Revised August 2024

***

Time waits for no one. It's a law from some school of philosophy that not many care to know. One could argue that time is just another branch of the universe. An astrologer might take it up a notch—the moment you wrap your head around knowing you exist, the time you close your eyes for the last time, and that's it. That's the one second the universe gave you.

That's why there was nothing poetic about Erich Kasper's death. The world has already been scarred by far more tragic fates lost in the memories of those who lived it. If there was any consolation to him, though, it was that this was not his world. And what he's destined to do will turn his ultimate death into an epic.

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Erich gasped. A shallow breath was suffocating. A deep breath was gratifying. Mint was overpowering his nose, and his body twitched with each beat. Bear fur spilled onto his legs as he sat up. It was bulky, but it was soft and warm. He raised his left arm, clenching and unclenching his hand, twisting and bending the forearms, wrists, and fingers imaginable. Then he traced a finger down the arm and shuddered at the sensitive tingle.

He's alive. To make that assumption meant he was thinking—thinking, hearing, seeing, feeling.

Something tapped. A maid, french style and younger than Erich, was on her tiptoes. Her face paled, but Erich looked around and saw nothing. She then bolted for the door and opened it for a giant of a man in armor looking back. But the giant already had his sights on Erich. Once the fear kicked in, subtlety was the last thing on someone's mind.

"He's awake! The hero is awake!"

Usually, the Swiss Guards looked silly. Aside from the puffy clown costume, there's the goofy helmet. But add thick blue plumes and a romanticized face shield that looked like a reverse Norman helmet lacquered in black, and they start to look a little less silly. Ornamentation took priority in their black-lacquered armor. It matched scarily with their white tunics underneath its shadow.

A romanticized renaissance isn't usually what one expected the brain to fantasize on its last neurons, let alone being called a hero. Sounds continued blending outside, shouting, clanking; everyone seemed in a rush. But it was a rather warm December day without the buzz of a heater. The place outside was too green, too peaceful, with no honking and whatnot.

Erich got up and went to the window, and the brochure Niagra Falls stretched across the City of Verona and the massive lake. With a heavy breath, he wobbled back to the big bed and sat down, supporting his heavy head. It was satisfying, but his throat was parched. There was a pitcher and glass on the nightstand, the former full of condensation.

Scooting over, he poured some into the glass, meeting the cold and swallowing the cold. It ran down the pipe and into his stomach, and he breathed out, refreshed.

He set the glass back on the nightstand before the twitching on his hand stopped him. The bedroom was too sublime for someone who owed too much to repay the favor. Factor in the real estate and the building permits, and the price could make actual sense for once to break even.

Then the clacking came—footsteps, and many of them. It was a cadence. The giant earlier snapped into attention, and a bear of a man entered, built like a Viking but groomed himself an Emperor adorned in aquamarine with broad shoulders and a beard as white as age, his superficial presence emanated imposition over a surrounding full of feebleness. Not even the giants joining him and their armor matched the same level of majesty.

It's as if the giants weren't there to protect him. It's as if they were only there because of what the man wielded he could not contain. The cadence stopped. The bear was looking at him, surely. Erich focused on steadying his breath to care.

Then something scraped the floor, and Erich piled the tension into his fists. The man placed a chair close to him. Too close, as that gaze of his could choke someone. His expression was soft, but all the ornaments and fabric betrayed the facade hiding the backroom deals and paperless orders that allowed him those luxuries.

"I am King Henry the Sixth of Cascadia. I am glad you have answered our plea for help, Honorable Hero."

"Just kill me already."

The king's eyes opened, the kind of knee-jerk reaction akin to touching a hot pan. Erich sighed. It was getting ridiculous; typical fantasy bullshit, getting called a hero made sense now. It just kept adding weight to his head.

"Just end this charade, pull out your sword, and be done with...whatever this is."

His gaze softened, so Erich cherished one last deep breath and brute-force it. With eyes shut, his breaths got cut short. Something choked him, plugging his nose and mouth from nothing. He could gather air into his mouth, but pushing it down was another matter.

A black mist fluttered where the king once sat, staring at him with red, glaring eyes, and Erich's skin crawled. His bones rattled, his muscles screamed, and his lungs cried out for more air. Each attempt to draw in a breath ended in frustration as if his body betrayed him in their dire moment of need.

Fucking finally.

One last time, Erich closed his eyes. He embraced the breathlessness, fought against the urges, and let himself float. But then a hand grabbed him, the king's hand.

"Are you okay?"

His words were also soft, trying to sympathize with an expression of care from the actions he made, that he treats everyone with equal dignity. It was terrifying.

"I was supposed to be dead."

"Yes. Indeed, you were. However, I believed it would be easier to show you."

"Show what?"

"For you? The impossible. But for us…"

He opened his palm, and water shot out, circulating into a ball hovering over it as if Erich witnessed the formation of a planet from the billions of rocks forming orbit. Erich set a finger through the orb and pulled it back from the cold flaring from the tip, sending waves and signals through his arm.

Erich buried his face into his palms again, supporting his head, and opened his fingers for his eyes. What is he even supposed to believe with all the pushing and pulling?

"What you've just witnessed is Thaumaturgy. In your world, you call it magic."

The King of Cascadia rose and went to the nightstand, gushing the sphere of water into the glass without losing volume, and offered it to him.

"Please. It may not be on par with those who can fully harness Water and Light, but consuming it can help your body redevelop."

Erich grabbed the glass, and the king sat back. "What do you mean?"

"To conjure magic, one must be attuned to the mana. Your predecessors liken it to the air we breathe. If you run with all your might, you will start gasping for air. The same goes for mana. However, we are not so gifted that we can breathe in mana. Tell me, have you sensed something when I came?"

"I don't know," if his ominous aura had anything to do with it. But predecessors? There were those before him?

"Did you not feel a little shaken? Scared, perhaps?"

Erich gulped. He nodded.

"That is what we call the aura. It is the mana surrounding a person. What you sensed was my emotion. Think of it as the most legible body language."

Now that Erich thought about it, he couldn't sense it anymore.

"What does that have to do with my body?"

"When you arrived, you were heavily injured. Headmaster Reginald York here," a man from the back stepped aside from the formation, revealing his pointy ears. "Can explain it better."

The blonde, thirty-year-old bespectacled man's pointy ears could not disappear no matter how much Erich blinked. His dark blue, scarlet-lapeled academic dress fit the notion of a headmaster.

"Good day, young man. I am Reginald York, Headmaster of the Royal Academy of Cascadia, Archwizard of the Crown, and the last apprentice of the Hero Fenix. I'm also a High Elf. I'm glad to see you are well. Everyone will be relieved their efforts were not in vain."

"What happened?"

"We called for a hero. And what we received was you and the wounds you carried. Because you belong to another world, we had no choice but to flood mana into you."

"Flood?"

"Your body was not born here. It sees mana as something foreign, therefore rejecting it. We forced it to accept our world so we could apply its logic and react to the healing magic. We feared it would take a heavy toll on the body, but it appears our worries remained theoretical."

"How long was I asleep?"

"Half a day. It's still too early for dinner, however, recovery demands flexibility. For now, you must focus on recovery. You've lost a few pints of blood upon your arrival."

"I see," he did not. He cannot. "Thank you."

The elf waved with a smile. "No need."

Of course not. Kindness is an investment. If he didn't know any better, the implications when one thought of a British elf was a simple stereotype. Maybe their race was a prideful bunch. Perhaps he's a special case. But given Erich's presence? Stereotyping it is.

"We may not know your story, the friends and family we have stripped you away from, but you have answered our call. And we shall eternally atone for it."

"It is as Headmaster York said. For now, you do not have to burden yourself."

That's because there's a lot of it if being a hero meant something.

"Take your time to accustom yourself. If you are hungry or need a change of environment, please do not hesitate to ask the servants," he rose. "Then, until you've healed, I shall call you again."

Erich shook his head. There's no point dwelling on whether it caused discourtesy or not. They had him surrounded, overpowered, and they held all the cards. What is a hero? What drove them to snatch someone from dimensions or galaxies away that has them so revered?

"I'll feel like I won't have the time to rest when getting more questions than answers."

The king smiled gently and sat back. Erich may not find the right answers. Hell, he might still be dreaming. But if he could get their version, he can start matching the alternatives once he's looser.

"Where do you want me to begin, sir..."

"Erich. Erich Kasper. And I'd like to start at the beginning, if possible."

"Then, Sir Erich, it would be my greatest honor to serve you as Lord Exposition."

And explain, he did. The Kingdom of Cascadia, in the continent of Verussea, colloquially known as 'Europe With Some Jagged Edges Here and There.' An easy illustration comparison would be 'A child trying to make it using lines in Microsoft Paint.'

The past heroes must've had a chuckle imagining someone titled the Lord Exposition saying those things in explaining the unfortunate fuck, Erich, of the level of shit he's in to get summoned.

As for language and literacy, he'll see it when he sees it, which should be a nonissue given the first people Erich met spoke the same language with the corresponding lip, face, and tongue movement. He just needed to catch the cues when modern words get mixed in. When in doubt, ignore it, as they advised.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

The thing he needed to worry about was the diverse races of Western and Eastern mythology that'd fuel the powderkeg of Nationalism for the next Balkans Expansion Pack that'd make Ancient European squabbles look like a playground fight under the reign of terror of eldritch abominations and hell's agents that makes it preferable to die than have a second chance.

But really, what is he going to do? Wave a sword? Unite everyone with a common enemy with a rousing speech?

"Your Majesty, you said plea for help, but for what exactly?"

The king sighed, and it wasn't a pleasant one.

"We've heard the stories before. Well, more like fragments of remarks gathered to form a rough idea of Earth's history."

"Why not ask?"

"Prying for information on Earth has become a taboo after tragedies that grew from good intentions. A simple example would be powerful merchants to the west taking de facto control of a kingdom."

Great.

"But this time, it is clear. That kingdom had spurred the western region into a guild of nations known as the Verussean Union. With their capital, spirit of competition, and investment, their reach spans the continent. However, to the east lies the Belosean Empire. With their military might to rival and destroy the Union's schemes, the whole continent is in a precarious situation where one stone may ignite a perpetual war, a Great War."

"Not against a common foe, but against ourselves."

The king nodded. "Your predecessors made a rough model of determining our level of technological advancement to grasp our state called Eras to stave any misconceptions from the semblance of modernity you may encounter."

"And where is Cascadia now?"

"We are in the Late Middle Ages, about to enter the Renaissance Era."

"The architecture already looks Renaissance."

"The advancement has always been uneven. And without reference, what we have may be a mix of old and new. What was disproven may have become a compromise between the footman and the knight, the stylistic choice of each House, and the old guards and the young officers."

Erich massaged his head.

"I know it must be hard on you, Sir Erich. We have no right to hold you captive to the selfish desires of the Otherworld, but please, I beg you," King Henry slid the chair away and took a knee. The knights and the headmaster joined him. "You're our only hope for this infantile and foolish world."

"Escape the consequences?"

"If it means the safety of my own blood and the good people who wield power, then yes."

He said it without shame because he knew it was shameful. Anyone would rally to the hero's side against the demons from hell, the end of the world, but this was different. It was about the intensification of greed. The Coalition might win against France, but the ideas all keep coming back and get expedited a hundred years later.

"You can't put all your hopes on a child. I'm not a politician."

Even if he were one, he's no Bismarck. Practicality, sure, but it'd all lead to the same atmosphere that burned Europe to ashes twice. The treaties and counter-treaties, the dumb overpowering the educated, and the conceited predecessors destroying everything they've built.

The king nodded at the headmaster. "Bring the tablet."

An old nun entered. Nun because of the garb's visual hints and her refined movement. She knelt before Erich, presenting a stone slab with intricate engravings as the giants closed the door and closed the curtains. Headmaster York then tapped his foot, and a transparent yellow parted from his shoe like a round plume.

"Noise suppression. No one can eavesdrop from the outside."

Then the nun continued with her ceremony. "Lord Hero, it is my great pleasure to present you the Catalog. By placing your hand on the tablet, the unknown great power you possess will be revealed."

"I don't even feel different. Maybe a little lightheaded."

"Have you felt disgusted at the sight of a meal but find yourself surprised it tastes good?"

The logic's the same. The ceremony may be a trap. But then again, what other choice is there? Fifty-fifty chance it's a nightmare, and he's really dead. He won't find it without moving. He thrust his hand onto the runes, and blue light glowed underneath his palm.

It flooded the engravings with a stream of light, shaping what was carved. Then the light parted from the slab in the slab's engraving. The symbols that made up the engravings presented themselves like holographs, each line shaping itself into an unknown language.

Anomaly Spell Detected. Deciphering...

Somehow, he understood the written script. 'Detected' and 'deciphering' were strong, analyzing words.

Process Complete. Choosing an appropriate name...

Choose? Choose what?

Hearts of Iron IV

He really is dying, isn't he? Then the screen turned orange. The King and the Headmaster's eyes widened.

"So it's Anomaly."

"After studying through the texts, it's still exhilarating to see it with my own eyes."

While everyone was giving their praise, Erich's mind was calculating possibilities. It was a Grand Strategy game about the Second World War, yet it's his power. How does that work exactly?

"What determines my power?"

"We cannot prove it. Even now, our scholars in the academy endeavor to learn it, but the Predetermination Theory is the most popular among us, where the hero's powers are suitable for the purpose of their summoning. It might as well be proved based on precedent."

That would be correct, assuming the power was about raising armies, industries, and armaments. Instead of all the niches of the Grand Strategy genre; economics, civilization-building, and politics; he got war. War required tons of money. The cog that runs it was manned by individuals, each with their own story. They had a voice, too. Desires, wants, dreams; everything a war destroys.

That is unless he was the ultimate deterrence. But that's if he's still alive. Anyone armed with a rifle is three steps ahead in becoming a warlord. And when someone becomes a warlord, they have two choices: go for the top or bend the knee. Feudalism will be there to stay for a long time, and thousands will die ending it.

Erich sighed. He'll need all the excuses in the world to get Cascadia Arsenal online, a mass movement of humanity to leave a trail when armies are raised, and about everything else until the lie lasts long enough for everyone else to reconsider. But one question remained—can he trust them?

As the king and headmaster elaborated, Anomaly was rare amongst all magical elements of Water, Fire, Wind, Earth, Light, and Dark, even for the heroes.

Erich imagined the logistics tab. It appeared vividly with a stockpile of a thousand guns and support equipment. Then he went to his profile. There's the portrait of his good side in a black suit; none-aligned, no elections, no political focus set, and no national spirits. Laws and Government, R&D, and Military Staff were all empty.

Political power ticked up by the day. He hovered the center of his imagination into the research tab and got hit with a wave of dizziness. He read the top left of the Infantry Technology tree a second time and matched it with the calendar—the year of Our Lord one thousand nine hundred and four. Wisdom born from the ashes of the Great War was still subject to the firing squad and secret police.

It was not a simple Great War mod but a Greater War mod. The gap between the early-game and late-game tech was too wide, much longer for someone planning for World Conquest as a minor nation. The only unlocked plane was a hot air balloon for scouting. Still, it didn't stop him from being a meta player. He filled the three research slots with Electrical Engineering, Early Machining Tools, and Construction I techs.

However, it won't rectify the shortcomings. People often find the Mauser Gewehr 1898 as a legendary weapon. From an engineering standpoint, it held credence. But it was a spear. Anyone with a measuring tape could give perspective. The original K98k variant, the AZ, was a 1916 Weapon III. However, when he delved deeper into it, a journal of it appeared.

If it were a mod, it would be on the flavor side of things that put each tech into perspective—an Enhanced Immersion Mod or so. It went into service in 1908 as a rear-line rifle. German High Command was fine in unifying weapons for coastal, artillery, and cavalry units, but not the meat. The logic doesn't compute, but hindsight was 20/20. If he could somewhat service it into Infantry Equipment I, the representation for Weapon II, the Gewehr 98, may only serve as that—a representation, utterly simplified to hold no nuance.

But then again, the game itself was centered around numbers. Erich's German, but everything was a mathematical calculation, from the effects of x-number of troops marching on a marsh in winter on a level 7 state infrastructure to a theater-wide battle in different environments and logistical conditions, making it hardware intensive at late-game. Then how does one quantify reality? Why devalue bonuses and upgrades as numerical values? That supercomputer would use up the whole universe to compute it.

Perhaps what Erich does to adjust something as simple as arming an army with a short rifle relative to the time was only one equation among many that led to the same answer. The actions may justify the numerical figures. One decides to be a hero, a barrel explodes, and someone doesn't get enough sleep. If the German tech tree hit a plateau from the fact that they lost, then what? Nazi zombies? Kaiserreich? Wehraboo cope?

Questioning the consistency of the logic left him rubbing his head. If anyone learned their lives were quantifiable, Erich cannot imagine the psychological effect it causes. For now, he set a National Focus: New Chapter of the Liber Iudicum.

The six off-map civilian and military factories, fifteen thousand manpower, and the luxury of not suffering from Consumer Goods couldn't wait any longer. It's a Starter Pack. Next, Erich willed the Recruit & Deploy tab with each division—the name of the deployed unit, not the size—all named regiments, Infantry Regiment and Cavalry Regiment plus one for the Occupied Territories garrison. Each of them only had one unit or line battalion. The name 'Regiment' was just a stylistic choice.

He commenced training five infantry divisions, tanking both his logistics and manpower. And that was it. That's the best first move he could think of. The clock ticked on the top right next to the date: 15:04, 6 August 1539 Anno Heroum Nostrorum de Terra, in the year of our Heroes from Earth.

It was never supposed to be easy. It will take five long days for the National Focus to finish. The slab was merely an identification tool. The king and headmaster were ignorant of his true powers. Still, Erich's in a position where he's listening to the King and Headmaster's words at face value. If they knew, there's no guarantee they'll let him go. And when they do, they won't do it without some insurance.

At some point, the King and Headmaster stopped their exposition and looked at him as a man with a plan. It must've shown on his face for a while. Erich sighed. It's unbelievable he's going through this route. But the goodness of one's heart does not move nations, just the will of a single man with an army of investors looking for a piece of the pie. It has always been about compromises and risks.

"Your Majesty, I'm willing to bargain with you."

***

King Henry left Erich's room with a lot of thoughts in mind. Reginald, too, despite his expressionless face. The elf had been on his side since his birth. He sat at his desk, and the headmaster touched the wall, conjuring a field shining across the study, preventing noise from leaking.

"Reginald, what kind of...hero did we summon?"

He almost said monster. Reginald slumped onto the chair and slouched. His eyes stared distantly at the ceiling.

"A hero that will bring in a new era."

It sounded good on paper, but the gravity of his voice said otherwise.

The Second World War. There was a first. It may be the War to End All Wars the Hero Johannes partook in. The description of Erich's war was almost the same—steel rain, muddy battlefields, and disease; it took everything for Henry to keep his composure in front of a boy talking about it so calmly.

"Henry, I know we can agree on one thing."

He's dangerous.

It was an old story, a hero enslaved by the Conclave after usurping their predecessor, the Kingdom of Laurentia. Deprived of everything and forced to commit heinous acts, his hatred broke the chains binding him and killed them all. With hate being his only reason to live, the hero went on a rampage, destroying Laurentia and the surrounding countries until a coalition was formed to end his suffering.

In the ruins of Laurentia, as the figure of the Fallen Hero fell, the remnants traversed over the thousand corpses that led them to the center of the once thriving capital. There was no greed on that battlefield. Everyone returned to their homes with tragedy lingering across the continent of the story of greed destroying eons of work.

"His power is a national undertaking. The nobility will have none of it."

It'll jeopardize everything they've been working intricately on for decades. Educating and meritocrizing the nobility cannot strike a decisive blow against greed and its lingering decadence within the institutions. The feud between the Classicists, Conformists, and Reformists was a generational struggle that would—sooner or later—spark civil unrest.

"Let us not forget his manner of speech."

His indebtedness for healing him and what he had to offer were separate matters. Goodwill held no power compared to the seal.

"He is his own kingdom. As a reward for letting it flourish, Cascadia will receive wealth his world has to offer according to the period."

The boy showed his card in a disastrous position. But he knew they could not ignore the forbidden fruit dangling on their faces with little consequences. He asked Reginald what kind of hero they summoned, but Henry already knew the answer. They have released a beast that will only grow, one which they cannot fully control. And yet that was the Cascadia's goal.

"My recommendation, Your Majesty, is to give the boy some privacy. Let us not neglect that we spirited him away while on the brink of death. I'm sure he won't reveal everything this early."

A knock came on the door. An almost identical version of Henry with blondish hair entered with an older gentleman.

"Brother, it's me."

"I've come as per your summons, Your Majesty."

"John, Stuart, you're right on time."

"How is he?"

"He's recovering from his wounds, albeit mentally."

Henry then explained the hero's power to the newcomers. It was sickening how a horrifying time in their world's history was compressed into a game of Kings and Generals, a culture shock, and a disheartening conscience where such tragedies that followed became a moment of both sympathy and apathy.

Henry grabbed a quill and paper from his desk and wrote.

"I see you've begun your countermeasures. Pray tell, what does His Majesty plan to do with the hero?"

"What we know of him is that he was once a Student of Government. Whether his intellect on the subject is good or bad, theoretical or empirical, it does not change anything he will bring to the world. I'm only doing my duty as the caretaker of the hero, as were those before me. But with the current state of affairs, I am preoccupied and cannot risk endangering him while he's still in his infancy."

"But we cannot keep his existence hidden forever, brother," the mana spike from the summoning alone would raise suspicion.

"Indeed. The longer we hide it, the bigger the repercussions will be as soon as he's discovered. We need a justification."

"Your Grace, Lord Prime Minister, the hero also suggested the same, though it's not more of a justification, but how we frame the context."

Erich's suggestion impressed Reginald. The two looked intrigued yet cautious.

"And how do we frame his arrival?" John sounded doubtful. Everyone's eyes were on Henry as he finished stamping his letter.

"He is not a hero who shall lead us to salvation with the sword, but a National Hero who will lead us to a new era with the quill and paper."