Young Master's Regression Manual

There were certain aspects of the USSR that Julius couldn't quite grasp.

One of them was undoubtedly Soviet fashion. The difference from German style was so stark that he eventually gave up trying to blend in. When he wasn't in his formal researcher attire, he simply dressed plainly.

Anything more felt like it risked looking too flashy, too ridiculous, or worse, too suspicious.

They walked through the shopping mall's department center. Julius scanned each aisle with the same analytical eye he used in the lab.

He had asked Sergei to accompany him because, according to his own words, his fashion sense was nonexistent. Of course, that wasn't exactly true. Back in Germany, he was the trendsetter.

Just recently, his style had become the standard for half of Berlin's upper-class men. But here, in Moscow, none of that mattered.

Sergei picked up a long grey trench coat and slapped it against Julius's chest.

"Try this. You'll look like one of those stoic Soviet detectives that appears in every propaganda drama."

"Is that a compliment?"

"It is if you want to impress her father."

Julius sighed, but before he could respond, Sergei continued.

"You know, things are moving way too fast," he said. "First you take her to a motel—"

"Nothing happened."

"Sure, sure." Sergei waved a hand dismissively. "And now you're about to meet her father. Ah, damn you, Dimitri. I'm so jealous."

He groaned dramatically, making a show of leaning on a rack of sweaters.

"At this rate, I hope you make me the child's godfather."

"There is no child, idiot."

Sergei raised a single, smug brow. "Not yet."

Julius shook his head. "What nonsense."

Sergei only grinned wider, clearly pleased with himself. He tugged Julius by the sleeve toward another rack and shoved a dark, woolen coat into his arms.

"Alright, enough romantic denial. Go try this on."

"This looks horrible," Julius said.

"You haven't even put it on yet."

"I can already tell."

"Dimitri," Sergei groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose like a disappointed parent, "your taste is exactly why we're here. Now go to the fitting room before I scream."

Julius gave him a look but took the coat anyway. He stepped inside the changing booth and closed the curtain behind him. A moment later, Sergei heard his voice from inside.

"Are you sure about this? The material is stiff. And the cut, who designed this?"

"It's Soviet chic!"

"It's atrocious."

"That's the point!"

Julius exhaled a sigh, then stepped out of the booth wearing the coat. He stood with a posture that was far too dignified for a man wearing such a mundane thing. Sergei's eyes widened.

"...Huh."

"What?" Julius asked.

"You actually… look good."

"You sound surprised."

"I am." Sergei circled him once, nodding like an art critic evaluating a sculpture. "It's simple and depressingly plain. It's perfect."

Julius frowned. "How is that a compliment?"

"Because you're meeting the father of a woman who likes you. The last thing you want is to show up looking richer, smarter, and more handsome than him. You need to look humble."

Julius raised an unimpressed brow. "So your suggestion is that I intentionally appear mediocre?"

"Yes. And this coat screams, 'I am a harmless academic who has never broken a law in my life.' It's excellent camouflage."

Julius looked down at himself. "It still looks terrible."

Sergei clapped him on the back. "Then it's perfect."

Julius sighed. "Fine. I'll take it."

"That's my boy."

Julius paid for the outfit, and the two stepped into the cold Soviet afternoon.

Sergei glanced at him with a nostalgic grin. "Ah, takes me back to when we first met. Back then, your ass was getting rejection after rejection applying for professorships. Who would've thought that three months later, you'd be working under Professor Artyomov himself?"

Julius adjusted the collar of his new coat. "Circumstances changed."

"Circumstances my foot," Sergei muttered. "Half the department thought you were running from debt collectors with the way you pushed applications everywhere. And the other half was convinced you were some kind of government plant because you worked like a machine."

"They still do."

"True," Sergei smirked and jabbed him lightly with an elbow. "And now you're about to meet the Professor Artyomov. Do you have any idea how many researchers have cried trying to get his attention? You skip the entire line because his daughter won't shut up about you."

"I didn't ask her to."

"I know. That's the best part."

They continued walking. Sergei shoved his hands into his pockets, glancing at Julius.

"You nervous?"

"No."

"Liar."

* * *

Four months ago.

The day Julius arrived in the USSR, nothing resembled a smooth transition.

The moment he stepped off the aircraft, immigration officers demanded every document he possessed.

They scanned, re-scanned, and cross-verified his identity with a scrutiny while showing clear hostility. After that, he was escorted to a government-monitored hotel room and kept under observation for an entire week.

The most difficult hurdle had been bypassing their holo-tech identity protocols. Because Julius Sebastian Schneider was a recognized figure in Germany, it was almost guaranteed that the USSR intelligence networks would have records of his face.

Any hint that a Schneider had entered Soviet territory would cause alarms to go off across multiple departments.

That was why Julius couldn't rely on a simple disguise. He needed to appear, down to the bone structure, skin texture, and retinal pattern, like a native of the Soviet Union. And the only way to escape holo-tech detection was to mislead the scanners before he even reached their gates.

That was why Julius couldn't rely on a simple disguise. He needed to appear, down to the bone structure, skin texture, and retinal pattern, like a true native of the Soviet Union. And the only way to slip past holo-tech detection was to mislead the scanners long before he even reached Soviet borders.

Direct entry from Germany was impossible. Any flight originating from Berlin, Munich, or Hamburg would automatically trigger multiple layers of scrutiny.

Even the act of a German entering the USSR required heavy screening, but a Schneider entering would sound alarms from Moscow to St. Petersburg.

So Julius chose the only viable route.

He flew first from Germany to the Republic of Kazakhstan.

In 2149, Kazakhstan was one of the USSR's strongest economic and political partners. The two shared open border agreements, intelligence cooperation, and a joint aerospace program.

German citizens could enter Kazakhstan without immediate suspicion, especially if traveling under a fabricated identity unrelated to any political ties.

Julius boarded that flight as Anders Koch, an engineer from Stuttgart. The identity was shallow but just enough for short-term travel.

The holo-lens over his eye emitted a subtle distortion that matched the face on the fake passport. He kept to himself, avoided drawing attention, and entered Kazakhstan without incident.

The moment he arrived, Anders Koch ceased to exist, and Dimitri Ilya Mikhailov was born.

He discarded the German clothes, put on a Soviet-style winter jacket he had smuggled in his luggage, and walked out of the hotel as if he had always been this man.

From Kazakhstan, he boarded a connecting flight into the USSR under his new identity.

According to the state records, Dimitri Ilya Mikhailov was a pure-bred Soviet Russian who had spent the last two years completing his master's degree at a university in Almaty.

His file showed a clear story. Orphaned at fourteen, raised in a state dormitory, survived on academic grants, and transferred to Kazakhstan only because he had failed to secure full funding in Moscow.

Everything about him looked ordinary. More importantly, if anyone attempted to cross-check his background with the Kazakh university, they would find real records and even a real thesis submission under his name.

It was a perfect identity. Because it wasn't just fabricated on paper, but had been built.

Before Julius even set foot in Kazakhstan, agents under the Revenant Knights had planted a complete academic history for him.

The university's registrar database showed Dimitri enrolling two years prior, taking up applied physics and informatics.

There were attendance logs, exam sheets, advisor comments, and even a digital trail of late-night library check-ins. His name appeared in a group project. His student ID could be scanned. His photo, as Dimitri, was issued in the university's internal system.

The reason it worked was simple.

The Knights infiltrated from the professors' side, not the students'.

They had fabricated a memory of a faculty member who supposedly interacted with him. Someone, somewhere, would vaguely recall a quiet young man who submitted work through the online portal.

Someone else would remember signing a form with his name on it. Someone in administration would check his file and find everything in order.

Every loose end had been tied before Julius ever adopted the name.

Because the most dangerous part of undercover work wasn't the disguise.

It was making the world believe you had always been there.

By the time the operation concluded, the total cost had surpassed €6,000,000, poured into securing Dimitri's academic history, falsifying state records, bribing the right administrators, fabricating digital archives, and rerouting surveillance logs across two countries.

It was an obscene amount of money for a single identity.

But for Julius, it was worth every euro.

When Julius checked his phone for the last time, a single unread message was displayed at the top of the screen.

[Don't cause trouble.]

For a moment, Julius simply stared. Of all the people he expected to hear from, this man was near the bottom of the list, and he couldn't help but be flabbergasted at the sight.

"...Father."

Johannes Sievernich Schneider.

There was no one else who could have sent that message with such short phrasing yet such heavy implication.

It meant that his father had discovered his movements, traced the absurd money transfers, and pieced together what Julius was attempting.

Johannes was a man who never interfered unless absolutely necessary. For him to send even this single line meant he had already pulled the strings to ensure Julius wasn't immediately exposed and arrested the moment he touched Soviet soil.

Julius put the phone back into his pocket and continued walking down the cold Kazakh terminal toward his departure gate.

The message remained in his mind. His father had chosen not to stop him.

"Trouble, huh…"

Even now, even from across borders, Johannes Sievernich Schneider was still placing him exactly where he wanted him like a chess piece.