Venturing deeper into the city's grand avenues, Alphard walked on until he reached its heart — the great Plaza of the Heroes.
At its center stood a monument roughly twelve meters high, four men cast in bronze, frozen mid-battle, and beneath them a plaque bearing each of their names and personal histories.
Struck by the sight, he crossed the road toward the towering plaques, weaving carefully between the passing carriages.
This is fascinating. I wonder what they have to say about the nation's great heroes.
Reading through the plaques, four names emerged, each carrying the weight of the entire nation's history.
Marcus Quinn. Gustave Montreval. Jules Monroe. Victor Eiffel. Heroes of the Nation, and its great liberators.
Their birth and death dates were etched alongside a short account of their achievements, their significance, and a glimpse into each man's personal history — every one of them honored with the same title: The First Rulers.
Alphard already knew something of his great-grandfather's story, and yet he still couldn't quite believe he was related to a man so revered across the entire country — perhaps the entire world.
It's like finding out I'm Napoleon's great-grandson. Or Simón Bolívar's.
As he studied the monument more closely, he noticed Marcus held a long sword extended in his left hand, while a cane rested at his belt — one strikingly similar to the one he now carried.
It didn't take him long to confirm it: the cane was, in fact, the very same. A slow smile spread across his face at the realization that he was holding something far more valuable, far more significant, than he'd first understood.
But just as he lost himself in the thought, an unexpected weight settled between his shoulder blades. A hand — a stranger's hand. The contact sent a cold jolt racing down his spine, raising the hair on his skin and tensing every muscle at once, his heart lurching wildly in his chest.
Turning, bewildered, he found a tall young man with hair worn a bit long, and blue eyes that carried both a vibrant youth and an elegance that could rival anyone of the upper class.
The man smiled, clearly waiting for some reaction from Alphard. But Alphard only felt more lost, caught off guard by the sudden approach.
"Something wrong, Alphard?"
Unsure how to answer, he let the silence stretch a beat too long, long enough that it visibly unsettled the young man waiting on him.
Weighing his options, Alphard decided the safest move was simply to play along. Besides, the man's easy familiarity made it clear enough — this was someone close to him. A friend, maybe, or another relative.
"No, nothing's wrong. You just startled me."
The young man laughed, easy and unbothered, and closed the remaining distance with a relaxed, natural stride before settling in beside him.
"Sorry about that. Can I buy you a coffee?"
Alphard couldn't afford to keep acting so strangely. Careful not to raise further suspicion, he offered a warm smile and nodded, following the man toward a nearby café.
The café was a warm little refuge, wrapped in the low murmur of conversation and the constant clink of cups. Small round tables — sized to make the most of the limited space — bore cold marble tops ringed with polished brass, catching stray glints of lamplight.
Around them sat handwoven wicker chairs in two-tone weave, their light, flexible frames a striking contrast to the rigid stone pillars of the room, carving out perfect little corners for patrons to lean in and trade whispered gossip.
"Come on. Let's sit here."
The young man — Marcel Rossi, as it turned out — led them to a table and caught the eye of a passing garçon, a waiter dressed in a white shirt and black vest, a bow tie at his collar, and the unmistakable long white apron that marked him for the job.
Sitting up straight, Marcel raised a single finger, and the garçon crossed to their table with brisk, practiced steps.
Pulling out a small notepad and pencil, he asked, with easy courtesy, what they'd like.
"What would you like to drink? Or something to eat, perhaps?"
Alphard, still faintly embarrassed by the whole situation, would never have imagined receiving an invitation from someone who'd actually known the real Alphard. Careful not to raise any doubt, he kept his composure and answered without a flicker of hesitation.
"Just coffee. This place smells so strongly of it, I couldn't say no."
Marcel smiled and ordered the same.
As the waiter went to fetch their order, Marcel watched Alphard unfold his newspaper and settle back into his chair. Something about it struck him as off, and, falling into the same easy rhythm he always shared with the real Alphard, he started up conversation.
"So how've things been since university? Found work yet?"
The question confirmed it — this was, without doubt, someone close to him — and Alphard answered without missing a beat.
"Actually, I've been looking. It's been rough going. No school will take me on as a teacher, not yet anyway."
Confident in his answer, Alphard watched Marcel's expression shift into something stiffer; his eyebrows rose by a fraction as his eyes searched the moment, clearly caught off guard by what he'd just heard.
"A teacher? I always figured university was just your first step into politics — like your great-grandfather."
The weight of his own mistake crashed over him like ice water, freezing him in place for a heartbeat. Fighting down the sudden vertigo of the misstep, he forced his racing mind to steady itself, fixing Marcel with a sharp, searching look, scanning every twitch of his expression for some inconsistency, some loose thread he could pull to fix the error before it spiraled into something he couldn't undo.
"Right, but it's been more complicated than I expected. The same logic applies to teaching, really — better to start small, with a school, before trying to reach the masses. I'm not quite as bold as my great-grandfather."
Alphard delivered the line as though it were a decision he'd settled on days ago, and it came out sounding believable enough — and it wasn't even entirely a lie. A degree spanning economics, social sciences, and languages opened doors well beyond politics.
Marcel didn't dwell on it long, nodding along and, without realizing it, accepting the story whole.
"I suppose that's fair. Besides, your great-grandfather's known as 'The Absent Father,' so the family name, respected as it is, still carries a bit of a stain."
"That's true," Alphard answered simply.
He'd read something similar in the diary — the story told to Alphard as a child about his great-grandfather, and the scar it had left on the family. Without meaning to, his expression dimmed, a quiet worry surfacing for Helena and Alexi.
I imagine they've had it harder than I realized.
Marcel, catching a glimpse of the newspaper his friend was holding, didn't hesitate to share the latest news.
"Did you hear the government's launching a development campaign to fund some project to replace carriages with these things they're calling 'automobiles'? They say they're much more efficient."
Hearing this, Alphard had to fight back a laugh at Marcel's excitement. Having lived among far more advanced cars, and having built a stable life back in Japan, there was something almost charming about watching someone marvel at what he remembered as the earliest, clumsiest cars of his own world.
Still, he didn't judge — if anything, he saw it as genuine progress for this world, and, in its own strange way, a small thread connecting him back to the one he'd left behind.
"That's wonderful — the horses could finally run free across the countryside, without all that strain on them."
"You're right about that. By the way — that newspaper you're holding is a month old."
Embarrassed, Alphard folded the paper carefully and tucked it away in his coat, glancing around the room for something else to focus on.