Johann awoke to a strange sensation: silence.
Not absolute silence. There were sounds—the kind that should be normal, but now felt like a forgotten symphony. Birds chirping outside the window. The rustle of leaves stirred by the morning breeze. The distant tolling of a church bell, ringing seven times. The sounds of ordinary life, not screams, not explosions, not the creaking of bones or the hissing of corpses. A world that ticked on without needing blood as its lubricant.
He was still in the same hospital room. But the light was different. Morning. Sunlight cut through the poor-quality window glass, slicing through dust motes swirling slowly in the air like particles of gold in resin. The antiseptic smell was still there, but now mixed with the scent of something else—soup? Toast? Food. A scent that made his stomach growl, a physiological need he had almost forgotten during the days amidst the dead and smoke.
Rozemary was already in her chair. But today she did not have her notebook. She was looking out the window, her profile cleanly etched by the morning light. In that light, Johann could see just how young and beautiful she was. Eighteen, perhaps nineteen. But her eyes, those gray, winter-cloud eyes, held a weariness older than her bones.
"You slept deeply," said Rozemary without turning. "For the first time since you arrived here, you slept without nightmares. Or at least, without screaming."
Johann tried to sit up. His right leg was still stiff, but the pain was now only a dull ache, like a deep bruise. He looked at the bandage—clean, neat, changed. His left hand too, the burned skin now dried, a healthy pink, not angry red.
"How long have I been here?" he asked, his voice still hoarse.
"Three days since you first woke up. Five days total since you were brought here." Rozemary finally turned to him. She gave a small, professional smile. "You are ready to leave. Vital signs stable. The fracture is healing well, seventy percent fused. Second-degree burns healed. You can walk with a cane, and in a week, perhaps without aid."
"Leave… home," Johann repeated the word. It felt foreign on his tongue. In his mind, two definitions collided: the apartment in Marina Bay with the view of the Merlion, and the simple wooden house in Selevia with a sister who was not his sister.
"Yes. To Selevia. I will accompany you on medical orders. Your condition still requires monitoring, and…" She paused, choosing her words. "And there are documents to be finalized. Your promotion. Compensation. Procedures."
Johann nodded. He understood the subtext: there were things to discuss, decisions to be made, away from the oversight of the hospital.
The departure process turned out to be simple. A non-commissioned officer brought civilian clothes—a simple linen shirt, woolen trousers, a thick coat, and worn but serviceable boots. Not a uniform. Probably meant to avoid attracting attention. Rozemary also changed, from her medical apron into simple civilian wear: a long dark blue dress, a woolen coat, and a scarf. She looked like an ordinary city girl, not a Level Two Medicus Divinus. She looked like an ordinary city girl, not a Level Two Divinus Medicus.
They left the field hospital in an open wagon—a simple horse-drawn cart with wooden benches, driven by an old soldier who spoke little. The journey down the valley towards Selevia took four hours. Four quiet hours, filled only by the clop of horse hooves on the dirt road, bird calls, and the whisper of wind carrying the scent of pine and damp earth.
And for those four hours, Johann watched the new world, or the old world, slowly unfold.
First, the forests of black pine covering the mountain slopes. Then, neatly ordered farmland, with peasants plowing the soil using wooden plows pulled by oxen. Small villages with thatch-roofed wooden houses, children running around in worn clothes, women washing laundry in the river. Then, as they neared the city, the roads widened, became busier. Wooden carts laden with goods, traveling merchants, a group of pilgrims in simple robes with those strange crucifix-like necklaces.
And finally, Selevia.
The city emerged on the horizon like a living painting. Johann held his breath.
This… was seventeenth-century Europe. But not a clean museum reconstruction. This was a living, breathing, dirty city. High stone walls encircled the inner city, with watchtowers at every corner. Outside the walls, slums sprawled like fungi—many wooden shacks and tents, cooking smoke rising, dirt streets turning to mud in places. The city's smell assaulted his nose: animal dung, wood smoke, salted fish, rotting garbage, and underneath it all, the salty, fresh, living scent of the sea.
Their wagon passed through the city gate, guards in dark blue uniforms saluting after checking the driver's documents. And within the walls, the city opened up.
Cobblestone streets, narrow, winding. Two- or three-story buildings with dark wooden frames and white plaster walls already grimy with soot and time. Small windows with poor-quality glass, some covered only with cloth. Shop signs hung out front—a carpenter, a blacksmith, a tailor, an inn. The noise of the marketplace filled the air: merchants shouting, haggling, the screech of cartwheels, children's shrieks.
But there were details that stunned Johann. Among the ordinary buildings were grander structures—a church with a soaring spire, stained glass windows depicting figures of Therion baptizing; a town hall with a stone façade of intricate carvings showing the imperial eagle and vine patterns; even a few noble houses with carved oak doors and wrought-iron lanterns.
Gothic and Renaissance aesthetics mixed. Pointed arches on church windows, but green copper-domed roofs on the town hall. Weather-worn stone statues, but also wrought iron with complex geometric patterns. A world frozen in a time somewhere between medieval and early modern, with a touch of… something else.
"Just like the pictures in history books," Johann murmured unconsciously.
Rozemary, sitting beside him, turned. "You've never been to a big city?"
"Of course I have," Johann answered truthfully. In Johann Reth's memories, Selevia was home, ordinary. But to Alex Tan's eyes, this was a real journey through time, truly fascinating to see a genuine 17th-century city!
"Selevia is the busiest port city in the Südsea State," said Rozemary. "More than two million people live inside and around the walls. But the capital, Ngobrolsburg in Auster… that is different."
"How is it different?"
Rozemary looked out at the streets, her eyes distant. "Ngobrolsburg is more… orderly. The streets are wider, straight. Newer buildings, of pale stone, with cleaner designs. There are large parks, fountains, a theater. And fashion trends, everything is neater, more covered, darker. Dull colors, high collars, slim silhouettes. Like…" She searched for a word. "Like everyone is trying to look serious and important. Even if they are just administrative clerks."
The Victorian era, thought Alex. But not exactly. This world evolved along its own path, truly surprising considering so many similarities.
He observed the people. Many wore simple woolen clothes, earth tones, practical. But some, perhaps wealthy merchants or minor nobles, wore doublets with intricate buttons, lace collars, coats with fur trim. Women in long dresses, corsets, hair neatly pinned up. No plastic. No machines. Wood, stone, iron, cloth, leather.
And amidst all this, he remembered.
Woland.
The name surfaced with an image: a man in simple robes, face shrouded in shadow, standing atop the ruins of a magnificent palace. Not a hero. Not a villain. Something in between.
Woland was the rebel who successfully toppled the first Rhein Empire.
The Rhein Empire, an entity that once ruled half of Indropa, with an unmatched army, more advanced technology, ambitions spanning from ocean to ocean. They even defeated Rum, the rival empire that ruled the other half. The world was almost united under one crown.
But Woland came. Not with a large army. Not with powerful magic. With… an idea. A teaching. With something that cracked the empire's foundation from within.
He left on a sacred mission.
What was his mission? Unclear. But the result was clear: Rhein fell. Rum crumbled. The Discordia Empire—a third entity that emerged from the chaos—also collapsed. And from the ashes, a new calendar was born: the Year of Woland. The Conquest of Rhein became year zero. Now it was the year 1631. Sixteen centuries since the collapse.
"You've been very quiet," said Rozemary.
"Much to think about," Johann replied.
The wagon continued on, leaving the commercial district, entering a quieter residential area. The streets were narrower, the buildings simpler. Here, the smell of the sea was stronger, mixed with the scent of fish and salt. They were near the harbor.
Finally, the wagon stopped in front of a two-story wooden house, flanked by similar buildings on either side. The house was simple: dark wooden walls, small windows, a thatched roof blackened by weather. But it was well-kept. There were small flower pots in the window, though the flowers had wilted due to the season.
"Here we are," said the driver, his voice rough. "The Reth family home."
Johann got down with the help of his cane. His right leg was still weak, but it bore his weight. Rozemary got down behind him, carrying a small bag with her medical supplies and clothes.
He stared at the front door. Oak wood, with rusted iron hinges. Behind that door, a sixteen-year-old girl named Christine Reth was waiting for her older brother to come home. A girl who was not his sister, yet was his sister, now his responsibility.
He took a breath, gathering courage. Then knocked.
A few seconds passed. Then the sound of quick footsteps inside. A young, light voice, full of hope: "Who is it?"
"Johann," he said, and his voice sounded strange even to himself.
A lock clicked. The door opened.
The girl behind the door was sixteen, like in his dream, but this was real. Blonde hair, a bit unkempt, tied loosely, a few strands sticking to her pale cheeks. Wide green eyes, just as he remembered from the vision in the hospital, but now alive, shining, full of emotion. She wore a simple, worn blue dress, frayed at the elbows, with a flour-stained white apron. Her small hands clutched the edge of the apron, knuckles white.
She stared at Johann. Her eyes widened, blinked, then welled up.
"Brother?" her voice trembled, almost inaudible.
"Christine," said Johann. And for the first time, he said the name with something approaching warmth—not from himself, but from this body, from muscle memory, from something deeper than consciousness.
Christine dropped whatever she was holding, a dishcloth, and leapt forward. She hugged Johann with a surprising strength for her small frame, her face buried in the rough fabric of his civilian coat. She didn't cry, at least not loudly—but her body trembled, and her shoulders shook silently.
Johann froze for a moment, hands raised, unsure what to do. Then, slowly, he lowered his hands, awkwardly patting her back. Physical contact. Human warmth. Something he had scarcely experienced since waking in the pile of corpses.
"I… I'm home," he murmured, words that felt empty yet necessary to say.
Christine finally pulled back, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. She smiled, a trembling but sincere smile. "I knew you'd come home. I always knew." Then her eyes shifted to Rozemary standing behind Johann. "And this is…?"
"I am Rozemary Dornfels. A doctor. She treated me at the hospital and will stay a few days to ensure my recovery," Johann explained.
Christine nodded quickly, giving a slight bow, a simple gesture of respect. "Thank you for taking care of my brother. Please, come in."
The house was small, simple, but clean. One main room served as kitchen and living area, with a small fireplace on one side, a wooden table and a few chairs in the center. A narrow wooden staircase led upstairs. The smell of firewood, cooking soup, and simple candles filled the air. There was a shelf with a few books, a simple loom in a corner, and a few small paintings—seascapes, perhaps Christine's own work.
"You must be hungry," said Christine, returning to the pot over the fireplace. "I made soup. With potatoes and carrots, the way you like it."
Johann sat in a chair near the table, placing his cane beside him. Rozemary sat across from him, her eyes observing the room with clinical interest—or perhaps just curiosity.
Dinner passed in comfortable silence. Simple soup, hard dark bread, a small piece of cheese. But it tasted… real. Hot. Filling. Johann ate heartily, realizing just how hungry he was. Christine watched with attentive eyes, smiling slightly now and then.
"Tell me," Christine said finally, after the plates were clean. "About… what happened."
Johann looked at her. This girl, his sister, deserved the truth. But what truth? That her brother died at Thares Fortress? That his body was now inhabited by a tenant from another world?
"I was stationed at Thares Fortress," he began carefully. "There was an attack. Rebels. The battle was… intense. I was injured. But I survived. And then there was… a cleanup operation."
"I survived. Somehow." Johann wasn't lying, but he wasn't telling everything. "I was treated at the field hospital. And now… there's talk of a promotion. They call me the 'One Man Army'."
Christine stared at him, her eyes wide. Then suddenly she laughed—a light laugh, like the ringing of a bell. "One Man Army? You? Brother, you used to be afraid to even hold Father's axe!"
Johann gave a thin smile. "People can change."
Rozemary, who had been silent during the conversation, finally spoke. "Your brother's condition still requires monitoring. I will stay here for a few days, if it's not a bother."
"Of course!" Christine said quickly. "I'll prepare the upstairs room. But… there are only two bedrooms. One for Johann, one for me. You can share my room, if you don't mind."
Rozemary nodded. "Alright. Thank you."
The night grew later. Christine cleared the table, Rozemary helping—an odd sight, a Level Two Medicus Divinus washing dishes in a wooden basin. This world truly made no sense! Someone who could force a body to heal from devastation doing chores like washing dishes. Johann sat near the fireplace, watching the fire. The warmth, the crackle of wood, the relative safety—all of it felt like a dream after the hell of Thares.
Finally, as Christine and Rozemary went upstairs to prepare the beds, Johann stood with his cane and headed to his own room.
A small room on the upper floor, right under the roof. Narrow, with a simple single bed, a small desk, and a tiny window overlooking the street. But what caught his attention was the mirror.
A small, round mirror with a dark wooden frame, hanging on the wall opposite the bed. A poor-quality mirror, its surface slightly distorted, like looking through disturbed water.
Johann approached, staring at his reflection.
This was the first time he truly saw Johann Reth's face, the face that was now his, which he only remembered from memories.
A young man of twenty years old. Tall, around 180 cm, Alex guessed based on experience. Athletic build, broad shoulders, arms muscled from military training, but thin from lack of food and trauma. Unruly blonde hair cut short, perhaps by Christine. An oval face with prominent cheekbones, a straight nose, thin lips. Pale skin, but no longer corpse-like—there was a hint of life, a healthy color.
And the eyes. Black eyes. Not blue, green, or brown like most people in this world. Quite unique, which made Johann think he might have Asian ancestry in this world, huh, huh maybe the correct term is Esian?
But most striking: no scars. This face was clean. No battle scars, no bruises, no marks of burns. The skin on his chest, beneath his shirt, might still have that strange root-like pattern, but on his face, nothing.
He raised a hand, touched his cheek. The skin was warm. Alive.
This was Johann Reth's body. But also my body. Two worlds meeting in one form. Two memories, two identities, two lives.
He stared into his own eyes in the mirror. Those black eyes stared back, as if asking: Who are you now?
There was no answer. Only the candle flame flickering on the mirror's distorted surface, refracting light into strange patterns, like cracks in reality.
He turned away from the mirror, sat on the edge of the bed. Outside, the sounds of Selevia slowly quieted. Church bells tolled again, marking the night hour. The wind whispered through the thatched roof. The sound of Christine and Rozemary whispering in the next room.
He lay down, staring at the dark wooden ceiling. His right leg still throbbed faintly. His hand, which had held a bayonet, killed, fired—was now clean, unstained.
One Man Army. The nickname hung in the air like the scent of iron. He was no hero. He was just a survivor. But the world needed heroes. The Empire needed a symbol. And he, with a body risen from death, with inexplicable resilience, was the perfect candidate.
Tomorrow, there would be documents. Promotion. Perhaps an offer to become a Divern. Decisions.
But for tonight, he was just Johann Reth, a young man who had come home to his sister's house after a war. For tonight, he could pretend to be normal.
He closed his eyes. In the darkness, he saw two images: the apartment in Marina Bay with a pale yellow moon, and this wooden house with the strange purple moon. Two worlds. Two lives.
And in the middle, he was, stuck between them, trying to find a way to survive without losing himself completely.
Outside, the wind blew stronger, carrying the scent of the sea and something else—something sweet, rotten, like a flower dying beneath a purple moon.