Berlin, April 1945.
The stench of death had become my oxygen.
I, Colonel Hans Von Richter, took a deep breath for the last time. My lungs felt as if they were filled with glass shards and concrete dust. Outside, the roar of Soviet artillerysoup (Stalin's Organs) continued to tear apart the remains of my country's pride. This bunker shuddered, shedding white lime onto my strategic maps, which were now nothing more than scrap paper.
"Commander... they are at the gates," whispered a young soldier beside me. The boy was still green, his hands trembling as he held a rifle he didn't even fully understand how to operate.
I didn't answer. I simply stared at the tip of my cigar, which was nearly extinguished. In my head, I was calculating. If I had one intact Panzer division, if the fuel logistics hadn't been cut by traitors in the rear, I could have flattened them in three hours.
But "if" is a word for losers. And today, I was the most honorable loser in Berlin.
BOOM!
The bunker ceiling collapsed. A blinding white light swallowed everything. I felt no pain, only a searing rage.
If there is a life after this... I vow I will never let logistical stupidity destroy my victory again.
Year 0, Kingdom of Arcania.
"Waaaa! Waaaa!"
The noise was deafening. I wanted to order whoever was screaming to shut up immediately or I'd send them to a firing squad. However, when I tried to open my mouth, all that came out was an embarrassing, shrill shriek.
I tried to open my eyes. Everything was blurred. I felt a cold sensation, and then suddenly, a pair of large hands lifted me.
"He is born! A son, Your Majesty!"
The voice rang like a bell in my sensitive ears. I tried to move my hands. Wait, why were my hands as small as sausages? Where were my leather gloves? Where was the burn scar on my arm?
I looked down. My body was tiny, red, and... naked.
Dammit. What kind of joke is this?
"Karl," a heavy yet deeply moved male voice reached my ears. "His name is Karl Von Reichenbach. He will be the sword of this kingdom."
I went silent. Karl? Reichenbach? My name is Hans! I am a Colonel!
I tried to rebel, wanting to scream that I refused to be named like a kitten. But this infant body was a perfect prison. The exhaustion was overwhelming. My consciousness began to fade, but before I drifted off into this disgusting baby slumber, I felt something strange.
There was a warmth flowing through my veins. Not blood, but something more... electric. Something that hummed like a tank engine that had just been warmed up.
Magic? I smiled inwardly. Though on the outside, I just looked like a delirious baby. If this world has magic, then I have just acquired a new weapon for my next war.
Five Years Later.
I stood on the balcony of the Reichenbach mansion, staring at the horizon with my hands folded behind my back, a posture that often unnerved my nanny because I looked "too mature."
For these past five years, I have been gathering information like an intelligence officer. This world is called Arcania. Its technology is equivalent to the 19th century, but with one major anomaly: Magic. Here, people recite spells with poetic sentences and prayers to useless goddesses.
Stupid. Incredibly inefficient.
I raised my right hand. I don't need spells. I only need technical visualization.
Assume Mana as fuel. Visualize the barrel of a Kar98k rifle. Focus air pressure onto a single central point.
I aimed at a bird statue in the garden below. In my mind, I calculated trajectory, wind speed, and air resistance.
Feuer.
Sshh-PANG!
The head of the bird statue exploded, crumbling into fine dust. There was no fire, no massive explosion wasting energy. Only a solid air projectile piercing the target at supersonic speed.
"Perfect," I muttered. My child's voice sounded strange to my own ears.
"Young Master Karl! What happened?" A servant ran into the garden, looking at the shattered statue with a pale face.
I turned around, putting on the most convincing innocent face a fifty-year-old war veteran could muster. "Oh, I don't know. Perhaps it was struck by lightning?"
The servant was confused, staring at the clear, cloudless sky. He would never know.
I walked into my room and took out a notebook I had hidden under the mattress. Inside, I had already drawn the initial sketches for what I called the "Tactical Aerial Mage Unit."
I don't want to be a hero. I don't want to be a shining knight.
I want to rebuild my war machine. I want to see the Reichenbach flag flying over every capital on this continent. And with magic in my hands, I will ensure that this time, logistics and destiny will not dare stand in my way.
The only problem is this: I must quickly get through this boring childhood.
"Karl, time for lunch!" my mother's voice called out.
I sighed. "Yes, Mother. I'm coming."
A world war can wait until I've finished my vegetable soup.