Chapter: 5
Chapter Title: Plan
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"Ian?"
The child called out to Ian, glancing at his expression. His complexion wasn't bad, but there was an oddly sharp edge to it. Rumors had spread that Ian was different from usual today, but no one had expected it to be like this.
"Ah. Yeah."
Only then did Ian understand Chel's attitude.
He had her mother's life as collateral from the start, so such vicious words had come flying out immediately. Ian smiled brightly, conveying his gratitude to the child.
"It's fine. Nothing to pass on."
"Yes? But..."
It was such an unprecedented occurrence that the child's eyes went wide.
Wasn't it always Ian who dumped a bundle of trivial messages on him every time he left? The servant couldn't even write, so he'd roughly sketch pictures to firmly commit it all to memory.
"My father's out."
"The Count?"
Today was the day of a special luncheon with Lord Molin. It meant the Count's schedule was different from usual too. The servant, who went out at regular intervals, seemed to have overlooked that.
"Running into him by chance would be trouble. Besides, you're still young. Off you go."
From what he'd heard, the kid kept mentioning the red-light district, which was dangerous even in Ian's era. And if it was over a hundred years ago, it must have been even worse.
If luck was bad, even a healthy man could collapse from an aphrodisiac and get his pockets picked. He couldn't send a child to a place like that.
"Are you sure you'll be okay?"
"Hm? With what?"
"You cry every night until late..."
The child knew Ian cried late into the night? Did he share a room with someone? If not, it meant someone was outside Ian's room in the dead of night.
'Looks like they've got surveillance on me too.'
It was a relief. Better to find out about this before making a mistake. Ian smiled brightly and replied.
"I'm fine. I won't cry anymore."
"Th-then, what about my errand pay..."
"Errand pay?"
If anything, it was the servant who looked like he might cry. He fidgeted with his fingertips, wearing a troubled expression. Ian unwittingly rummaged through his pockets but found nothing.
"If I can't bring back food today, my siblings might starve. I'm really fine, so please give me an errand. This time, I'll relay every word perfectly without missing a syllable."
So the errand pay wasn't money. Of course. In the past, he'd been born and raised a slum rat, and now he was half-imprisoned in the mansion. He wouldn't have a single coin even if he wanted to die for one.
"Please, Ian."
In that case, what was given to Ian in this mansion? Three hearty meals a day.
'Right. No wonder he's so scrawny despite my warnings.'
The Cheonryeo Tribe were sturdy, tough barbarians. A single one could stand against dozens without a clear victor. That was why the tribe alone had become a thorn in the side of the Variel Empire.
Their standards for robustness were already worlds apart, so sending a rail-thin kid like Ian would definitely spark gossip.
Thanks to that, his meals were served as generously as those of the Count's family—without comparison. That was everything given to Ian, practically currency for communicating with the outside.
"I have five younger siblings. If I can't bring back errand pay, they have to fill their stomachs with barley mush."
The servant clasped his hands and begged. Ian had guessed the territory was struggling, but not to this extent.
But in a situation where he couldn't even guarantee his own safety, he couldn't just blindly accommodate the child's plea. Ian pondered briefly, then nodded.
"Fine. But on one condition. This is an advance. Errand pay comes first, and later, when I need it, you do something for me then."
"Ah!"
It was clearly a welcome proposal, as the child bowed repeatedly.
So there was someone in this mansion helping Ian after all. Even if it was just a transactional relationship, that was better than nothing. A collaborator in any form was preferable.
"And I'd like to call you something more comfortable."
This was the perfect chance to learn the child's name. He phrased it with the implication that he'd have many more requests in the future.
Catching the intent, the child grinned and answered.
"Call me Haena! Everyone in the mansion does!"
Ian had previously called him "hey" or "you there." As if he'd been waiting, Haena introduced his name clearly.
* * *
Ian's room was at the end of the third-floor corridor.
The moment he opened the door, a musty mold smell rushed in. The small window seemed woefully inadequate for ventilation. It was clearly a servant's room, not a guest room.
Creak.
The rickety chair groaned, but it didn't disrupt Ian's focus. Fortunately, there was cheap paper and a quill in the corner. Clear traces of the child practicing writing. Though it was more like drawing than writing.
'Imperial Year 1,100.'
Ian had learned the exact date from Haena.
His original time was 1,198, so he'd come back nearly a century. His rough estimate of a hundred years had been spot on. Ian let out a weary breath and swept back his golden hair.
'Where the hell do I even start with this...'
Whether he was Naum or not, he'd clearly been caught in someone's space-time magic. Otherwise, it was the hallucination he saw at the moment of death.
'For now, all I know is that the possessed body shares my name.'
But it was hard to attach much significance to that. The name Ian wasn't rare or special.
Scribble, scribble.
To clear his mind, Ian jotted down major events on the paper. If this was a hallucination or another world, things would unfold differently from his predictions.
"Hmm."
Ian effortlessly wrote out the timeline of Variel's future history. There were gaps here and there, but it didn't matter. No memorable events meant it had been peaceful.
"By the way, for a kid who studies, how's his desk this bare of paper?"
The once-clean paper quickly filled with dense writing. The remaining sheets were covered in the bastard Ian's scribbles—or whatever they were. Ian sighed and strained to decipher them. Utterly illegible.
'The letters are right? There's a pattern, so something was written... but not Variel script?'
Knock knock.
That was when footsteps approached from outside. Ian slyly slipped the paper into the drawer and turned around. Whoever it was, if they could read, it'd be trouble.
"Come in."
"I'll leave your dinner here, Ian."
Ah, Haena.
He stroked the crumpled paper in the drawer while gazing out the window. The sun had already set. It was early spring, so the evening sky still bore heavy traces of winter. The glowstone on the ceiling began to emit light.
"Haena."
"Yes?"
Glowstones were far cheaper than candles for lighting. They only glowed faintly enough to make out silhouettes in the dark.
"Could you get me a candlestick?"
"Oh. Well, anything brought into your room needs the Countess's permission."
The child's troubled reply came from beyond the door. Given the room's spartan state, she wouldn't approve. After all, wasn't he the very "mistake" her husband had made outside?
'Guess I should be grateful they don't starve me.'
"...Should I ask her?"
The odds of getting half-used candle stubs versus getting grilled on why he needed them.
Which was higher? Especially on a day when her proud son Chel had messed up in the drawing room.
"No. It's fine. You're dismissed."
"Then I'll take my leave."
Haena's footsteps faded away.
Ian picked up the quill again. He tried to write more several times, but it was too dark now—even the inkwell was invisible. He leaned back in the chair and stared at the door.
Creak.
A small tray sat in front of the door. Two lumps of rye bread, one slice of cheap ham, and water.
"Well now?"
This was what Haena had left after taking his errand share—the bare minimum. No wonder he had no strength eating like this. Ian clicked his tongue, picked up the tray, and brought it in.
Unsatisfying, but who could resist a hungry stomach?
He dunked the bread in water and chewed. Come to think of it, even the war orphans hadn't eaten like this. Back then, there was at least gula soup...
"Ah!"
A wind blew through his foggy mind. Everything sharpened, scratching the itchy spot.
Right—he'd thought something was off in the kitchen.
The hearty luncheon had felt somehow lacking.
'No gula.'
Gula was a nutrient-rich vegetable eaten as a meal substitute. Taste was secondary; its versatility made it a staple every Variel citizen stocked and ate.
The "discovery" of gula was a turning point for the empire.
It had slashed annual famine deaths by nearly 85 percent, dividing Variel's economy and daily life into before and after.
'Normally, gula would be discovered in about fifty years.'
Not an invention.
Not creating something new, but recognizing what existed. Gula from the East was toxic except for the seeds, so it had never been seen as edible and had been discarded in mountains and fields, naturalizing there.
'No one knew how to eat the unfamiliar Eastern food. For a full fifty years.'
But Ian knew how to eat gula. Meaning, if he just "discovered" it, he could erase Variel's great famine from history.
"Good heavens."
Ian suddenly wished all this was real.
Not a magical hallucination, but truly back in Variel's past. So he could change history.
'Ian. It's okay. Opportunities are always there, always. The gods don't give unsolvable problems.'
Naum's final words echoed in his ears. He didn't know the details yet, but strangely, he felt like he could find the answer. Whatever it was.
'For now, let's survive somehow.'
And head to the imperial palace, seeking Naum's traces.
That was Ian's first answer.
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