Chapter 10: The Calm Before the Crimson Tide
The solar was silent, save for the crackle of the hearth and the rhythmic scratching of a quill. Julian lay with his head pillowed on Mathilde's lap, the scent of lavender and expensive parchment acting as a potent sedative. He wasn't actually asleep—not anymore—but he was a gamer, and in any simulation, you didn't leave a "Restoration Zone" until your HP was at 100%.
Mathilde's hand moved through his hair, her fingers tracing the line of his scalp with a tenderness that didn't match her sharp political reputation. She thought he was dead to the world, exhausted by the weight of the Merania ledgers. Slowly, she pulled a wool blanket over his chest, her touch lingering on his shoulder.
[System Notification: Favorability Check.]
[Current Affection: 58/100 (Attachment - Peak).]
[Sarcastic Commentary: Look at you, exploiting a widow's maternal—or perhaps not-so-maternal—instincts. Your shamelessness is truly your highest stat.]
Julian felt a surge of boldness. If he was going to be a "Young Master," he might as well commit to the role. Moving with the calculated clumsiness of a sleep-walker, he shifted, wrapping his arms around Mathilde's waist and burying his face against her stomach.
The quill stopped mid-stroke. Julian felt her entire body go rigid. The air in the room seemed to drop five degrees as her composure, usually an impenetrable fortress, suffered its first major breach.
[Affection Spike: Mathilde +3 (Total: 61/100)]
[Status Update: Threshold Crossed. Attachment → Proto-Possession.]
"Julian?" she whispered, her voice breathless.
He didn't move. He let out a soft, rhythmic snore, mumbling something incoherent about "tax exemptions" and "more sugar-buns." It was a masterpiece of acting. He felt her hand hover over his head, hesitating, before it returned to his hair, her strokes faster now, less rhythmic. She was flustered. The "Widow of Aarenfels" was actually blushing.
But the victory was short-lived. Mathilde wasn't a Duke's daughter for nothing. After a few minutes, she reached down and firmly pinched his earlobe.
"You're awake, aren't you? You naughty, opportunistic little bird," she said, her voice regaining its teasing edge, though a hint of crimson still stained her cheeks.
Julian sat up, rubbing his ear and grinning sheepishly. "I was... meditating, Aunt. Deeply. On the future of the house."
"You were monopolizing my lap and drooling on my silk," she countered, pointing toward the desk. "Now, since you have so much energy for 'meditation,' do the work. Or perhaps I should write to your mother, Elspeth, and suggest we arrange a political marriage? I hear the daughter of the Count of Mansfeld is looking for a husband. She's... substantial. Very sturdy. She'd produce heirs that could double as siege engines."
"Aunt, no! Please! I'm too young for siege-engine children!" Julian cried, genuinely horrified.
[System Notification: Warning.]
[Mockery: Overexerting your 'liberties' may lead to a 'Death by Snu-Snu' political marriage. I suggest you go coax her before she actually picks up the pen.]
Julian spent the next ten minutes in a desperate retreat, praising Mathilde's beauty, her wisdom, and her "absolute necessity to his survival."
"Flattery won't pay the Fuggers, Julian," she sighed, finally forgiving him with a dismissive wave of her hand. "But it's a start. Go. Train. If you're going to lead, you need to be more than a pretty face with a talent for napping."
The Cost of Power
Julian retreated to the manor's private courtyard. The air was crisp, the smell of damp earth reminding him of the work he had ordered for the wells. He sat on a stone bench and closed his eyes, drawing mana into his core.
In this world, magic wasn't free. It was a biological tax. He focused on the Water Affinity, feeling the mana flow like a cold current through his veins. He didn't just conjure a sphere; he tried to circulate it, making the mana "flow" through his limbs to reinforce his stamina.
For an hour, he held the focus. His skin grew pale, and a thin line of blood trickled from his nose as the mana began to chafe against his unconditioned pathways.
[System Notification: Training Complete.]
[Observation: You survived for 60 consecutive minutes without passing out. For a 'Mob' with your level of mana-poverty, that is a record. I am... marginally impressed.]
"Shut... up..." Julian gasped, wiping the blood away. His limbs felt like lead, a dull ache thrumming in his bones. This was the reality of the HRE—power was bought with pain.
He didn't rest. He couldn't. He spent the afternoon meeting with the 12 Old Knights of Merania. Sir Gawan and the others stood in the dusty courtyard, their mismatched armor reflecting the setting sun.
"I don't need an elite guard yet," Julian told them, his voice firm despite his fatigue. "I need a standard. I want the 150 militia trained into a professional unit. Discipline over flair. We will sacrifice what we must—the house will fund equipment, better spears, and gambesons as soon as the grain is sold."
Gawan looked at the boy who had just survived an hour of mana-exhaustion. "It shall be done, My Lord. We'll make soldiers of them yet."
Julian spent the remaining hours of the day on the "Land Sensory" project. He sent 50 men into the nearby wildlife zones—not for war, but for resource gathering. They cleared the village paths, reinforced the old pillars of the bridges with heart-oak, and repaired the irrigation channels. It was manual, gritty work, but it was the only way to ensure the domain didn't collapse before the next Diet.
The Shifting Shadows
As Julian fell into a dreamless sleep in his own bed, the rest of the world moved on without him.
POV Shift: The Imperial Palace
In the Emperor's private study, Frederick II stood by a map of Italy. A messenger stood trembling by the door. "Sire, the Spanish navy has been spotted off the coast of Gaeta. They aren't just raiding anymore. They're landing supplies."
The Emperor sighed, his eyes cold. "Then the 'Relocation' is no longer a suggestion. It is a necessity. Prepare the lists for the next Diet. We need the buffers in place before the summer heat breaks."
POV Shift: House Schwarzberg
Emilia stood on her balcony, staring north toward the Merania lands. She held a small piece of blue crystal—a communication stone. "He's different," she whispered to herself. "He's a mob who acts like a King. I need to see him again in Frankfurt. If the Habsburgs won't protect me, perhaps a 'broken' house will."
POV Shift: The Spanish Bloc (Naples)
A man in black plate armor, bearing the sun-crest of Castile, looked over the walls of the captured fortress of Capua. Behind him, holy fire mages chanted in a low, rhythmic hum, the air shimmering with heat.
"The Holy Roman Empire is a hollow shell," the Commander sneered. "They send children and old men to hold their borders. It is time. A Crusade for Northern Italy begins with the first drop of autumn rain."
The hook was set. The "Dating Sim" Julian thought he was playing was about to transform into a continental war, and House Merania was standing directly in the path of the storm.