The silence of the recovery room was heavier than the noise of the mine.
I lay in a bed with crisp white sheets. The windows were open. I could hear birds singing in the gardens of Schönbrunn Palace.
No hissing oxygen. No grinding servos. No metal weight crushing my chest.
I lifted my hand. It was pale, thin, and covered in liver spots. But it was flesh.
I flexed my fingers. I could feel the texture of the linen sheet.
"You're awake," a voice said.
I turned my head.
A doctor stood there. An old man with wire-rimmed spectacles and a powdered wig. A real 18th-century physician.
"How?" I whispered. My voice was a dry croak, but it was mine. No modulator.
"A miracle," the doctor said, shaking his head. "Or a paradox."
He picked up a chart.
"Your lungs... the infection is gone. The necrosis has halted. It seems the... exposure... in the mine cauterized the tissue. Like burning a wound to stop the rot."
I closed my eyes.
Radiation therapy. I had accidentally nuked my own cancer.
"And the heart?" I asked.
"Weak," he admitted. "You are not a young man, Citizen Miller. You have the heart of an eighty-year-old. But it beats."
The door opened.
Napoleon walked in.
He wasn't wearing armor. He wasn't carrying a pneumatic rifle. He wore the simple green uniform of a General of the Republic. His hand was tucked into his waistcoat.
He looked normal. He looked like history.
"The suit?" I asked.
"Scrapped," Napoleon said. "We melted it down. The brass, the steel. It's gone."
He pulled a chair up to the bed.
"The Hunters died within hours of the mine collapse," Napoleon said softly. "Whatever serum Cagliostro gave them... it required a constant supply. They just... stopped."
"And the rifles?"
"Out of air," he shrugged. "We can't refill the tanks. They are just clubs now."
I let out a long breath.
The tech was gone. The magic was gone.
"We are back in the timeline," I whispered.
"We have a meeting," Napoleon said, standing up. "The Austrians are waiting. They are terrified of you. They think you are still the Demon in the Brass Shell."
"Good," I said. "Fear is leverage."
"Can you walk?"
I swung my legs out of bed. I stood up. My knees shook, but they held.
"Get me a wheelchair," I said. "Let them see the frailty. It makes the fear more confusing."
The Great Hall of the palace was a sea of gold leaf and crystal chandeliers.
Delegates from every major power in Europe were seated at the long table. Austria, Prussia, Russia, Britain.
They stopped talking when the doors opened.
Charles pushed my wheelchair into the room.
He wore a suit of dark blue velvet. No blood. No soot. He looked like a Prince.
I sat in the chair, wrapped in a blanket. I looked small. Harmless.
But as I rolled past the Austrian delegation, I saw them flinch. They remembered the rumors. The metal giant. The green fire.
We stopped at the head of the table.
Count Cobenzl, the Austrian diplomat, cleared his throat.
"We are here to discuss terms," Cobenzl said, his voice trembling slightly. "The... cessation of hostilities."
"Surrender," Napoleon corrected, standing behind my chair.
"An armistice!" Cobenzl protested. "Austria is not defeated!"
I raised my hand. Silence fell instantly.
"Count," I said softly.
They leaned in to hear me.
"I am tired," I said. "I have spent the last month breathing fire and eating lightning. I want to go home."
I looked at the map on the table.
"France keeps the Rhine," I said. "We keep Belgium. You recognize the Sister Republics in Italy."
"That is impossible!" the Prussian delegate shouted. "You ask for half of Europe!"
I looked at him. I didn't shout. I didn't use a voice modulator.
I just stared.
"Do you want me to put the suit back on?" I asked.
The Prussian turned pale. He sat down.
"Sign the treaty," Charles said. His voice was cold, precise. "Or we reopen the mine."
It was a lie. The mine was buried. The tech was gone. But they didn't know that.
They signed.
The Treaty of Campo Formio.
The scratching of quills on parchment was the only sound in the room.
It was over. The Wars of the Coalition were paused.
Charles wheeled me out onto the balcony.
We looked over Vienna. The sun was setting, painting the city in gold.
"You liquidated the fantasy assets," Charles whispered.
"They were toxic," I said. "High yield, but too much volatility. We needed stability."
"Now we manage the real estate," Charles said.
I looked at him. The Wolf Cub. He had grown up in the shadow of monsters. Now he was ready to be a King.
"We go back to Paris," I said.
"To do what?"
"To govern," I said. "To build roads. To fix the tax code. To argue with bankers."
I smiled.
"Boring," Charles said.
"Safe," I corrected.
Weeks later. The Tuileries Palace, Paris.
My office was exactly as I had left it. The ledgers were stacked on the desk. The telegraph machine sat in the corner.
It clicked.
Click-clack-click.
Just Morse code. No voices from the future. No ghosts.
I sat in my leather chair. It felt comfortable. Human.
Fouché walked in. He placed a stack of files on the desk.
"Report from the Bourse," Fouché said. "The Franc Germinal is stable. Inflation is down to 3%."
"Good," I said, picking up a quill. A normal goose feather.
"However," Fouché said, "we have a new problem."
"A wizard?" I asked, not looking up.
"A banker," Fouché said. "James Rothschild. He is shorting our bonds. He thinks the peace won't last."
I stopped writing.
I looked up.
A smile spread across my face. A genuine smile.
"A banker," I said. "Shorting my bonds."
"Yes, Administrator."
"Finally," I said. "A real enemy."
I stood up. I didn't need the cane.
I walked to the window. Paris lay before me. Real. Gritty. Alive.
The sci-fi was over. The historical drama was beginning.
"Get the ledgers, Joseph," I said. "And send for the King."
The door opened. Charles walked in. He held a stack of financial reports.
"Ready to run a country, son?" I asked.
Charles slammed the reports onto the desk. He grinned.
"Ready to audit the world."