Backlund, East Borough.
Edward walked along the cobblestone street, his gaze sweeping over the unfamiliar rows of buildings. With each step, his conviction deepened: he had truly arrived in another era.
From the clothing of the passersby to the architectural style around him, everything was markedly different from the Backlund he knew in the future. It felt as though he had stepped out of the Victorian era and back into the dieval age.
A sense of ti's vast upheaval settled in his chest.
This city—destined to beco one of the grandest tropolises of the future—looked far from prosperous now. It had yet to experience the upheaval of the Industrial Revolution. No smokestacks belching black fus, no railways, no subways. Society's developnt clearly lagged far behind.
So…have I co to the era before Emperor Roselle's arrival?
Just then, a ragged newsboy, cap pulled low, dashed past with a bundle of papers under his arm.
Huh? Newspapers already exist here?
Edward hurriedly stopped him.
"One paper, please."
"Ten pence," the boy replied crisply.
The price startled Edward—it was far steeper than what he rembered from the future. Still, he pulled out a Soli and handed it over, reaching to take the newspaper.
But the boy suddenly snatched the paper back and glared at him with disdain.
"Dressed so fine, yet trying to trick a kid with fake money?"
"Fake…money?" Edward froze.
"How could it be fake?"
"You think I'm easy to fool just because I'm young? This year is 1160, but your note says 1345—and even the king's portrait is wrong! If that isn't counterfeit, what is?"
Edward fell silent.
Careless…
Still, the boy had inadvertently answered the question of what year it was.
"You want the paper or not?" the newsboy asked, reluctant to let the sale go.
"No need. Thank you."
"Good day, sir!" The boy scampered off, disappointed.
Edward stood still, murmuring under his breath.
"1160…so I really have co back nearly two hundred years."
But what exactly was the state of Loen two centuries ago?
The original story had offered no details. He didn't even know who the reigning monarch was. He had never studied the chronological history of the Mystical World in depth, so for the mont, he was adrift.
Yet the presence of a newspaper confird that Roselle had already descended. And since Backlund showed no trace of technological upheaval, it ant Roselle hadn't yet had ti to reshape the world.
So this must be the early period of Roselle's arrival…
A wave of complex emotion welled within Edward.
He had often imagined eting the man he admired—"the taste of a demoness...ain't bad"—but never had he dread that one day he would set foot in the very sa era, with the chance to et him in person.
To witness Roselle in his youth—before life's cruelties and despair drove him to madness.
At this ti, Roselle should still be full of unshakable bravado, treating the world as his playground. Inventions, higher Sequence ascensions, political coups, his rise as consul, the founding of the Intis Empire, his self-proclamation as Caesar—
All were acts of a transmigrator-protagonist, indulging his every whim while trying, in that reckless journey, to find a sense of belonging. To find a reason to exist.
And yet, the more he achieved, the higher he stood, the hollower his heart beca.
Until Bernadette was born—bringing him a fleeting anchor. But after decades of wandering and striving, what he missed most was still the holand he could never return to.
Roselle's madness in his later years was not rely rebellion against the Church of Steam, nor only the despair of an impending apocalypse. It was also the crushing realisation of the truth: that no matter what he did—
He could never go back.
"…Can my arrival change anything?"
According to the rules of the Ti-traveller, the answer should be no.
And yet, based on his previous two experiences, ti seed oddly pliable. As long as he made the right preparations and concealnts, ensuring the results matched what history eventually recorded, the loop could be closed.
So—should he really seek Roselle out?
The answer was obvious.
As the saying goes: since I'm here already...
———
Intis Kingdom, Capital Trier.
Seventeen years had passed since Huang Tao, now known as Roselle Gustav, had arrived in this world. From a life of indulgence and decadence as a ruined noble, he had stumbled into the supernatural as a Commoner. Then, ard with the knowledge of his past life, he transford himself—
An "inventor."
A "novelist."
A "poet."
A "scholar."
A "philosopher."
And more besides.
He knew that, with ti, his inventions would spread throughout Intis and beyond, shaping the world in ever-deeper ways.
Yet the hollowness inside him only grew.
He didn't understand why. And so, to avoid dwelling on it, he forced himself into constant busyness—whether in banquets drowned in wine or in the arms of won.
As long as he was busy enough, he had no ti to think.
But recently, the effect of this kind of "self-anaesthesia" was wearing thinner and thinner. Roselle desperately needed to find a new goal to fill the void in his heart: one was advancing to a higher Sequence, the other was seizing greater power.
The forr could only be achieved step by step—it wasn't sothing to rush.
But the latter…how was he supposed to achieve it?
In his past life, he'd been a science student, and his understanding of politics barely went beyond late-night keyboard debates with friends and colleagues.
But there was a saying, wasn't there? Military power might serve political power, but sotis…it could outweigh it.
So—first step, get into the military!
He had just raised his glass of red wine to drink when—
"Daddy!"
A little girl, six or seven, wearing a frilly dress, skipped happily toward him. Her long chestnut hair fell like silk, her porcelain-doll face glowing as she clutched a picture book. She dove into Roselle's arms:
"Daddy, tell a story!"
"Of course~"
Roselle picked up his beloved daughter and sat her on his lap. "What do you want to hear today?"
"This one!"
She held up the watercolour-illustrated book high above her head: Pinocchio.
"Oh, the story of Pinocchio. But didn't we already read that a few days ago?"
"I want to hear it again!"
Little Bernadette's serious eyes widened. "Because…I need to remind Daddy!"
Roselle blinked. "Huh? Remind of what?"
She suddenly leaned to his ear and shouted, "Remind you never to lie again!"
"Ow—my ears!" Roselle rubbed them dramatically. "But when have I ever lied to you?"
"Last year you promised to spend my birthday with , but you forgot. Then you said you'd take on a picnic, but you forgot again…Last month you promised to bring Mommy and to the theatre, but you never ca…Last week—"
The little girl counted on her fingers, listing his failures one by one.
Roselle coughed guiltily. "Ahem…Daddy really was busy at the ti! I didn't an it."
"Really?" Bernadette squinted at him suspiciously. "But two nights ago, I saw you at Lady Avril's house—"
"Shh!" Roselle quickly covered her mouth, then raised his hand solemnly. "I swear, this year, on your birthday, I'll be with you!"
"No! You must swear never to lie again. Or else…" She pointed at Pinocchio's drawing. "Your nose will grow long!"
"Fine!" Roselle straightened his face. "I swear—I'll never lie again…"
—at least, not to Bernadette, he added silently.
"All right, then let's start the story."
Holding his precious daughter, Roselle opened the Roselle's Fairy Tales Collection, which he'd written just to entertain her, and began softly:
"Once upon a ti, there was an old man who longed for a child. One day, he found a magical piece of wood, and carved it into a puppet…"
Bernadette rested her chin on her hands, eyes fixed on her father. Her long lashes fluttered. Though she had heard the story before, when Pinocchio's lies made his nose grow, or when the old man fell into the sea, she still grew tense and clutched Roselle's clothes.
The more engrossed she looked, the more Roselle delighted in teasing her—raising his voice suddenly at key points, or shaking his body so that little Bernadette squealed in fright.
"And so…Pinocchio beca a real boy, and lived happily ever after with his grandfather!"
Bernadette let out a long sigh of relief. "Phew, that's wonderful."
Suddenly, she pointed at Roselle's nose and shouted, "Ah! Daddy, your nose is growing!"
"Huh? What? Where?" Roselle grabbed his nose in mock panic.
"Gotcha!" She stuck her tongue out, hopped off his lap, and ran.
"Oh-ho, so you won't let lie, but you lie to ?"
She snorted. "I was just teasing!"
"Teasing ? Then I'll tease you back!"
Roselle lunged playfully. Bernadette shrieked with laughter and bolted from the room.
"That little rascal…I wonder which side of the family she inherited that from."
Just then, a stern man in his thirties, clad in a knight's uniform, entered. "Lord Roselle, we just received intelligence: the Black Throne, Solomon's legacy, has been found in the Auradek Islands."
"Oh?"
Roselle picked up his half-finished wine and took a sip. "Edwards, interested in joining for a little voyage?"
The man frowned. "But weren't you about to enter the army as an officer?"
"Hahaha! Which is exactly why I should take one last voyage. Once I join the military, I won't have the luxury for such adventures."
Draining his glass, Roselle declared: "It's settled. Go tell Grimm and the others. And make sure he advances to Ocean Songster quickly—more protection for us that way."
"Yes, sir!"
anwhile, little Bernadette had run quite a distance, only to realise Daddy wasn't chasing her. Her shoulders slumped with disappointnt. She slowed down, wandering into the villa's garden, grumbling endlessly about her father's shortcomings, radiating grievance.
Then—thump! She spotted a botherso rock on the path and kicked it hard.
"Ow!"
Pain shot from her toe up her leg, and with a slip, she landed flat on her bottom. Her toe throbbed, her leg hurt, her backside stung.
Tears welled instantly, but finding no one around, she clenched her teeth and held them back. If I cry now, no one will see! Daddy said—'the child who cries gets the candy'!
Decision made, she crossed her arms, determined to sit right there until Daddy or Mommy ca, then unleash her tears.
At that very mont, soone hidden in the garden sighed softly. Who would have thought—the aloof, unapproachable Queen Mystic was once a sulky little girl like this?
Edward had arrived in Trier twenty minutes ago. Compared to Backlund, the city where Roselle lived was far more developed, already showing hints of what future great cities of the Mysteries' world would beco.
Finding Roselle wasn't hard—he was too famous. In recent years, he had beco the darling of the Church of the God of Steam and Machinery, awarded the title "Son of Steam."
And so, on arriving at Roselle's villa, Edward stumbled upon this scene of little Bernadette pouting to the air.
Judging by her age, perhaps five or six, that ant over a decade had passed since Roselle descended into this world.
Edward quickly recalled—Roselle still had a long way to go before becoming the future Emperor.
Bernadette sat on the ground, sotis flipping her book, sotis staring at the sky, sotis watching butterflies flit by—but most often glancing back toward her father's study.
"Huh?"
Suddenly, she frowned, staring straight at Edward's hiding place.
"Who's there?!"
(Edward had learned Intisian.)
———
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