A week had passed.
Or at least, that's what Elias assumed—he had no clocks, no digital aids, just the sun's movement and the scratching hunger in his belly that had become routine.
The days blurred together in this strange, unsanitized world.
No phones, no screens, no noise beyond birds and peasant chatter in the valley below.
But what troubled him most wasn't the loss of comfort.
It was the change in himself.
He was young again.
No beard.
No crow's feet.
His reflection in the stream near the tree line revealed a face he hadn't seen in two decades—eighteen, maybe nineteen years old.
His body was lean but firm, skin free of the scars and wear he'd earned over decades.
Even his voice, when he spoke aloud to the System, carried the sharp confidence of youth.
"System, can you confirm my status?"
'Analysis of the Supreme Commander complete: Name: Elias Kaine, Age 18 [Locked], Rank: Private, Credits: 2,000'
Yup just as i thought i really am eightteen again.
'But what's this about my age being 'locked'?'
'The commander's age has been suspended, you will remain as you are now so long as defeat and death do not find you, ensuring you remain in optimal state to conduct your grand mission.'
Of course.
Time travel came with fine print.
But Elias didn't let the strangeness consume him.
Not now.
Not when he knew exactly where he was.
The Principality of Montenegro.
Southeastern Europe.
Tucked between the Ottoman's decaying fingers and the Austro-Hungarian claw, it was a land scarred by centuries of blood feuds and rebellions, destined to explode again with the right spark.
Thanks to discussing with the locals and somehow understanding the local language he found out he was located in the village of Razvrsje, nestled on the northwestern edge of the Zabljack mountains.
And that mountain range?
That was going to be his.
Not in the figurative sense.
In the literal, steel-and-ore, boots-on-rock way.
He stood on a hilltop now, wind brushing his hair as he surveyed the vast stone veins stretching into the horizon.
It wasn't just imposing—it was perfect.
Rugged terrain meant concealment.
Natural elevation meant defense.
And best of all: the rocks here practically glimmered with potential.
"System, can you perform a scan of the Žabljak range?"
'Yes Supreme Commander, this mountain range is confirmed to be classified as a mine, you can conduct mining operations at this site to obtain additional Credits.'
Elias nodded to himself, biting down a smirk.
This was where it would begin.
This wasn't just a place to hide—it was a place to build.
If history held true, he had sixty years before Montenegro would crown its first king assuming that nothing in the timeline changed.
Sixty years to reshape the future however he wanted.
And when the throne was finally ready to be claimed… it wouldn't be history's candidate sitting on it.
It would be his.
Either Elias himself—or a man loyal enough to bleed and kill in his name.
"System. Interface."
Before the word had fully left his lips, the world shimmered before his eyes.
A holographic grid blinked to life in his vision—clean, precise, with the unmistakable UI of Command & Conquer.
He could feel it superimposed over reality, hovering just over the terrain.
A digital layer stitched into the analog world.
One button blinked in the corner:
HQ Deployment Kit: AVAILABLE
No troops.
No tanks.
No backup.
But it was a start.
"System. Mark HQ location."
He scanned the terrain, pinpointing a natural plateau halfway up the slope, tucked between two cliffs.
Easy to defend.
Hard to spot unless one knew where to look.
Location locked.
Deploying HQ construction framework.
ETA: 30 hours.
A soft hum rang through the air, audible only to him.
No troops would parachute from the sky.
No MCV rolling in with industrial music behind it.
This wasn't a game—it was his world now.
The HQ would manifest subtly, being assembled in place as if it were being built by phantoms, drawing upon mass and metal from… somewhere else.
The how didn't matter yet.
Only the what.
Elias took a deep breath and turned back toward the village.
The locals had taken to him strangely.
Suspicious at first—Montenegrins didn't trust easily—but they hadn't driven him off.
He'd spun a story about being a traveller from the north, fleeing family debts and conscription.
Young men on the run were common in these parts.
They gave him food in exchange for labor, and more importantly, space.
Space to think.
To plan.
To test the boundaries of his new power.
The days he'd spent wandering these hills weren't idle.
He scouted terrain.
Noted water sources.
Mapped trade routes the villagers used to barter with the next settlement.
He was no longer just a historian with sharp words.
He was a strategist with a future to design.
The HQ was being build but he didn't have to stop there, going on a simple hike he left the location of the construction site for his new HQ, and wandered a little ways away to a simple mountain trail, wide enough for a lorry to drive down when they were invented.
Selecting a position that would be suitable he called up the interface and selected the Ore Refinery, then positioned it just perfectly to be nestled deep within the hills that none would spot it save from the air unless they were trying to find it.
Though construction didn't being immediately, as the site was just marked with spikes and caution tape, after checking it out he found it was just like the game, one couldnt create any buildings without an HQ, and construction itself could be queued up, so as soon as his HQ was built the refinery would begin construction.
Even if the system could conjure structures from nowhere, he couldn't conjure legitimacy the same way.
Not yet.
There were still rules here.
People.
Empires watching from above.
If he built too fast, they'd notice.
But if he built smart—if he played the long game—he could grow under their noses until it was too late to stop him.
He could try to form a local militia, but they'd be just simple untrained peasentry, it would be better if he just remained patient and lived a simple rustic life until the timers on his new buildings ran out and the makings of his own forces could take shape.
A light snow had begun to fall across the Žabljak slopes by the time Elias wandered back into Razvrsje.
It didn't stick, not yet—but the wind carried the scent of winter, sharp and sobering.
Villagers bundled in wool coats and heavy scarves trudged through mud-slick paths between squat stone homes, their boots sinking into the earth with every step.
Elias passed among them like smoke—acknowledged, but not quite accepted.
They called him Mladi Sjevernjak, the young northerner, half-wary and half-curious about his clean mannerisms, strange vocabulary, and calm, assessing eyes.
He worked enough to be left alone.
Talked enough to be tolerated.
But he was watching.
Always.
He learned their patterns: who led the grain trades, who smuggled salt across the hills from the Austrians, who the men listened to when the priest wasn't around.
In this world, power had nothing to do with charisma.
It had to do with usefulness.
And Elias was about to become very useful.
He started small.
A conversation here.
A casual remark there.
Over mugs of boiled wine or while splitting timber beside an old man named Vuko, whose back was as bent as the cross he carved for the village chapel.
"I used to think,"
Elias began one evening,
"that if you wanted peace, you just had to vote for the right person."
Vuko grunted.
"Vote? What's that?"
Elias smiled.
"A method. Popular in the west. Everyone chooses their leader. Majority wins."
"And if the majority are fools?"
"That's the problem."
They worked in silence for a few minutes before Elias spoke again, eyes narrowed on the chopping block.
"What if instead… the leader chose us? Not to rule, but to protect. To provide work. Food. Coal in winter. And in return, we ensure things run smoothly."
Vuko glanced at him.
"A king?"
"No. A steward. With state-run granaries. Mines. Trade routes. Not to steal profit—but to make sure no one starves while others hoard."
The old man snorted.
"And who would this steward be? You?"
Elias didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
The next day, Elias spent time with some of the younger men—boys barely older than he now appeared.
They were tougher than they looked, hardened by mountain life, but aimless.
One worked his uncle's goat herd.
Another ran messages between towns on foot.
A third kept trying to whittle a gunstock from maple wood he didn't realize would snap in cold weather.
They were skeptical at first.
Until he showed them his drawings.
Elias had spent the prior night sketching the outline of a "people's workshop"—a communal forge and lumber mill that would be jointly owned, run for the benefit of those who labored there.
Every man who worked it would take home a share, but a portion would go back to the "central council" for reinvestment.
Like a state-owned cooperative, camouflaged in rustic charm.
One of the boys, Ivan, stared at the sketches with wide eyes.
"We'd get to own the place?"
"Yes,"
Elias said smoothly.
"And no man could undercut you. No outside merchant could bleed you dry. If the system profits, you profit."
They didn't understand all the nuances.
But they grasped one thing clearly:
Security.
And no one in the Balkans turned down the promise of stability.
By week's end, Elias had convinced six villagers to gather in the chapel basement—ostensibly for a study circle.
He taught them basic arithmetic using counting stones, then principles of collective work and "centralized planning."
His language was carefully chosen—never revolutionary, never threatening.
Just new.
They were intrigued.
They didn't ask for power.
They didn't demand radical change.
But they listened.
And in time, they believed.
Not in ideology—but in him.
"System,"
Elias whispered one night, alone beneath the trees, watching as the glowing skeleton of his HQ rose slowly from its hidden mountain shelf.
"How would you classify the local population's ideological receptiveness?"
'Commander, the peoples of this world are most receptive to Authoritarian style governments at present such as Emperors and Kings from your research though the appeal for representation within that structure is also appealing.'
So something like a constitutional monarchy is the most appealing something like what is going on in Great Britain of this time.
"Good,"
Elias said quietly.
"Let them come to me. No flags yet. No uniforms. Just seeds."
Reminder: Refinery queued. 20 hours until deployment.
His first real credit generator.
Once the refinery was active, he could begin producing raw income.
He imagined it—ore flowing into the jaws of steel crushers, processed into currency he could invest in troops, power, structures.
From there: radar stations, barracks, light vehicles.
A foundation.
Not for war.
Not yet.
But for order.
The next time Elias met with Vuko, he brought bread, cheese, and a simple chart he'd drawn by firelight.
Three circles.
People.
Resources.
Authority.
He explained the flow between them—how wealth shouldn't stagnate but cycle.
Vuko listened more this time, chewing slowly as Elias painted a world where corruption wasn't inevitable—because systems weren't designed around selfishness, but obligation.
"A state should run like a homestead,"
Elias said.
"Every tool in its right place. Every hand doing its share. And no one left to freeze in winter because some baron wants a second carriage."
Vuko studied him.
"You speak like a priest."
"I speak like a man who's tired of watching the world burn because fools are afraid of structure."
The old man nodded.
Just once.
It was enough.
That night Elias was able to spend in the newly constructed HQ rather than his shack meanwhile the Refinery construction had begun and would finish by midday.