Ding-dong.
Ding-dong.
Ding-dong.
The church bell split the morning air with heavy, resonant tolls, each reverberating through the wooden frame of the house like a sledgehammer blow on cracked iron. The sound came through the vibrating, poor-quality glass window, pierced the thin wool blanket, and drilled directly into Johann's temple, still filled with the fog of shapeless dreams. No specific dream, just sensations: the cold of stone, the smell of iron and blood, the hiss of a breath that was not his own. Then the bell, severing the dream, signaling a new day. Six in the morning.
Johann opened his eyes.
The dark wooden ceiling, covered in fine cracks forming patterns like frozen river deltas. Morning light crept through the gap in the simple cloth curtain, cutting through dust motes swirling slowly in the humid air of the small room. He was still here. Still in the upstairs room of the two-story wooden house in Selevia's harbor district. Still in this body.
He sighed, letting his lungs fall into their natural breathing rhythm.
He sat up slowly. Muscles in his lower back emitted a faint, creaking sound. His right leg, the bone that had been fractured, the muscle that had been torn, offered only a faint, dull ache—more a memory of pain than the pain itself. The miraculous regeneration in his chest might have been a one-time event, but the normal healing of this body, aided by conventional medical care, seemed to be progressing quickly.
From below, aromas rose: burning oak, salted pork fat heating in an iron skillet, and something sweet—pure honey, not refined sugar. It reminded him that Christine was already awake. Johann felt something in his chest, a warmth not from his own memories: simple gratitude. Gratitude that there was someone to light the fire, cook the food, make the house feel like a home.
He stood up. His right leg bore his weight steadily, though there was a faint weakness in his calf. He walked three steps to the small table near the window. On it, a brass basin held cold water from the morning well, and a piece of rough linen cloth. He washed his face. The water was piercingly cold, bringing full awareness. As he lifted his face, droplets ran down the hollow of his neck, into his linen shirt. He looked at the small mirror hanging on the wall.
The face of a twenty-year-old man stared back. Unruly blonde hair, an uneven cut, probably Christine's own handiwork. Pale skin but no longer corpse-like; a faint pink flush on his cheeks, proof of working blood circulation. His eyes were black. Prominently so.
He dressed: a coarse, worn linen shirt frayed at the elbows, thick woolen trousers with a patch on the right knee, thick knitted socks, and worn but sturdy leather boots. The smell of camphor and time clung to the fabric, the smell of someone who had been gone a long time. As he fastened his leather belt, his fingers brushed an inner fold of his coat. Something was there.
A small package, wrapped in oilcloth and tied with string. Johann pulled it out. He undid the knot. Inside: a few Groschen coins, a simple metal medal stamped with the imperial eagle, a campaign token.
He descended the creaking wooden stairs. Each step reminded him of the stone steps at Thares fortress, but this was different—wood, not stone; this was home, not a fortress; life, not death.
In the main room, Christine stood before the fireplace, stirring something in a large iron pot. Rozemary was already seated at the dining table, neatly dressed in the same dark blue dress as yesterday, her brown hair tied back neatly. She sat upright, hands folded in her lap, observing Christine with a friendly expression.
In that moment, Johann felt as if he were someone with a wife and a sister who got along well! It made him feel ticklish, and he immediately dismissed the thought.
"Brother," Christine said without turning, her voice light. "Breakfast is almost ready."
Johann sat in the same chair as last night. Rozemary nodded to him, a formal gesture. "Did you sleep well?"
"Well enough," Johann answered. His voice was still hoarse but stronger than yesterday.
Christine brought three earthenware bowls to the table. Contents: thick wheat porridge with small pieces of salted pork and a spoonful of honey on top. Simple, but filling. She also placed a piece of hard dark bread for each, and three ceramic cups filled with well water.
They sat. Christine bowed her head, hands folded. Rozemary followed her lead, looking very devout. Johann did the same.
"All Grace comes from Therion," Christine uttered in a low, reverent voice. "We partake of His bounty."
Johann repeated the words in his mind. They felt familiar on his tongue, like a song once often sung but forgotten. Part of the memories and emotions that made him truly devout, as if he were indeed a worshipper of Therion.
They ate in silence for the first few bites. The porridge was warm, salty, filling a stomach that had been empty since last night's simple dinner. Johann ate heartily, realizing just how hungry he was. Christine watched with attentive eyes, occasionally smiling slightly.
Rozemary took a piece of dark bread, tearing it carefully. "The documents for your promotion will be processed in three days," she said in a flat tone, like reading a report. "You will need to sign them at the governor's office; there will be a ceremony for your commission later, coinciding with your meeting with the governor."
"Promotion?" Christine turned, eyes sparkling. "Brother is being promoted?"
"To Hauptmann," Johann said shortly. The word felt foreign in his mouth. Hauptmann. Captain.
Christine smiled broadly, but the smile quickly faded. "That's... good. But does it mean you'll be sent away again?"
"Not necessarily," Rozemary answered before Johann could speak. "It might be an administrative assignment. Or training; I wouldn't know, my rank is lower than that."
Johann observed Rozemary. She was answering for him too often. And actually, this girl was quite kind and generous if he thought about it, since she was even willing to accompany him and genuinely monitor his health.
Christine sighed, then returned to her food. As she reached for the honey to add to her bread, her small, work-roughened hand gripped the wooden honey spoon. The movement, the way she held the spoon, the angle of her wrist, reminded Johann of something.
Not of Christine. But of another movement: a man's hand with dirty nails, holding a pen in the same way, writing in slanting script on damp paper...
"To Lisa Müller..."
It came without a clear trigger. Just the movement of Christine's hand, and then the image appeared: Robert Müller sitting in a cold barrack corner, writing a letter by the light of a dim candle. Johann hadn't known him well, just another face among hundreds in the garrison. But they had shared a brief conversation one night during guard change.
"I have a wife, haha," Robert had said then, his voice almost swallowed by the night wind whistling through the fortress cracks. "She's in Selevia. We live on Saint Walker Street."
Johann had just nodded. "I have a sister too."
"They say if we die, the family gets compensation," Robert laughed shortly, bitterly. "But money won't replace the letter that never arrives, will it?"
That conversation. Just that. But Johann remembered it now. And remembered the letter he had read among the corpses. The letter to Lisa Müller.
"Brother?" Christine touched his arm. "You're daydreaming."
Johann blinked. "Just... remembered someone from the garrison."
"Your friend who...?" Christine didn't finish.
"Not a close friend. Just an acquaintance." Johann put down his spoon. "He had a wife here. On Saint Walker Street."
Rozemary raised an eyebrow. "You want to meet her?"
"There's a message to deliver."
Rozemary nodded, asking no further questions.
Christine stood, gathering the empty bowls with the automatic movements of someone who had managed a house alone for years. "We should go to the market before noon. The best fishmonger runs out before ten."
Rozemary stood too, helping stiffly, her hands that were usually skilled with surgical tools now holding earthenware bowls like unfamiliar objects. "I'll come along," she said, not as an offer but as a statement. "To monitor the condition."
Johann nodded. He turned to the window. Outside, Selevia was fully awake. The sound of wooden carts rattling on stone streets, merchants' shouts beginning to be heard from a distance, and the smell of wood smoke mixed with the salty scent of the sea. A living city. A stark contrast to the silent death at Thares fortress.
"We need flour, salt, maybe some salted meat if the price hasn't gone up again," Christine whispered, picking up a woven basket. "And candles. Our candles are almost gone."
Johann pulled the leather pouch from his pocket. 2 Gulden shimmered softly in the morning light. Christine drew a sharp breath.
"That's... a lot," she whispered.
"Enough for a while," said Johann. But in his head, another calculation ran. What's the price of flour? What's the value of an egg? He didn't know. He knew the price of Starbucks coffee, the rent of an apartment in Marina Bay, the price of plane tickets abroad. But the price of flour in Selevia in the Woland year 1631? That was knowledge he did not possess.
They stepped out onto the street.
The morning air stabbed with a damp cold, carrying the complex scent of the port city: fresh fish and rotten fish, salt, horse dung, wood smoke, and underneath it all, the smell of humans—thousands of humans living crowded within the city walls. The cobblestone streets were wet with dew, slippery in places. Wooden buildings stood tightly packed, their thatched roofs blackened by soot and time.
Christine led with confidence. She navigated a narrow alley between two carpenter shops, then turned right towards the market square. Rozemary followed behind Johann, her steps light and measured. But her eyes never stopped moving—observing roofs, windows, passersby. Not with a tourist's curiosity, but with the vigilance of a soldier. Or a guard.
The Selevia market was organized chaos. Hundreds of stalls lined up, shouts of prices echoing, the aromas of spices clashing with the smell of hanging meat. Christine plunged right into the crowd, basket in one hand, sharp eyes seeking the right vendors.
She stopped at an old woman selling root vegetables. "Carrots, Mrs. Marta. Two kilos."
"Three Pfennig per kilo, Christine."
"Five Pfennig for two kilos. And you add a sprig of parsley."
"Parsley costs a Pfennig on its own!"
"Then the carrots are five for two kilos. That was last week's price before the ship from Auster arrived."
Finally, the woman gave in with a grumble. Christine paid with a small copper coin, putting the carrots and parsley in her basket. She turned to Rozemary, who stood silently watching. "Always bargain. If they know you're not a regular, the price goes up."
Rozemary nodded. "I understand." But her expression remained flat, as if memorizing a new medical procedure.
They continued. Christine bought a small sack of wheat flour, a packet of coarse salt, beeswax candles, and needles with thread. Each transaction was a small negotiation. Johann watched, but part of his mind was elsewhere, at Saint Walker Street Number 14, with a woman named Lisa Müller waiting for a husband who would not return.
At a corner of the market, a fishmonger with blood-smeared hands offered fresh cod. Rozemary took a step back, her nose wrinkling. The strong fish smell, combined with the general market odor, was clearly not part of the structured environment of the medical corps.
But Christine approached, her slender fingers touching the gills of a fish, checking the eye color. "This is fresh. Two for one Groschen."
"Impossible! This just came from the nets this morning!"
"Three for two Groschen, or I go to Gerhard."
Finally, the seller relented. Christine put the fish in the basket, then turned to Rozemary. "You see? The gills must be red, the eyes not cloudy."
Rozemary nodded again. But this time, there was something in her eyes—not just acknowledgment, but a kind of... interest. Like observing a skill in a field completely foreign to her.
They stopped at a small stall selling street food: small meat pies baked in a portable oven. Christine bought three, paying with Pfennig. They ate standing up, the warm pies filling their hands with warmth.
Rozemary took a bite, then paused. "This is... good."
Christine smiled. "Mrs. Marta—the other one, not the vegetable seller—makes the best pies in Selevia. The secret is in the pork fat."
Johann chewed his pie. It was salty, fatty, satisfying. He watched the people around him: ordinary life continuing. Merchants, housewives, dockworkers, children. No one knew he was the "One Man Army". No one knew about the purple moon, the moving corpses, or the wound on his chest that had closed itself. Here, he was just a young man with his sister and... a friend? Supervisor? He wasn't sure of Rozemary's status.
After Christine's basket was almost full, Johann said, "I have to go now. That matter."
Christine looked at him. "Are you sure? Do you want us to come with you?"
"No. This... I should do alone." Johann placed a hand on Christine's shoulder, a gesture that felt more natural today than yesterday. "You and Rozemary can finish the shopping. I'll be back before lunch."
Rozemary looked at him. "Your condition is stable. But don't overexert yourself."
Johann nodded. He separated from them, heading down a narrow street leading away from the market towards the weavers' district.
Saint Walker Street was quieter. The sound of wooden looms thumped from within the simple houses. The smell of beeswax and linseed oil replaced the market aromas. Number 14 was a wooden house like the others, but its front garden was well-kept—herb plants in clay pots, a small stone path swept clean.
Johann stood before the door. In his chest, the area of smooth pink skin felt warm, like a second heart beating slowly. He took a breath, raised his hand, and knocked.
The sound of knocking seemed loud in the relative silence.
Then footsteps from inside. Light. Quick. Like someone who had long been waiting for a knock at the door.
The door opened.
The woman in the doorway was in her early twenties. Black hair tied loosely, a pale face with wide blue eyes—and dark circles under them, as if from weeks of sleeplessness. She wore a simple dress and a clean apron.
"Yes?" her voice was flat, without hope.
Johann steadied his breathing. "My name is Johann Reth. I'm... from the Thares garrison. I knew Robert."