A Mage Reborn: Legacy of the Fallen Emperor

"The Bratz family, vulgar for nobles."

That was the reputation of the Bratz family within high society. Likely due to their territory bordering the savage lands, a constant source of conflict in the distant past. Though a superficial peace had recently been established, frequent exchanges of… something… were taking place.

"Ian, your table manners are impeccable."

Ian, who had been hurriedly devouring his food, snapped to attention at the old man's praise. Was it sarcasm? Had his hunger driven him to such gluttony? A pang of guilt made him clear his throat, but the old man's compliment was genuine.

"Your son possesses remarkable poise. Surely a testament to Count Derga's excellent tutelage."

"You flatter me, Lord Molin."

Count Derga, head of the Bratz family, was bewildered by the sudden shift in his son's demeanor, yet maintained a composed facade. Glancing at Ian, he replied,

"Regardless, Bratz blood flows through his veins. It's only natural. Please convey my regards to His Majesty."

"Of course, Count."

Their cryptic exchange gave Ian pause. He stopped chewing.

His Majesty? Me?

No, wait. Did he just say Bratz?

Come to think of it…

The hands holding his fork and knife felt small and frail. His perspective from the chair was low. Confused, Ian swallowed his food and reached for his wine glass.

"Ah."

It wasn't wine, but juice. And reflected in the rounded glass wasn't his face, but that of an unfamiliar boy. Ian nearly choked.

"Cough!"

He grabbed a napkin as a boy across the table sneered.

"Tsk, tsk. See? I knew it was too good to be true."

"Chel, you should assist your brother if he makes a mistake."

The boy, Chel, pouted. Countess Mary, under the tablecloth, gripped Chel's hand tightly, silencing him.

This was no ordinary meal.

Lord Molin was an official from the central imperial court, here to assess Ian's suitability for formal adoption into the Bratz family.

Molin offered Chel a benevolent smile before returning his attention to Ian.

"Ian, I hear you've been studying philosophy lately."

Molin's sudden question drew bewildered looks from Count Derga and the Countess.

Ian couldn't even write his own name. The Count's bastard, born from a dalliance with a commoner, he'd received no proper education. Just moments ago, hadn't he been gulping water from the finger bowl?

"He's not quite ready to discuss such matters yet," Count Derga interjected quickly, feigning protectiveness while his gaze sharpened subtly on Ian.

You fool. I drilled you on this.

He'd crammed some knowledge into the boy in preparation for Molin's visit, but the imbecile had apparently forgotten it all. The old man, undeterred, pressed on with a smile.

"Learning is a journey. Knowledge is solidified through the exchange of ideas. Ian, what have you been studying recently? You're sixteen, yet you haven't attended any formal schooling…"

The near-octogenarian was both gentle and firm. He'd spent his life navigating the cutthroat politics of the central administration; such softness was a honed weapon.

The Count could no longer shield Ian. All eyes were on the boy.

"Hmm."

Ian cleared his throat and dabbed his mouth with the napkin. As the Bratz family expected, he was flustered.

Not because of Molin's question, however, but because he recognized the setting: the rear courtyard of the Bratz County estate.

The Bratz estate?

In the body of a boy I've never seen before?

He suspected Naum's spatiotemporal magic was involved, but he couldn't be certain. Spatiotemporal magic opened a pathway between two points in time, inherently bound by location.

Meaning, one had to go there.

But Ian's last memory was of a dungeon. And possessing another's body for travel was unheard of.

"Ian?"

"Ah, my apologies."

At Molin's prompting, Ian instinctively responded with practiced grace, a habit ingrained from his time in the imperial court. A smile that conveyed attentiveness, a subtle acknowledgment of the question's intent. The Count and his family had never seen Ian smile like that.

"Philosophy… philosophy…"

Ian murmured thoughtfully.

"May I answer in his stead, Lord Molin?"

Chel, his half-brother, couldn't contain himself. It was infuriating enough that this outsider was the center of attention at such an important dinner, but the thought of this baseborn whelp being formally adopted into the Bratz family was unbearable.

It was a foolish, childish attempt to steal the adults' attention, easily quelled by Countess Mary's sharp glare.

"Chel, Lord Molin addressed Ian."

Her eyes pleaded silently.

Son, please be quiet. This is all for you. This bastard's adoption is necessary for your survival.

"I'm fond of the teachings of Fülrn."

"Fülrn?"

Amidst the tension, Ian spoke softly, his utensils neatly placed aside, appetite gone.

Count Derga paled. He'd never heard the name. Why not just admit ignorance? Where had the boy picked up such nonsense…?

"Yes. While the Papacy may disapprove, the humanism Fülrn espouses raises crucial questions. By focusing on humanity and the truths we create, we can envision the ideal form of a ruler."

It was purely personal preference. To Ian, philosophy and humanities paled in comparison to the daily struggles of a starving populace. His philosophical studies had been largely perfunctory, so he simply recited the name of a prominent intellectual he remembered.

Count Derga glanced nervously at Molin. The old man paused, seemingly surprised, then leaned closer to Ian.

"How do you know of Lord Fülrn?"

"Excuse me?"

It was Count Derga who answered, not Ian. Molin chuckled, shaking his head.

"My apologies. I foolishly assumed that news travels slowly to the borderlands. I apologize to both Count Derga and Ian."

"No, no, it's quite alright."

Molin realized the Count didn't know Fülrn. Had he known, his bewildered expression would have been replaced with a scowl.

"Lord Fülrn is the youngest son of Viscount Hawkman, having just celebrated his coming-of-age ceremony. Despite his youth, he's a prodigious talent, having entered Variel University as the top student. He recently caused quite a stir in the imperial court by advocating for humanism during a scholarly debate."

The news did travel slowly to the borderlands. It took a full fortnight by carriage to reach Derga County from the capital. None of them, including the Count, knew of Fülrn.

While everyone stared at Ian in astonishment, Ian himself was reeling.

Fülrn just had his coming-of-age ceremony? But he was over a hundred years old!

Not only was he in a foreign body, but he'd apparently traveled back in time nearly a century. It was astonishing, utterly bewildering, yet his outward composure remained impeccable, a testament to his imperial training.

"So, you admire Lord Fülrn's philosophy. But you mentioned the Papacy's disapproval. What did you mean by that?"

"…Humanism posits that nothing is more important than humanity, a view that wouldn't sit well with the God-fearing Papacy."

"Hmm."

A flawless answer.

Molin felt the tension of his fortnight-long journey ease.

"My trip has been worthwhile. I hadn't realized the new son of Count Bratz was so insightful. His Majesty will be pleased."

The legitimization of a bastard wasn't particularly noteworthy among the nobility. These esteemed lords and ladies were hardly immune to indiscretions; their illegitimate offspring were hardly scandalous. It was a common occurrence, a recurring ripple in the otherwise stagnant waters of high society.

But Molin's next words were peculiar.

"And the Cheonryeok Tribe will be pleased as well."

Cheonryeok Tribe?

Ian searched his memory for the familiar name. The Cheonryeok Tribe were the barbarians east of the border. Why would they be pleased with his intellect?

…Then it hit him.

A hostage.

A bastard son offered as a guarantee of peace to the border-dwelling Cheonryeok Tribe.

I see what's happening.

The Count smiled, a predatory glint in his eyes as he placed his hand over Ian's. Knowing the context, the Count's benevolent facade crumbled, revealing the devil beneath.

"Ian, I have no doubt you will become a symbol of peace."

Peace treaties were formal agreements. Traditionally, the rulers exchanged their own children, but the barbarians were fickle, prone to sudden shifts in allegiance.

Indeed, Count Derga's second-eldest brother had died while crossing the border as a child hostage. Officially, it was an accident, but the truth remained shrouded in mystery.

How could he send his only legitimate son, Chel, into such uncertainty? He'd hastily retrieved Ian, the bastard he'd ignored for years, to legitimize him for this very purpose.

The imperial court must be aware of this.

They couldn't just send any random child, hence Molin's presence, to assess Ian's intelligence. A clever hostage provided greater diplomatic leverage, benefiting both sides.

Of course, the Bratz family's autonomy within their territory took precedence, making this a semi-formal process. But it also served as a check on the local nobility by the imperial court.

"Ah."

Ian grasped the situation instantly. Even before his death, the Bratz family had maintained this fragile peace through the exchange of hostages.

A peace that ultimately ended with the Cheonryeok Tribe's brutal annihilation of the Bratz family. The fortnight-long delay in communication with the capital had been disastrous. By the time other lords and the Emperor arrived with their armies, it was too late.

My great-grandfather?

That was Ian's great-grandfather's fate. The Emperor had driven back the Cheonryeok Tribe and divided the conquered territory amongst the nobles and knights who had fought alongside him, concluding the incident.

"Ian?"

Countess Mary called his name, prompting him to respond to the Count. A reminder of his duty, of the role he was expected to play.

Ian smiled faintly and took another sip of water. One thing was certain: he wasn't dead. He'd been reborn, inexplicably, in this boy's body.

"Yes, Father."

Count Derga beamed at Ian's clear reply. Everyone, except Chel, laughed heartily, celebrating the promise of peace Ian's presence represented.

"Now, let's eat."

Derga resumed his meal with a sigh of relief.

Ian surveyed his surroundings, trying to ground himself. The steady thump of his heart was the only tangible proof of his existence.

I don't understand how this happened.

If this was Naum's magic, there was one way to confirm it: visit the imperial villa and search for traces of Naum's handiwork.

But the capital was over a fortnight's journey from Bratz County, a world away for a boy about to be sent to the Great Desert.

Yes, a world away… was.