Discharge from the Family-Run Hospital
The day I was discharged from that family-run corporate hospital, most of the injuries I'd sustained in the Great War had healed. Fortunately, my face—which might prove important as a politician one day—bore no major scars. There were some ugly ones on my shoulder and around my waist, but clothes covered them well enough that they wouldn't draw any eyes.
I unwound all the bandages, said goodbye to the nurse who'd always looked after me so diligently, and stepped out of the hospital.
"Haa..."
For a brief moment, I savored the peace.
"You disgusting Red bastards!"
"Admit it—you capitalists are why we lost the war!"
"Filthy scum devouring Germany!"
From one corner came the fragrant reek of alcohol mingled with the peaceful sounds of a brawl. On the street, children snatched bread and fled, only to get caught by the shopkeeper and thrashed. The clamor of the unemployed begging for work echoed everywhere.
At least I'd scrimped together a pittance from my soldier's pay, and being from the Falkenrain family meant I wasn't in financial peril. Being a Junker had its perks at times like these.
I strolled through the "peaceful" streets of the Weimar Republic. There was nothing left for me in the Ruhr. Or so I thought.
"You monarchist scum—you know how much hell we've been through because of people like you?"
"I don't know anything! Why are you doing this to me?"
"Shut up!"
Slap!
As I walked, a familiar sight caught my eye in one alley. It was the journalist.
Catalina?
Catalina was getting slapped by a man wearing a red armband. She crumpled to the ground, and he raised his hand again. That's when our eyes met—hers from the dirt.
"Shit..."
I'd meant to ignore it, but... I wedged myself between Catalina and the man about to strike her.
"Who the hell are you?!"
"Let's calm down first. Surely Marx's doctrine doesn't endorse beating people like this?"
"A soldier? Damn it."
The man eyed my uniform, clicked his tongue, and bolted. After the Treaty of Versailles, Germany's army was capped at 100,000 men—a slight mercy from the original 10,000 limit for active forces—but those 100,000 standing troops had reshaped the public's view of "soldiers."
Even in the chaotic Weimar Republic, political thugs and gangs didn't pick fights with the military. It was the butterfly effect I'd created. Those extra 20,000 troops handled local security, shifting perceptions just enough. Besides, taking on the army wasn't about winning or losing—it was about having way too much to lose. You avoid shit not because it's scary, but because it's filthy.
With the man gone, I helped Catalina to her feet.
"Thank you, Major Falkenrain."
"Not a major anymore. I just got my discharge orders."
What the man didn't know was that I was no longer military—just a civilian in an officer's uniform.
"Quite peaceful, isn't it? Nice weather too."
"Peace...ful?"
"Or not. Who knows if we'll meet again."
I turned away from her. Time to walk and think about what came next. No car, and the train station was a long hike. I considered heading home to Berlin, but... eh. Most of the Falkenrain family was scattered, and Father had died of illness in early 1918. I'd been too busy then to even attend his funeral. Mother was still in Berlin, but taking the train just to see her felt off. She wasn't really my mother anyway.
I just want to go back to Korea...
This was my third loop already. The homesickness had festered beyond rot into boils spreading across my whole body. Yet my actions here were making me more Prussian Junker than ever—a chilling irony. Even if I returned to Korea now, adapting to modern life would take ages.
I can't afford more delays...
That's why I had to nail everything perfectly this third time around.
"Um, excuse me... what are your plans now, Major Falkenrain?"
Lost in thought, I hadn't noticed Catalina catch up. Hard to believe this was the same girl trembling in fear moments ago—her smile was flawless poker face.
"Gotta find work. Scrounge some cash from the family estate, get a place."
Truth be told, even if my goal was Führer of Germany, I had nothing immediate to leverage. So, first: make money. Invest it. Stock trading meant Berlin or the exchanges, so better to scout local businesses in small towns for direct investments. Once the funds grew, dive into politics. Politics needs capital. Hitler's fairy tale aside, politics runs on money. Ideology, promises, philosophy? Side dishes. The main course is cash.
"Then... have you ever done printing work, Major Falkenrain?"
"Printing? I did run a magazine once."
"Really? How about working as a printer for a bit?"
Mid-calculation on moneymaking, Catalina made her pitch. Printer. For a Junker—for the Falkenrain heir? Absurd. Anyone else would've taken it as an insult, like telling a billionaire to flip burgers. Not that burger-flipping's beneath anyone, but common sense says no.
"Printing... I'm not expert. More editor-in-chief."
"Editor works too."
"Pardon?"
"Our paper—Ruhr Industrial News—the owner's my dad. He needs someone in printing, anyone..."
Ah, that explained the obscure paper. Family business. Not "family-like"—actual family. And this boots-on-the-ground reporter was blue blood.
"Fine. But with conditions."
First: provide housing—army barracks quality or better. Second: pay not in marks, but goods or hard value—like British pounds or U.S. dollars. Dollars were peanuts next to pounds now, but soon they'd dominate as Britain ditched gold.
"Dollars and pounds? Tough... but goods, maybe."
Good enough—better than marks. Deal sealed on two terms.
I followed her to the paper.
"This... is it?"
"Yeah. Plenty, right?"
Truthfully, Junker's Defecation's wild popularity owed much to the trenches. Drop men in hell, and minus shells and bullets, anything entertains. Sure, some lunatics got hooked on combat dopamine, but most savored any break from gunfire. Especially on fronts starved for fun— even basic jokes exploded demand.
But this wasn't the front. It was one of defeated Germany's rare peaceful stretches. With living standards scraping bottom and consumer power shrunk, how to sell papers? Two ways: dirt-cheap prices, slash unit costs via cheap paper/ink and low labor. Or pack in stimulating, unique info other rags skipped.
One British paper ran daily chess puzzles. Chess swept Europe, so folks subscribed just for those. Others copied, diluting it, but initially killer strategy.
No chess? Need other fun. Government-bashing's stale... ah, yes.
Papers ripped the regime plenty. Few ran cartoons. Political cartoons weren't cost-effective—usually one-offs. But I'd flip that: a simple, punchy paper/magazine dominated by comics.
Screen tone technique. Import a new U.S. press, and we're set. Oh, hire an artist too.
Alas, no Hitler genes—I sucked at drawing. Could whip up professor-pleasing modern art abominations, but they wouldn't sell. Off-topic entirely.