"Diiingggg! Dingggg-!!!"
The funeral bells of House Maxmilian echoed across the granite courtyards of Thornwick Manor, their mournful voices carrying more relief than grief. Friedrich pressed his face to the frost-etched window of his attic chamber, watching the procession below with hollow eyes.
His mother's coffin—or at least this body's mother's coffin—was made of plain oak, befitting her newly diminished status, disappearing into the family graveyard like a secret being buried.
Three days. Three days since Viscountess Elara Maxmilian had "succumbed to winter fever," and already the household moved as if she had never existed.
'How can they be so heartless?' Being a modern man transmigrated into this world, he simply couldn't digest the fact that a person could be discarded so easily, without reason or consequence.
Friedrich's reflection stared back from the glass—pale, sharp-featured, with the Maxmilian silver eyes that marked him as undeniably his father's blood. At nineteen, he possessed the lean build of someone who had grown tall on sparse meals and bitter lessons.
His dark hair, cropped short in military fashion, framed a face that had learned early to hide its thoughts.
A sharp knock interrupted his thoughts. "Master Friedrich," came the clipped voice of the butler. From his inherited memories, Friedrich recognized the old man's name—Hawick. "Your father requests your immediate presence in the study."
'Requests. What a farce—as if refusal were possible.'
He grumbled as he left his attic chamber.
Friedrich descended the narrow servants' stair—his usual route since childhood, when his legitimacy had been... negotiable. The manor's main halls buzzed with activity. Servants packed trunks, rolled maps, and the hot topic to whisper was the Imperial Decree that had arrived by armoured courier that morning.
The Drakmoor Empire's northern expansion mandate: noble houses were commanded to send heirs to claim and civilize the frozen territories beyond the Grimwall Mountains. Glory, land grants, and imperial favour awaited those brave enough to tame the howling wilderness.
Death awaited most others.
Viscount Molotov Maxmilian stood behind his jet-black desk, like a general surveying a battlefield. At fifty-two, he remained imposing—broad-shouldered, steel-bearded, with the bearing of a man who had earned his title through military service rather than birth. Maps of the northern territories covered his desk, marked with red ink and coffee stains.
"Ah, Friedrich." His father's voice carried the warm cadence reserved for public occasions. "Please, sit."
Friedrich remained standing, studying the man before him. He looked exactly like the European aristocrats Friedrich had read about in his history classes back on Earth.
His father didn't insist or seem to care. Without waiting, Molotov gestured to the maps. "The Empire's northern decree presents a magnificent opportunity for our family to expand its influence." He traced a finger along the marked territories. "I had originally intended to send your brother Heinrich, but..." The pause stretched deliberately. "Recent events have altered our circumstances."
Recent events.
The poison that had taken his mother—administered by the family physician on Molotov 's orders, Friedrich was certain. The same poison had been fed to this body's original owner, but when Friedrich died, his soul had been replaced. With Elara Maxmilian dead, her son's legitimacy died with her.
No proof of the secret marriage ceremony. No witness to the vows. Friedrich suspected Viscount Molotov simply wanted to eliminate the troublesome bastard. Since the winter fever had failed, sending him north under the guise of an expedition would provide the perfect opportunity.
"The northern territories require... expendable leadership," Molotov continued, his tone never wavering from paternal warmth. "Young blood willing to take risks. To sacrifice for family honour."
Friedrich 's jaw tightened. "Expendable."
"Pragmatic." Molotov lifted a leather portfolio from his desk. "Your assignment: Sector Seven of the Nordmark Territory. Approximately two hundred square miles of tundra, forest, and ruins. Intelligence suggests minimal barbarian presence, adequate water sources, and potential mineral wealth."
He extended the documents. "Congratulations, son. You're going to be a pioneer. A young baron."
The papers felt heavy in Friedrich 's hands—travel permits, territorial grants, military commissions. All bearing the Maxmilian seal and his father's signature.
The final page made his stomach lurch: a death certificate for "Friedrich Maxmilian, bastard-born, died of northern exposure."
Pre-signed, pre-dated. An insurance policy ensuring that even if he died, no questions would be asked—not that anyone would worry about him in the first place.
Friedrich 's voice emerged steadier than he felt. "When do I leave?" Rather than remaining trapped in the manor, he actually wanted to venture out.
Instead of waiting to be assassinated within these walls, he would rather face death by cold in the wilderness.
"Tomorrow at dawn. The Ironhawk Regiment departs for Fort Grimwall, where you'll receive your colonial supplies and skeleton garrison." Molotov moved to his liquor cabinet, pouring himself a brandy. "Twenty men, basic provisions, and whatever you can salvage from the ruins of the last expedition."
The last expedition.
Friedrich recalled the memories—Lord Pemberton's heir, declared missing after his supply lines were cut by wolves. Or bandits. Or worse things that haunted the northern wastes.
"Any questions?" Molotov raised his glass in mock toast.
A thousand questions swirled in Friedrich 's mind. Why not simply arrange an accident? Why the elaborate charade of territorial assignment? But he knew better than to voice them.
"None, sir."
"Excellent." Molotov 's smile never reached his eyes. "Oh, and Friedrich? Don't disappoint the family name. What remains of it."
The dismissal stung with surgical precision. Friedrich bowed curtly and withdrew, the territorial documents clutched against his chest like armour.
In the corridor outside, he nearly collided with his half-brother Heinrich—legitimate heir, military academy graduate, and everything Friedrich could never be. At twenty-one, Heinrich possessed their father's commanding presence and his mother's golden hair. His officer's uniform was immaculate, his confidence unshakeable.
"My condolences about your mother," Heinrich said, his smile cold as winter steel. "She was always... fond of lost causes."
"Thank you." Friedrich stepped aside to pass, but Heinrich blocked his path.
"In such a hurry to play soldier in the frozen wastes?" Heinrich examined his fingernails with indifference. "Father's finally found the perfect use for his spare heir—somewhere appropriately remote."
"Move aside, Heinrich. I don't have time to waste on you."
"The locals call that posting the Widow-Maker." Heinrich's grin widened like a predator scenting blood. "Supply convoys vanish, officers disappear, barbarians leave heads on stakes. Charming place for a grieving brother to find himself."
He pulled out a tarnished compass and tossed it at Friedrich. "This belonged to the last commander. They found him frozen to his own flagpole. I wonder if you'll still have it when we retrieve your corpse—though Father probably won't even bother searching for your body!"
Friedrich caught the compass, jaw tight. "Father chose me because—"
"Because you're expendable." Heinrich's voice turned silky with malice. "Your mother's death was convenient timing. If you happen to join the mysteriously deceased..." He shrugged eloquently. "These things happen in the frontier."
"When I return—"
"When? HAHAUHAHH!" Heinrich laughed, the sound echoing off the marble walls. "Oh, Friedrich. This isn't a posting—it's an execution with extra steps. I've got money on you lasting until first frost."
Before Friedrich could respond, Heinrich sauntered away, whistling a funeral dirge, his boots clicking mockingly against the marble.
'When I return, I'm going to take that head of yours and feed it to the pigs,' Friedrich thought venomously, then started in surprise. This was his first meeting with Heinrich, yet his hatred burned sky-high.
'It seems I still have to bear the emotions of this mind and body.' He patted his chest softly. "Don't worry," he whispered to the original soul. "I'll fulfil your wish of killing this bastard."
That night, Friedrich packed his meagre belongings by gaslight. Books—mostly military treatises and geographic surveys. Clothing appropriate for arctic conditions. A ceremonial sword he'd never been properly trained to use. Letters from his mother, their pages yellowed with age and tears.
And finally, a shotgun—the only worthy possession he'd inherited from the previous owner of this body. 'It appears to be from the early World War era.'
The weapon was nothing like modern firearms. It had to be refilled with gunpowder after every shot. Though the world seemed to be transitioning from cold weapons to firearms, with an ongoing industrial revolution, Friedrich felt his fate was already sealed. At least it would be nice to have a system like in those novels I used to read.
As midnight approached, exhaustion finally claimed him. He fell asleep fully clothed; the territorial documents spread across his narrow bed like funeral shrouds.
He awoke to something impossible.
Floating before his eyes, written in luminous script against the darkness, were words that defied explanation,
[Daily Intelligence System Activated]
[Northern Frontier Territorial Assignment Detected]
[Information Synchronization Complete]
[Daily Report Available]
Friedrich jerked upright, heart hammering against his ribs. The glowing text remained, hovering in his vision like ink on black water. He blinked hard, rubbed his eyes, even struck himself across the cheek.
The letters persisted, pulsing gently in the darkness.
[Intelligence Summary - Day 1]
[Viscount Molotov Maxmilian has arranged for supply line "accidents" to occur within first month of expedition]
[Fort Grimwall quartermaster has been bribed to provide substandard provisions]
[Barbarian wolf-riders conducting reconnaissance of southern approach routes - 47 warriors confirmed]
[Ancient burial mound at coordinates 52.7N, 18.3W contains pre-imperial artifacts of significant value]
[Next report available at dawn]
The text faded like morning mist, leaving Friedrich alone in the darkness with his thundering pulse and a thousand impossible questions. Hallucination brought on by stress. Divine vision? Some kind of military magic he'd never heard of.
"No! This is my system! I have a system too!"
As dawn approached and the estate awakened around him, one certainty crystallized in his mind like ice forming on glass: expendable or not, bastard or not, he would not die forgotten in the northern wastes.