The smile on Cecilia’s face did not diminish. Her gray-blue eyes watched Morin quietly, as if trying to see through him completely.
“Fritz, you never used to call me that.”
Her voice remained soft, yet it carried an undeniable sense of intimacy that easily dissolved Morin’s awkwardness.
Morin felt his cheeks flush, unsure how to respond for a moment.
Firstly, he did feel a sense of maladjustment after leaving the battlefield.
When his pistol wasn’t hanging at his waist, it was like the feeling of standing on the street and realizing he couldn’t find his phone in his previous life.
Secondly, he was finding himself suddenly… shy.
While Cecilia was undeniably a beauty, his reaction seemed utterly embarrassing.
It was like many people who speak boldly online but, when meeting a cosplayer at a convention for a photo, they don’t know where to put their hands.
He scratched his head, feeling the heat in his cheeks, and stammered an explanation: “N-no, I just didn’t quite process it all at once.”
“Then let’s keep it as before, call me older sister.”
Cecilia’s tone was gentle but held a sense of non-negotiable warmth. She reached out and naturally straightened Morin’s slightly crooked collar.
The cool touch of her fingertips made Morin’s body stiffen. A faint scent of vetiver lingered at his nostrils, exactly the same as the scent in his memories.
“Yes, Big Sister Cecilia.”
Morin replied in a low voice.
This is too embarrassing!
Cecilia’s smile deepened in her eyes as she watched his flustered reaction.
She did not pursue the topic further. Instead, she sighed softly, a trace of complaint in her voice.
“I told General Mackensen long ago that you are the last living member of your family, and you should be transferred to a safe post in the rear.”
“But he didn’t listen to me. Instead, he took you directly to a front-line unit, and right to the Aragon front…”
“Sometimes I truly wonder if he and your grandfather were friends or enemies back then…”
Hearing Cecilia complain about General Mackensen, Morin felt the pressure lessen considerably.
He had finally found a topic he could engage with.
“Big Sister Cecilia, the General was just trying to temper me, and besides…”
Morin paused, deciding to speak well of the old General.
“The battlefield truly is the best place for a soldier to grow.”
“Growth? Growth exchanged with life?”
Cecilia’s voice sharpened slightly.
“Fritz, you have no idea how worried I was when I heard the news of the fierce fighting in Seville. I prayed to God every day, hoping you would be safe.”
A hint of lingering fear in her voice made Morin’s heart clench.
He could feel that this concern was sincere and unadulterated.
As the two talked about the events on the battlefield, Morin found his tightly wound nerves gradually relaxing.
Although he still hesitated to look directly into Cecilia’s eyes, which seemed to see into his soul, he occasionally couldn’t help but steal glances at the stunning beauty before him.
The white dress she wore today was simply styled but featured exquisite lace at the collar and cuffs, perfectly highlighting her fair neck and wrists.
Her honey-and-platinum mixed long hair was meticulously pulled back into a complex and elegant chignon. A few unintentional strands of hair… and other things gently swayed with the movement of the carriage.
Morin frantically searched his memories for how the original owner had interacted with the noblewoman.
The emerging memory fragments indicated that their relationship was indeed closer to that of intimate siblings.
There were no inappropriate scenes.
After he lost his parents in childhood, Cecilia had been the one to look after him.
Furthermore, because his finances were entirely dependent on Cecilia, the former Morin, when facing her, was often eager to please and compliment her… terrified of displeasing her and losing his allowance.
With this thought, Morin secretly breathed a sigh of relief.
Fortunately, this wasn’t some outrageous South Korean movie plot like ‘Mom’s Best Friend.’
As long as he maintained this quasi-familial sibling relationship, nothing should go wrong…
During their conversation, the carriage traversed the city of Zwickau and finally turned onto a secluded, tree-lined path.
Tall oak trees lined both sides of the road. The winter sunlight filtered through the sparse branches, casting dappled shadows on the ground.
After about another fifteen minutes of travel, a manor came into Morin’s view.
The style of the manor was not ostentatious, lacking the typical extravagance of Baroque architecture.
The gray stone exterior walls were covered with withered ivy, giving the entire estate a restrained and antiquated atmosphere.
The carriage passed through the carved wrought-iron gates and slowly came to a halt in front of the main building, along the gravel driveway.
A waiting servant opened the carriage door.
Morin stepped out first, then awkwardly extended his hand, intending to help Cecilia down.
Cecilia looked at his outstretched hand, paused briefly, then smiled and lightly placed her hand on his.
Her hand is very soft. That was Morin’s only thought in that moment.
Morin felt his heart race uncontrollably. Once she had disembarked, he quickly withdrew his hand, pretending to casually straighten his uniform.
“You should get a good night’s rest here first.”
Cecilia said to Morin as she walked up the steps.
“Tomorrow afternoon, we will take the train back to Dresden…”
Entering the manor, Morin realized what ‘understated luxury’ meant.
Just the team of servants waiting at the entrance was sizable: butler, maids, chef, stable boys… all were carrying out their duties efficiently and orderly.
A very capable-looking head maid stepped forward, curtsied to Cecilia, and then assigned a younger maid to take Morin to his room.
“Young Master Morin, please follow me.”
The young maid curtsied slightly, her voice barely a whisper, seemingly nervous in Morin’s presence.
Morin nodded and followed her up the sweeping staircase, which was covered in dark red carpet, and was led to a guest room on the second floor.
The room was large, but the furnishings were not overly complex; yet, every piece of furniture exuded refinement and quality.
In the center of the room was a massive four-poster bed. The dark brown frame was carved with intricate patterns, and the soft feather bedding looked utterly inviting.
This was infinitely more comfortable than the hard wooden plank of a camp bed.
The maid briefly showed Morin the room’s facilities, such as the cord on the wall that could be pulled to summon a servant, and that hot water was ready in the washroom.
Having done that, she curtsied and backed out, quietly closing the door behind her.
Morin did not leave the room the entire afternoon.
He first walked around the room, then went to the window, subconsciously observing the surrounding environment of the manor, assessing the security situation.
This had become an ingrained habit.
After checking and confirming that the manor was sufficiently secluded, surrounded by high walls, and guarded by patrolling security—and thus unlikely to face any immediate danger—he finally relaxed.
He sat on the soft sofa, intending to take a short nap.
But when he closed his eyes, his mind was instantly filled with the bloody scenes of the battlefield.
Gunshots, explosions, the screams of soldiers… they seemed to still echo in his ears.
He abruptly opened his eyes, letting out a long sigh.
“Am I really getting PTSD?”
It seemed that returning from the battlefield to normal life would require an adjustment period.
Morin simply stopped forcing himself to rest. He paced the room, instead pondering the situations he might face next.
It wasn’t until evening that a maid knocked on the door to inform him that dinner was ready downstairs.
In the dining room, the long table was already set with many dishes.
Various kinds of bread, cold cuts and sausage platters, along with several different cheeses and vegetable salads.
Cecilia had changed into a dark blue dress for home wear and was seated at the head of the table, waiting for him.
Morin sat down across from her.
A maid walked up with a silver tray and gently placed a small jar of glistening caviar and a few slices of pink smoked salmon in front of Morin.
“Eat up, Fritz.”
Cecilia smiled, gesturing for him to begin.
“Look at you, you’ve become so thin while in the army.”
Morin looked at the food in front of him but hesitated to start.
During his more than a month in the Kingdom of Aragon, he had grown accustomed to gnawing on hard black bread and quickly satisfying his hunger with thick soup.
Sometimes, a hot bowl of beef stew and potatoes counted as a huge improvement in rations.
He hadn’t seen things like caviar and smoked salmon in a very long time.
“Why aren’t you eating?”
Cecilia asked, curious why he wasn’t picking up his knife and fork.
“You used to love these two dishes the most? Every time you visited me, you’d eat quite a bit…”
“Ah, haha.”
Morin chuckled awkwardly, giving a casual explanation.
“The food in the army was too simple. Seeing so many delicious things now, I feel… somewhat unaccustomed.”
He was telling the truth.
The stark contrast gave him a feeling of unreality.
“Is that so?” A trace of distress flashed in Cecilia’s eyes. “It seems you suffered quite a bit on the front line.”
She did not press further, only saying in a gentle tone: “Then take your time. Start with some bread and salad…”
“Okay.”
Morin picked up his knife and fork, somewhat clumsily cutting a small piece of smoked salmon and putting it in his mouth.
The salty, smooth texture spread across his taste buds, giving him the strange sensation of being in another lifetime.
During the meal, Morin also noticed something different from his previous stereotypes.
In his memory before transmigration, the ‘main meal’ in Western culture was usually dinner.
But in the Saxon Empire, or rather among the European nobility, the most important meal of the day was actually lunch.
Lunch not only featured many courses and complex etiquette, but it also typically required a change into formal attire.
Spending two or three hours on a meal was commonplace. It was the central setting for social gatherings and family meetings.
The reason was simple.
The primary laborers in society, such as farmers and workers, had to toil for long hours during the day. Their lunch was often simple and quick, allowing them to replenish their energy and return to work in the afternoon.
The nobility, who did not engage in manual labor, had plenty of leisure time.
Enjoying a hours-long, multi-course feast at noon was itself a display of status and leisure, a symbol differentiating the classes.
As for dinner, it was relatively simpler and more casual, usually consisting of cold dishes and light meals.
The dinner concluded in a quiet and elegant atmosphere.
Morin and Cecilia chatted briefly in front of the living room fireplace.
Their conversation revolved around Morin’s experiences in military school and on the battlefield, as well as some trivial local news that had happened recently in the homeland.
Morin tried his best to portray his ‘past’ self, recounting stories he retrieved from his memory.
Cecilia listened quietly, her gray-blue eyes fixed on Morin the whole time.
They talked until almost nine in the evening, when Morin, feeling utterly exhausted, excused himself and returned to his room…
The continuous train travel over the past few days had already drained a massive amount of his energy, and the tense state he had developed on the battlefield had not yet fully dissipated.
Returning to his room, he took another hot shower and changed into the silk pajamas the maid had prepared earlier.
The moment he sank into the impossibly soft, large bed, an unprecedented wave of exhaustion swept over him.
Everything was done for him; he had only to ask for it.
No need to worry about the next battle, no need to fear the bullets that could fly at any moment.
This ease, bordering on decadence, made a thought suddenly pop into Morin’s head—
Perhaps, living like this, as a useless layabout, isn’t so bad after all?
He turned over and quickly fell into a deep sleep.
The night passed without incident.
The next morning, the sky was just starting to brighten.
Morin suddenly woke with a start, sitting bolt upright in bed.
His right hand instinctively grabbed the right side of the bed, where he usually kept his pistol.
“Klaus!”
He shouted out of habit.
“Why hasn’t the morning assembly whistle blown yet?”
After shouting, he froze.
What greeted his eyes was not the familiar military tent, nor the ‘Germanic’ face of Klaus.
But carved bedposts and hazy curtains.
The air was filled with the faint scent of incense, not sweat and gunpowder smoke.
Morin looked around. It took several seconds for him to fully realize where he was.
He was no longer on the battlefield in the Kingdom of Aragon, but in the manor in Zwickau.
He gave a self-deprecating smile, checking the clock on the bedside table.
It was just past six o’clock.
In the army, the reveille would have already sounded at this time.
The soldiers of each platoon should be lining up for morning exercises under the direction of their Platoon Leaders.
He lay back down, attempting to go back to sleep.
But he tossed and turned, his mind becoming clearer and clearer, with no trace of sleepiness left.
The biological clock he had developed on the battlefield, like an indelible brand, had profoundly changed his daily habits…
Finding that sleep was impossible, Morin gave up.
He got out of bed and dressed in the First Lieutenant’s service uniform he had worn the day before.
The Saxon Imperial military regulations permitted soldiers to wear their service uniforms while on leave. This was not only convenient but also viewed as a display of military honor.
When Morin opened the door and walked downstairs, the maids cleaning the hall on the first floor all stopped in surprise.
They clearly hadn’t expected the young master to be up so early.
(End of this Chapter)
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