study.
Summer air slowly seeped in through the half-open window, lightly rustling the curtains.
The warm breeze carried the scent of fresh grass and the sun-warmed heat of the garden.
"Bring the newspaper."
"Yes, Your Grace."
Willen, the butler who hurried in at the sound of the bell, keenly noticed that his master's demeanor was slightly off from the usual.
Something must not have gone well in the capital.Well, that would explain why he's returned to the estate after so long.
Thinking thus, Willen brushed it off gracefully and promptly brought today's newspaper along with a glass of cool water.
After all, his duty was to serve his master well, not to fret over the tangled politics of the capital.
"……July 1, 1867?"
A disbelieving chuckle escaped Victor's lips only after he had drained the glass clean.
Clean, untainted water was such a luxury on the battlefield, so he ordered another from the butler—and added a cup of coffee to boot.
Have I finally lost my mind?
His last memory was the temporary field hospital tent. It had taken a bombardment, and he'd likely breathed his last there. Yet here he was, limbs intact, thrown back four years.
Calmly confirming that the articles in the newspaper matched events he remembered, he soon headed to the mirror.
It was an object he rarely glanced at unless donning formal attire for a ball—neither the time nor the reason had presented itself—but now it proved immensely useful.
"……."
A imposing figure stared back from the full-length mirror.
Surprisingly, the scar around his eye from the great war with Franche had vanished cleanly. Well, it hadn't formed yet at this point.
The knee that had ached from a grazing bullet was whole again, and above all, his eyes were different.
The gaze of one who had survived multiple brushes with death carried an inevitable killer's edge. But the man in the mirror now looked… rather refined.
In other words, he didn't resemble a volatile explosive.
"So this is what I looked like back then."
He promptly undid the buttons of his shirt with a few flicks.
Even indoors, his stuffy habit was to button up to the collar and layer on a vest, but there was no helping it now. He needed to inspect his body immediately.
"This gunshot wound is gone too. Though my body's still far from peak condition."
Willen, arriving belatedly with the water and coffee, pretended not to hear his master's mutterings.
It struck him as odd—his master suddenly stripping in broad daylight and critiquing what, to the butler's eyes, was nothing but impressive upper-body musculature—but in the storied House of Bayern, questioning the family head's actions was overstepping one's bounds.
Instead, he bowed his head at once to his master's command.
"Go and fetch the most renowned reporter from a newspaper."
"Understood. Shall I summon from a political daily? Or perhaps one specializing in gossip?"
Victor pondered briefly at the butler's question before replying in a low voice.
"Both. I'm placing a courtship advertisement."
This time, even the seasoned butler couldn't prevent his eyes from widening.
The next day, Victor realized he was still at the estate.
I never imagined a regression like this.The gods must have scraped together what little mercy they had left.
With a detached thought, his next action was to pull out paper and jot down everything he knew.
From minor details like the personal info of officers and soldiers to major events like where and when battles had erupted. On the final sheet, he detailed why he'd been abandoned, the consequences that led to their cornering.
He wrote in considerable detail about what had gone wrong, why survival had been impossible.
The war between Franche and Richter set to unfold in the future is known only to me at this point.
If stopping it was what the heavens desired, he was willing to comply.
Even in war, international accords held that places sheltering the wounded were not to be attacked.
Violating that would draw condemnation not just from both nations but from all neighboring countries.
Yet Franche had ignored it utterly and struck anyway.
Meaning our dear King of Richter permitted it.
Caught between the whims of two monarchs.
That summed it up in one line.
And in that mess, his officers, soldiers, doctors had died.
Crack.
His grip tightened improperly on the fountain pen, snapping it.
Offering a moment's silence to the cherished pen's remains, he unhesitatingly took out a new one.
It was fine for now.
This wasn't the moment he'd clutched charcoal to issue guerrilla orders.
First, I must identify my most loyal subordinates.
War reveals the depths of humanity.
There were deserters and traitors, but no few comrades who fought beside him to the end.
Abel.
Suddenly, his elegant fingers, holding the pen, stilled.
The sole noncombatant.
The one who had desperately tried to save him until the very last.
What were his final words? Something like 'survive'?
He didn't know why this miracle had occurred.
It couldn't possibly all be a dream.
After long contemplation, his thoughts settled on Abel.
If I didn't cause this miracle, then it must have been Abel.Perhaps Abel regressed alongside me.
If Abel had indeed revived him…
House Bayern always repaid its debts.
But how?
Where was he to find the commoner? He remembered the school from his records.
But tracking him down with that alone would be no easy task.
Come to think of it, Abel always cleverly hid the truth.
Victor had let it slide, amused by how proudly Abel seemed to think he'd fooled him.
Lying outright was different from concealing a few truths one preferred not to share.
Yes, that was enough—
"Arf! Arf!"
"Agh! Stop it, you brute! For the blood of Great Bayern to act like some beast!"
"Grrr, arf! Arf!!!"
"You think I don't know you're doing this on purpose? I said stop! Aigoo, heavens above!"
…….
His expression turned utterly impassive as he tuned into the commotion outside.
The faint softening of his lips while recalling Abel hardened firmly, his posture stiffening.
Yes, even Victor Bayern harbored a few secrets.
Secrets he wished to share with no one.
"When the hell are you sending that monster to an asylum?"
That evening, as Victor had fully grasped his situation, at the dinner table.
His aunt, Genevieve Bayern—her face unmistakably clawed—erupted in fury.
"The elder one's so clever, but why is the younger like that? For his own sake, you need to institutionalize him soon. Or House Bayern will become a laughingstock."
Genevieve, who despite her advancing years still wore her hair long and flowing, remained unmarried.
The point was worth emphasizing, for it explained her presence here at the estate manor.
Having squandered her inheritance on a scam-like investment, she'd taken up residence around the time Victor's sister Seranna passed—right after, in fact.
The house was vast anyway, they rarely crossed paths, and someone was needed to care for Seranna's twin sons. Victor had accepted readily.
But it fell short of expectations.
The now nine-year-old twins were on terribly bad terms with Genevieve.
For talk of an asylum to arise meant it was that severe.
What had I done at this point?
As he stared silently without retort, Genevieve flinched and swallowed whatever she'd meant to add.
"No, House Bayern's honor won't be tarnished over one child, but… the younger one's condition is grave. You wouldn't know, coming here only after two years away."
"An asylum……."