The autumnal wind howled through the narrow cracks of the windows in Roland's office, a relentless whistle that served as a somber metronome for the passing days. It was a cold, biting reminder that the harvest season was coming to an end and the total isolation of Border Town was no longer a distant threat, but an imminent reality. Inside, the atmosphere was steeped in the smell of old parchment, damp stone, and the faint chemical odor of the new ink Roland had recently ordered.
Arthur sat across from the Prince, his eyes following Roland's quill as it swept across the supply lists. The documents were no longer mere lists of grain and iron; they were a survival plan, a solid line of defense stretching, albeit precariously, against the approaching horizon.
— "Roland, speaking of long-term planning and the literal foundations of this place... when exactly will my house be ready?" — asked Arthur, adjusting the collar of his tunic. He had grown accustomed to the weight of the fabric, having fully embraced his role as a noble strategist, but he still missed the simple comfort of cotton and modern ergonomics. — "Living in the castle's guest wing is functional, don't get me wrong. But I think a 'consultant from the future' deserves a bit more privacy than a room next to the kitchen." —
Roland did not look up immediately. He finished a calculation, let out a sigh — a cloud of white vapor in the cold air — and finally massaged his temples. When he looked at Arthur, his eyes carried the tired honesty of a man who spent his nights dreaming of architectural blueprints and his days arguing with stonemasons.
— "Only after the Months of the Demons, Arthur," — the Prince replied, gesturing vaguely toward the window overlooking the construction of the Great Wall in the distance. — "Right now, every bag of cement and every capable hand is focused on that wall. Karl van Bate is already working on the verge of a nervous breakdown just to ensure the barrier withstands the first wave. Building a luxury residence right now wouldn't just be a distraction; it would be logistical suicide." —
Roland leaned back in his creaking chair. He set down the quill and changed the subject, his expression growing increasingly inquisitive.
— "Since we are talking about the approaching winter... you and William probably have a much clearer idea of what is to come than Iron Axe or Carter ever could. I've heard the legends, but I need the facts. What exactly are we going to face when the snow piles up? What is out there, beyond the wall, besides 'monsters'?" —
Arthur leaned back, crossing his legs. He closed his eyes for a moment, accessing the vast library of "meta-knowledge" he carried from his previous life — the memories of the story they were now living.
— "As Iron Axe probably told you, common demonic beasts are, frankly, lower-level threats," — Arthur explained calmly. — "They are just ordinary animals — wolves, foxes, boars — whose DNA has been corrupted by high magical activity. Their bodies mutate, their blood turns black, and they lose all sense of self-preservation in favor of pure aggression. To the First Army, equipped with the flintlock lances and guns you developed, these creatures are easy targets. They bleed, they die, and they lack the tactical intelligence to do anything but attack blindly." —
He paused, his fingers drumming a rhythm on the wooden desk.
— "And then we have the hybrid beasts. Those are a real problem. Imagine nature's worst ideas merged together — the paws and speed of a wolf with the shell of a turtle, only ridiculously tough like obsidian, or a bear with elongated sickle-shaped claws. They are resilient enough to shrug off volleys of stray arrows and can tear a hole in a wall if they strike it at least four times. But even so, they are biological. A well-placed shot from a repeating rifle or a hail of machine-gun fire will turn them into minced meat. Their true danger isn't their strength, but their exhausting, colossal size. But that is easily solved with a crate of explosive powder." —
Roland nodded, his inner engineer absorbing the data.
— "And the 'why' of it all? Why does the miasma increase during winter? Why does it only affect the fauna during this time?" —
Arthur shrugged, a flash of frustration crossing his face.
— "To be honest, Your Highness, even with my 'privileged access' to information, the root cause remains a mystery. The world is much more complex than the history books suggest. Some things are still hidden, even from me." —
The heavy silence of the medieval office was suffocating. Arthur looked at the pile of papers, then at Roland, and for a moment, he decided to take the initiative to speak with Roland about things only he and William would understand, yearning for a connection to a home that no longer existed.
— "Roland, I don't think there's any problem revealing this at this stage," — Arthur said calmly. — "William and I are from Earth." —
The lamp's flame flickered with a new gust of wind that battered the window. Roland stopped his quill in the middle of a thermodynamics equation and leaned back again, his gray eyes fixed on the worn wood of the desk, but seeing far beyond it. The silence that settled was not tense, but heavy with the gravity of a colossal secret finally shared.
— "Earth..." — Roland whispered, testing the word as if he hadn't spoken it in centuries. He looked up at Arthur, the Prince's expression now stripped of any royal mask. — "All these days, I looked at you and William and tried to fit you into the logic of this world. I wondered if you really were scholars from a neighboring kingdom. But your attitudes often didn't match the reality here. And to think that you are actually from home. From our home." —
Arthur nodded slowly, feeling an unexpected lump in his throat.
— "Yes. And you have no idea what a relief it is to be able to say that out loud. It's been months of pretending to be a 'foreign Count', measuring every word so as not to sound like a madman." —
Roland let out a breath of air that seemed to carry the exhaustion of two lifetimes. He folded his hands over the papers.
— "That explains so much. The way you understand the concepts of an assembly line, the natural revulsion for the feudal structure... and, in William's case, that attitude against the traitors." — Roland frowned, his tone taking on a note of pragmatic concern. — "He's from the same place as you, I presume." —
— "Yes, we are from South America," — Arthur confirmed, the smile fading from his face as he remembered the heated argument in the corridor days ago. — "But the problem is that we came from the same place, yet brought completely different perspectives here. For me, life taught me that technology, logistics, and information win any war. For William..." —
— "He thinks he's inside one of his anime," — Roland finished, the engineer's perceptiveness putting the pieces together quickly. — "An ordinary boy transported to a fantasy world to be the hero. He doesn't see this as a civilization's survival crisis. He sees it as a fun journey." —
— "Exactly," — Arthur said, running a hand through his hair. — "Earlier, he used all the credits he had in the... Well, let's say we have a 'budget' of magical knowledge and abilities. He spent it all to increase his own physical strength. He wants to be the witches' meat shield on the front lines." —
Roland closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose. The headache the stonemasons had given him felt like child's play compared to this information.
— "In a world where hybrid beasts are dozens of meters tall and winter freezes the blood in your veins, he wants to punch his way out. It's brave. Noble, even. But extremely dangerous." —
— "Yes! I tried to warn him, but I couldn't convince him," — Arthur admitted, his voice laden with contained frustration. — "And that's why what we are doing in this room, Roland, is so vital. If William is going to play superhero out there, we have to be the wall of iron and gunpowder that will ensure he, the witches, and everyone else have a place to come back to." —
Roland opened his eyes. The exhaustion was still there, but now there was a new flame, fueled by the solidarity of two travelers trapped on the same shipwreck.
— "Sometimes," — Roland said, dropping his voice an octave with a small, nostalgic smile on his lips, — "I wish we were dealing with the kind of problems I used to see in magazines or the few shows I had time to watch in college. If we had a few guys who knew how to use a Spirit Gun, this wall would be much safer. A single 'Reigun' would clear a path through the entire forest." —
Arthur blinked, an expression of genuine confusion on his face.
— "A Spirit Gun? You mean a magical firearm? It's a great idea for a prototype, but I don't think it's possible, Roland. Maybe after we talk to Anna about high-pressure chambers—" —
— "No, Arthur. I mean the Reigun," — Roland interrupted, his smile growing as he reminisced. — "From Yu Yu Hakusho. You know, Yusuke Urameshi? The delinquent who becomes a Spirit Detective? It was a huge hit when I was younger." —
Arthur stared at him, tilting his head as if trying to translate a dead language.
— "Wait... Yu Yu Hakusho? It's a classic, sure, but it's old. Like, as old as Rurouni Kenshin, Pokémon, and Evangelion... But why that one specifically? I was thinking more along the lines of Naruto. If we had a few Shadow Clones, we'd finish the wall by dinner and still have an army to spare. Or maybe a Devil Fruit from One Piece? Imagine if Anna could turn into actual fire like Ace." —
It was Roland's turn to look confused. He frowned, leaning over the desk with his hand frozen in mid-air.
— "Naruto? One Piece? What is that? Some kind of new Western novel? Is it popular in South America or something?" —
Arthur froze. A strange, cold realization began to dawn on him. He realized he had never asked Roland — or rather, Cheng Yan — when exactly he had lived on Earth. He had always assumed they were from roughly the same era.
— "Roland... Cheng Yan... I need to ask you something. What year did you... you know, what year did you die?" —
Roland leaned back, staring at the ceiling as if trying to recall a distant, hazy dream.
— "It was 1998. Late 1998, to be exact. I was twenty-four years old. I had just started my career as an engineer, working long hours at a design institute. Why? Did something happen to the manga industry after that?" —
Arthur almost choked on his own breath. He felt a strange wave of vertigo, out of place. To him, despite the small difference, there was a chasm between the 90s and the 2000s.
— "1998? My God," — Arthur whispered, letting out a laugh of astonishment. — "You're a bit old. I didn't expect that. Roland, I was born almost a decade after you died. No wonder you don't know Naruto. That anime only got an adaptation in 2002. And One Piece... well, it started just before you left, but only became globally popular in the 2000s." —
Roland's jaw dropped slightly. The silence in the room was absolute for a few seconds.
— "You mean... that you really are from the future? You're not just another person from my time? You grew up with technology I only saw in sci-fi movies?" —
— "Exactly," — Arthur said, smiling at the absurdity of the situation. They were two ghosts from different centuries sitting in a 15th-century castle. — "Because you're from the 90s generation. You missed the entire digital revolution. You missed the best smartphones, high-speed internet, social media, and the golden age of modern animation. For you, high tech probably meant a pager and a bulky desktop computer that took five minutes to boot up." —
Roland let out a dry, self-deprecating laugh.
— "I thought I was being modern because I remembered Dragon Ball Z and Ranma ½. I spent my university days hunched over a drafting table with a mechanical pencil, and my only escape was reading the manga volumes I found in local shops or watching the few hours of TV I could manage. I remember waiting for the next chapter of Yu Yu Hakusho as if it were the most important thing in the world." —
— "That is truly incredible," — Arthur said, shaking his head. — "So, while I'm thinking about high-speed logistics and digital planning, you're still thinking about VHS tapes and dial-up modems. It makes sense now. Your engineering knowledge is so deeply rooted in the principles of the industrial age — steam engines, primitive chemistry, metallurgy — because that was your world. You lived the end of the mechanical era." —
Roland sighed, but there was a spark of newfound connection in his eyes.
— "Well, those 'old' stories helped me keep my sanity. In Dragon Ball, Goku never gave up, no matter how many times he was defeated. He just trained harder. I try to remember that when I feel pressured or when a project fails. And Ranma ½... That cartoon taught me that things aren't always what they seem. A person can change in an instant. A good lesson for someone dealing with people from the Middle Ages." —
— "I suppose so," — Arthur said, leaning back. — "But seriously, when this winter is over, I'm going to have to tell you the story of Naruto — maybe even draw a manga. There's this kid with a demon fox inside him, and he—" —
— "Wait," — Roland interrupted, his eyes gleaming. — "A demon fox? Like a hybrid beast?" —
Arthur let out a genuine, warm laugh that seemed to dispel the room's chill.
— "No, nothing like that. It's much cooler. But you're right, let's stick to what we have. If we can't have a Spirit Gun or Clone Jutsu, we'll have to make sure our First Army deals double the damage. We'll use your 90s grit and my 'futuristic' strategy to ensure this town's survival." —
Roland smiled faintly, picking up his quill once more.
— "The essence of the 90s... I like that. It was a simpler time, Arthur. We didn't have much, but we knew how to build things to last. Now, help me analyze these coal consumption numbers. If we don't optimize the barracks' heating, your 'future' strategy won't make a difference, because the soldiers will be too frozen to pull a trigger." —
Arthur leaned over the map, his mind still buzzing with the realization of the age gap between them. He looked at Roland — at Cheng Yan — and felt a profound respect. That man had been dead for decades in his own timeline, and here he was, using the knowledge of a pre-digital era to propel a civilization forward.
— "You know," — Arthur said softly, — "even without 'futuristic' technology, you're doing pretty well. My generation probably would have panicked without a search engine to tell us how to make gunpowder. You're doing it from memory." —
Roland didn't look up, but his hand slowed its pace as he wrote.
— "When you're an engineer in 1998, Arthur, you learn to trust your books and your brain. There was no 'cloud' to save us back then. You either knew the formula, or the bridge collapsed." —
The two men continued to work late into the night, the silence of the office filled only by the scratching of quills and the occasional mention of a world that was gone — but never forgotten. The Months of the Demons were approaching, but for the first time, the weight of the crown felt a little lighter on Roland's head, knowing he wasn't the only one carrying a different world in his heart.