"All right, we'll end the morning lesson here. Cadets, enjoy your lunch, and we'll continue class in the afternoon."
"Entire unit, attention! Salute!"
At the orderly salute of the young cadets, the instructor returned the salute in acknowledgment, then slowly left the classroom.
"Ugh, it's finally over."
"Hey. Paul, have you decided what you're eating for lunch today?"
"Raphael, where's the book I lent you yesterday?"
"It's noisy. Yeah, this is school."
Rubbing my gritty eyes—dried out from staying up all night from insane anxiety—I muttered under my breath.
The school atmosphere I was feeling again after so long was remarkably similar to the one from my previous life.
Well, whether it was the 18th century or the 21st, students cared more about chatting than math, more about PE than literature, and more about the lunch menu than science.
I guess wherever people live, it's all kind of the same.
While I was sunk deep in thought, a few cadets came over and spoke to me.
"Hey. Newbie. Where're you from?"
How old were they? Fifteen? Sixteen?
The cadet who looked like the leader spoke to me. Either way, he was older than me, so I should use polite speech.
"I'm from a place called Gehenne near Toulon. I look forward to your guidance."
"Hoh? Toulon—ain't that the port city next to Marseille? Good. At least you're not some country bumpkin. Haha."
Should I call it hearty, or should I say he'd shoved manners into a bowl of rice and swallowed them?
Calling someone a country bumpkin on a first meeting—this kid…
He reeks of Pierre and Georges.
That very, very rotten kind of smell.
"Good! You don't look like some bumpkin who rolled around in a stinking backwater furrow, so how about we introduce ourselves."
This "excessively" boisterous guy plopped himself onto my desk and said it like he was doing me a favor.
"My name's Hugo de La. Born in Paris. What's yours?"
"I'm Guillaume de Toulon. It's a pleasure to meet you."
"Hey, Guillaume."
Hugo suddenly spoke with a serious expression.
"Yes."
"Did you… grow up with your grandparents instead of your parents? The way you talk is exactly like old folks."
"What?"
Tch. Even if he ate etiquette with rice, going after someone's family crosses the line, buddy.
When my face stiffened, Hugo went back to a playful expression.
"Hey, why are you taking it so seriously? It's a joke, a joke! More importantly, aren't you being way too formal?"
"Ah… yes."
Tch. Of all people, I had to get grabbed by some punk bastard.
This guy had a talent for ruining someone's mood.
"Anyway, you got anyone to eat lunch with? If you don't, eat with us, Guillaume!"
Is this bastard messing with me right now?
It's not even giving medicine after poison—he drags my mood across the floor, then offers me a "generous" invitation. Wow, thanks so much. I don't know where to put myself.
Is your hobby analyzing and recording the moment people start getting pissed off?
I'm dizzy. I feel like the Demon King of Chaos is about to burst out yelling, "It's chaotic, it's chaotic!"
"I know all the good spots here, so don't worry. It'll definitely taste way better than your hometown food. No matter how high-level the provinces are, they can't beat Paris—obviously. Haha."
Ah.
You're the real deal, aren't you?
This bastard clearly thinks everything in France besides Paris is the countryside.
You're deep in delusion.
Nothing beats shock therapy for breaking delusions, right? Yeah. Yeah, that's right.
I'm not saying this because I'm pissed.
I'm purely enlightening this foolish sentient being through awakening.
"Eat among yourselves, you motherfucking bastards."
Eating alone on the first day can't be helped.
Serge rode in a carriage for a full day and arrived in Chartres, ninety kilometers northwest of Paris.
If Paris had a certain bustling flavor, Chartres was a city with a more solemn, pastoral atmosphere—perhaps because of Chartres Cathedral, standing in the center of the city and displaying its sacred presence, which only deepened that feeling.
But unlike this pastoral atmosphere, Serge moved with a deeply worried expression.
In his head, the "demonic" words Guillaume had thrown out kept circling.
To escape that thought, Serge only urged his feet to climb the stairs faster and with more force.
At last, when he opened the door to the office of the Bishop of Chartres, he was able to set that "terrifying thought" aside for a moment.
"Serge? What brings you here?"
"Brother—no, older brother. I have something I want to ask you."
At the sudden visit and words of his junior, Bishop Emmanuel Joseph Sieyès had no choice but to put down the magazine he'd been reading.
"Guillaume de Toulon. You said he's only thirteen?"
Watching the sunset stained red by the dying sun, Sieyès set the wineglass in his hand down on the table.
He had already finished an entire bottle, but unlike usual, he didn't feel drunk at all.
It was because of what Serge, who had left after dinner an hour ago, had told him.
Yeah. The first thing that bastard junior said when he showed up after so long was something that sounded like the world was turning upside down, so how could he get drunk even if he wanted to?
"Older brother. That kid said this. He asked whether the way France is running right now is normal. The fields are full of gold, but people are starving to death—is that normal? Is it normal that people struggle like hell and still can't survive?"
"Certainly… you can't call that right."
"And… he said people's eyes are full of resignation and death."
"Hm…"
"After hearing what he said, Paris looked different to me. Now I don't see Paris as a bustling city full of noise—I see it as a city full of screams, with people flailing just to live. And then that bastard added something…"
"What? What did he say?"
"He said that when God created the world, there was no such thing as status."
"Serge! Watch your mouth!"
"Anyway… I came because I believe you, older brother, would know for sure whether France right now is, like the kid says, in the shape of Sodom and Gomorrah—or whether it's just needless worry. You're the one who even uncovered the secret of belladonna, aren't you."
"Hey! I told you never to bring that up again!"
"Wahahaha. As expected… my age changed, your age changed, and Paris changed, but messing with you is still fun. Still, one thing hasn't changed."
"Ghh…"
"So… what do you think about what that kid said?"
Sieyès simply nodded with his eyes closed.
"So that's how it is… If even you think that too… whew. The future is frightening."
Leaving those words behind, Serge climbed back into a carriage and left again—after throwing a huge bomb into Sieyès's lap.
"Damn it. Throwing a headache like this at me and leaving. There goes my sleep tonight. Next time I see him, I'll smack his ass."
Sieyès muttered, thinking of that infuriating junior Serge.
But in his head, countless thoughts tangled together.
Noble storehouses piled high and peasant stomachs left empty; nobles setting off on leisure journeys and laborers who still struggled to put food on the table even after working on four hours of sleep; and the countless conflicts Sieyès had witnessed while serving as bishop in Chartres, born from inequality between classes.
All of it looked like an enormous powder magazine to Sieyès.
A powder magazine with so much gunpowder stacked inside that if even a tiny spark fell—by accident or on purpose—everything would turn to ash.
The problem was when the spark would fall.
It could be tomorrow. The day after. Next year.
"If—if the spark touches the powder…"
It wouldn't end with one or two deaths.
Then what should it be called? A political upheaval? A coup?
No. A revolution?
Yes—"revolution." A revolution.
A revolution that would become a massive fire and burn everything away.
That fire would never go out.
It would swallow nobles, clergy, commoners, and even…
the king.
The beautiful sunset in front of him looked to Sieyès like the flames of that "revolution."
After cursing out that provincial-bashing bastard and that motherfucking bastard, Guillaume shot up to instant stardom.
"Ha, figures. A noble who isn't from Paris has no refinement."
That was the simple mockery.
"Is he the one? The guy who threw obscene insults at Hugo?"
Curiosity.
"He looks young. He'll quit soon and go home crying. Tsk tsk."
And even looks that were maybe pity, maybe something else.
I was receiving everyone's attention all at once. And my survival instincts—honed from living as the "lower" one for thirteen years—were sounding the alarm.
"Idiot! You should've just bowed your head and gone along with it. Every bastard here is going to be a high-ranking officer later—why make trouble for yourself?"
"No, but bringing up someone's mom is crossing the line. That motherfucker was getting cocky."
Uh… so it's not just an alarm bell?
Hm. How do I break out of this situation? I can't see a way through.
Well, no one's going to help a thirteen-year-old kid from the provinces with no backing once he's been marked by guys who are basically school bullies.
Then there's only one answer.
"I have to find another loner and build a group."
Birds of a feather—doesn't that apply to every living creature?
No matter how much they're loners here, once they go outside, they're still noble kids who get called "young master."
I can't grovel to those ill-mannered thug bastards, so I need to build my own power base too.
And that's when I saw a pale-faced bookworm who'd been reading alone since lunchtime.
The way Hugo's guys kept poking him with words—he was definitely in a situation similar to mine. It didn't look like there would be any problem if I went and talked to him.
When I got closer, his face and build came clearly into view.
Hm. His face is kind of pretty.
But he's kind of short.
"Ahem. Uh, hello?"
"?"
Our handsome short guy stared at me like, "What the hell is this bastard?" the moment I spoke.
Ugh, awkward. At times like this, you can't give them room—you have to machine-gun the words.
"I'm Guillaume de Toulon from Gehenne. Nice to meet you."
"…"
Looks like our short guy didn't like my greeting or the hand I offered.
Normally, people would say something back, but he didn't even do that—did I get on this guy's bad side too, not just Hugo?
Just as countless thoughts started tearing through my head—
our pale-faced bookworm stood up, grabbed my hand, and shook it.
"Hamo, nice ta meetcha. I'm the one from over yonder Corsica—Napoleon Bonaparte, I tell ya."
"…What? Who did you say?"
"Didn't ya hear? Napoleon Bonaparte, I tell ya."
Oh, fuck.
Author's Note
Napoleon is currently fourteen years old, not even in his growth spurt yet.