The Bastard of the Bratz Count Family
"The Bratz Count family is vulgar for nobles."
That was the general sentiment floating around high society.
Perhaps it was because, among the countless border counts, the Bratz domain bordered the lands of the barbarians.
In the distant past, the sound of war horns had never ceased, but ever since a surface-level peace had been established, trade and exchanges between the two sides had become increasingly frequent.
"Ian, your table manners are most impressive."
Ian, who had been hurriedly chewing his meat, snapped back to his senses at the old man's praise.
Was that sarcasm? Had he eaten too greedily out of hunger? He cleared his throat nervously—but the old man's compliment was genuine.
"Your son possesses fine grace and bearing. Truly, Count Derga's guidance shows."
"Oh, not at all, Lord Molin."
Count Derga Bratz, head of the Bratz family, was baffled by his son's sudden change in demeanor, though he maintained a polite expression. He glanced briefly at Ian before replying.
"Well, he does have Bratz blood in his veins, after all. I trust you'll speak favorably to His Majesty."
"Of course, Count."
At their cryptic exchange, Ian froze mid-bite.
His Majesty? Are they talking about me?
No, that couldn't be right. Wait—did he just say Bratz?
Come to think of it…
The hand holding the fork and knife was small—thin and bony.
And the perspective from the chair felt unusually low.
Ian swallowed his food and reached for a wine glass.
"Ah."
But it wasn't wine—it was juice.
And reflected in the curved glass was not his own face, but that of a stranger.
Ian almost spat it out.
"Cough!"
As he coughed into his napkin, the boy sitting opposite him clicked his tongue.
"See that? I told you he was pretending."
"Chel. If your younger brother makes a mistake, you should guide him."
Chel's lips jutted out in protest. Countess Mary, seated beside him, squeezed his hand tightly beneath the tablecloth—a silent warning to behave.
This was no ordinary dinner, after all.
Lord Molin was an official dispatched from the Central Imperial Palace, here to assess whether Ian was suitable to be legitimized into the Bratz family registry.
Molin smiled kindly at Chel, then turned his attention back to Ian.
"I hear, young master Ian, that you've recently begun studying philosophy."
Count Derga and the countess both stiffened at the sudden question.
Ian—this body's Ian—couldn't even write his own name.
He was the illegitimate son of Count Derga, born from a commoner the count had taken by force.
He'd never received proper education. Only a few days ago, this boy had reportedly drunk the water from the finger bowl at dinner.
"He's not yet at a level to discuss such matters openly," the count cut in quickly, pretending to defend Ian.
But his sharp eyes betrayed irritation.
You fool. I drilled you on this for hours.
They had crammed lessons into the boy for this very meeting, but apparently the wretch had forgotten everything.
Molin, however, smiled amiably and pressed on.
"Ah, learning always begins that way. Knowledge is forged through the clash of ideas. Young master Ian, what have you been studying lately? You're sixteen, I hear, and haven't attended school."
The old man—nearing eighty—spoke with warmth but authority.
No wonder he'd survived the ruthless bureaucracy of the central administration for decades.
At this point, even Count Derga couldn't intervene further.
All eyes turned to Ian.
"Hmm."
Ian dabbed his mouth with his napkin. As expected, everyone assumed he was flustered.
But that wasn't why his mind was spinning.
He had just realized that this was the rear garden of the Bratz estate, a border noble's manor.
The Bratz estate?
In someone else's body?
He could only guess this was connected to Naum's space-time magic, but he wasn't sure.
That type of spell required fixed points in both time and location—it could only connect to a specific place.
Meaning: you had to physically go there.
But Ian's last memory was the underground dungeon.
He had never heard of a spell that transferred someone into another's body.
"Young master Ian?"
"Ah, forgive me."
Ian's response was smooth and graceful—pure imperial habit.
He listened attentively, smiled to convey sincerity, and spoke with quiet composure.
The entire Bratz household froze, taken aback. None of them had ever seen the boy act like this.
"Philosophy, yes… philosophy…"
Ian murmured thoughtfully.
"If I may answer on his behalf, Lord Molin?"
Chel couldn't hold back any longer.
It was unbearable enough that this bastard from nowhere was the center of attention at the family table—but to be officially adopted into the house?
His blood boiled.
He wanted to draw the room's focus away from Ian, a childish and foolish attempt if ever there was one.
Countess Mary's sharp glance cut him short.
"Chel, Lord Molin addressed Ian."
Her eyes silently pleaded:
Please, my son. Stay quiet. This is for you. If we don't adopt that bastard, you'll be in danger too.
"I like the teachings of Master Pülrn," Ian said suddenly.
"Pülrn?"
Amid the awkward silence, Ian spoke in a calm, even voice.
He had already set his utensils neatly aside, having lost his appetite.
Count Derga's face went pale.
A name he had never heard in his life.
He would have preferred the boy to admit ignorance outright! What kind of nonsense was that supposed to be?
"Yes. The Church may not approve of him, but Master Pülrn's pursuit of humanism raises an important question, doesn't it? When one reflects on what truth humanity itself has created, one can begin to shape the true image of a ruler."
It was, of course, a personal opinion.
For Ian, philosophy and the humanities mattered less than the daily bread of his starving citizens.
His "philosophical studies" had been mostly ceremonial, but he did remember a few well-known scholars' names—and Pülrn happened to come to mind.
Count Derga darted a glance toward Molin.
The old man paused, clearly surprised, then leaned forward in interest.
"How do you know of Lord Pülrn, young man?"
"Eh?"
The one who answered wasn't Ian, but the count—his voice high and nervous.
Molin chuckled softly and waved it off.
"Oh dear. I suppose I've underestimated you frontier nobles, assuming word travels slowly out here. My apologies, Count Derga, and to you as well, young master Ian."
"N–no, not at all."
Molin could tell the count had no idea who Pülrn was.
If he had, that pompous man would have frowned, not looked so utterly bewildered.
"Lord Pülrn," Molin continued, "is the youngest son of Viscount Hawkman, who has just come of age. Despite his youth, he's a prodigy who entered Bariel University as valedictorian. Recently, he caused quite a stir in the capital by presenting his humanist philosophy during an academic debate at the Imperial Palace."
So yes—being on the frontier, news did travel slowly.
It took nearly two full weeks by carriage from the capital to Derga's lands.
No one at the table—not even the count—could have known this.
While everyone stared in astonishment, Ian nearly gaped himself.
Master Pülrn just came of age? The man I knew was over a hundred years old!
So not only was he in another body—he had been sent back in time, nearly a century.
It was a staggering realization, but Ian's expression didn't falter—his imperial composure saw to that.
"Yes. You said you admire Lord Pülrn's philosophy," Molin continued.
"But you also mentioned that the Church disapproves. What did you mean by that?"
"…Because humanism teaches that nothing is greater than humanity itself. Naturally, the Church, which serves the divine, wouldn't take kindly to that view."
"Ha ha…"
Molin chuckled softly, deeply impressed.
Molin felt the fatigue of the two-week journey melt away.
"It was worth coming all this way. I had no idea the Bratz Count's new son was so bright. His Majesty will surely be pleased."
In truth, a noble legitimizing a bastard child was hardly scandalous.
For all their pride and refinement, nobles often failed to restrain their lower desires—bringing home illegitimate children was too common to even stir gossip anymore.
Men and women alike found such incidents a convenient diversion from the monotony of social life.
But Molin's next words were… strange.
"And the Cheonryeo tribe will be pleased as well."
Cheonryeo tribe?
Ian's memory stirred. The Cheonryeo were the barbarian tribes east of the border.
They'll be pleased with my cleverness?
Then—
So I'm to be a hostage, huh?
A bastard sent to the border tribes as the price of maintaining peace.
I get it now.
Count Derga's smile turned wicked as he placed his hand gently over Ian's.
Now that Ian understood the situation, the man's fatherly mask looked no different from that of a devil.
"Ian, my son. I have no doubt you will become the very symbol of peace."
Peace between nations was always written in the language of official treaties.
Normally, each leader would send one of their trueborn children as a token of good faith.
But the barbarian Cheonryeo—volatile as the desert winds—could never be trusted not to turn on them.
Count Derga's own second brother had been sent as such a token in his youth—only to die beyond the border.
They called it an "accident," but no one could ever confirm the truth.
So how could the count possibly send his only legitimate heir, Chel?
Instead, he had hastily dragged home the boy he had long ignored—this bastard Ian—to legitimize and offer in his stead.
The Imperial Palace must have already guessed.
Still, they couldn't just send anyone as a hostage; appearances mattered.
That was why Molin had come—to test whether Ian was intelligent enough to serve as a symbolic deterrent.
The sharper the boy, the greater the diplomatic weight his presence would carry—something that could keep both sides in check.
Of course, in this far-flung frontier, the Bratz family's autonomy would take precedence.
Half of this inspection was mere formality… and the other half, a quiet act of surveillance from the Imperial government.
"Ah."
Ian grasped the whole picture at once.
Even before his death, the Bratz family had repeatedly exchanged hostages with the Cheonryeo to preserve peace.
In the end, the tribe had utterly annihilated them.
By the time word reached the capital—after a two-week delay—it was too late.
When the emperor and allied lords marched with their armies, they found only ashes.
Wasn't that… my great-grandfather's era?
Yes, that tragedy had occurred during his great-grandfather's time.
The emperor had driven the Cheonryeo back and rewarded the nobles and knights who had fought beside him with parcels of the conquered land.
That was how the matter was "settled."
"Ian?"
Countess Mary's voice drew him back.
Her look made it clear: he was supposed to answer the count's declaration—
to reaffirm his awareness of the role he was being given.
Ian smiled faintly and took a sip of water.
Whatever this was, one thing was certain: he wasn't dead.
He had somehow been reborn in another's body.
"Yes, Father."
Count Derga's face brightened, satisfied by Ian's firm, respectful reply.
Everyone at the table laughed and toasted the peace that Ian's existence was supposed to bring—
everyone except Chel, whose expression curdled with resentment.
"Now then, let's eat," said the count, at last relaxing.
Ian watched the scene quietly, letting the clatter of cutlery and the warmth of food remind him that this was real.
The steady thump, thump of his heart echoed within him—
the only proof that he was, indeed, alive.
I still don't know how any of this happened.
If this truly was Naum's space-time magic, there was only one way to confirm it—
he would have to visit the Imperial Palace annex and search for traces of the spell himself.
But from this remote Bratz territory, the capital was more than two weeks away.
And for a boy soon to be sent as a hostage beyond the Great Desert, it might as well have been another world entirely.
Yes… a world forever out of reach.