Plan
"Ian, sir?"
The child called to him hesitantly, watching his expression. It wasn't that Ian looked unwell—just unusually sharp, as if a hidden edge had surfaced. Rumors had spread that he was acting differently today, but no one had expected it to be this stark.
"Ah, yes."
Only then did Ian fully understand Chel's behavior.
From the beginning, Chel had held his mother's life as leverage—that was why such venomous words had come out so easily. Ian smiled warmly at the child, grateful for the concern.
"It's fine. There's nothing to pass along."
"Pardon? But, sir…"
The child's eyes widened.
It was unheard of. Ian always sent countless little messages whenever she went out—tidbits and stories bundled like small packages. Since the servant couldn't write either, she would roughly sketch little drawings to help her remember them.
"Father has gone out."
"The Count, sir?"
Today had been the day of the special luncheon with Lord Molin. That meant the count's schedule was different from usual. The servant, used to her regular errands, had overlooked that detail.
"It would be troublesome if you happened to run into him by chance. Besides, you're still quite young—best stay put."
He had overheard talk of brothels earlier; even in Ian's era, those were dangerous places. A hundred years earlier, they would be far worse.
If she were unlucky, even a healthy man could collapse from aphrodisiacs and wake up robbed blind. He couldn't allow a child to wander into such a place.
"Are you sure you'll be alright?"
"Hmm? About what?"
"You… cry late into the night, don't you?"
She knew he cried? Did he share the room with someone? Or did that mean someone was always posted outside his door at night?
So, they've set watchers on me as well.
Good. Better to find out now before making a mistake. Ian smiled gently.
"I'm fine now. I won't cry anymore."
"T-then… about the errand fee…"
"Errand fee?"
It was the servant who looked close to tears now. She fidgeted with her fingers, clearly flustered. Ian instinctively checked his pocket, but of course found nothing inside.
"If I can't bring home any food today, my younger siblings might go hungry. I don't mind at all, really—please, just give me something to do! I'll remember your words exactly this time, not a single mistake!"
Ah. So that was what she meant by "errand fee." Not money.
Of course—it made sense. Ian had been a child born and raised in poverty, and now he was a boy confined within the count's mansion. He didn't even have a single coin to his name—couldn't buy a meal even if he wanted to.
"Please, Sir Ian."
Then what was given to him here? His only privilege—three plentiful meals a day.
Yes. That explains it. She's far too thin.
The Cheonryeo tribe were strong, hardy barbarians—each one capable of matching dozens in battle. Their sheer vitality had made their tribe the Empire of Bariel's greatest headache.
If they sent someone as frail and thin as Ian as a peace offering, tongues would surely wag.
That was why, at least in meals, he was treated on par with the count's family. It was the only thing granted to him—and his only currency of exchange with the outside world.
"I have five younger siblings," the servant pleaded, bowing deeply. "If I can't take anything back for them, they'll have to make do with watered porridge."
Ian hadn't realized just how harsh conditions were in this territory, though he'd suspected as much. Still, he couldn't simply act on pity when even his own safety was uncertain.
After a brief moment of thought, he nodded.
"Alright. But on one condition. This time, it's advance payment. I'll give you your errand fee first, and when I need you later—you'll do something for me then."
"Ah!"
The girl brightened at once, bowing over and over in gratitude.
So, there was at least one person in this house willing to help him. Even if it was a transactional bond, it was still an ally—and any ally was better than none.
"And I'd like to call you by name."
He might as well know who she was. He said it casually, but the implication was clear—there would be more favors to ask of her later.
Understanding his meaning, the girl smiled shyly.
"Call me Haena! Everyone in the mansion does!"
Until now, Ian had addressed her vaguely—"hey," "you," "over there." Haena seemed almost delighted to finally introduce herself, enunciating her name carefully.
Ian's room was at the end of the third-floor corridor.
The moment he opened the door, a musty smell of mold hit his nose. The small window was far too inadequate for ventilation—it was clearly not a guestroom, but a servant's quarters.
Creak—
The old chair groaned beneath him, but it didn't distract his focus. Thankfully, in one corner were some cheap paper and a pen—likely used by the boy to practice writing. The characters scratched onto the page were crude, closer to drawings than letters.
"Imperial Year 1,100."
Ian had learned the exact date from Haena.
He had come from the year 1,198—nearly a full century into the past. His earlier estimate of roughly a hundred years had been correct. With a weary sigh, he ran a hand through his golden hair.
Where in the world am I supposed to start…?
Whether this was Naum's doing or not, he had clearly been caught in someone's time-space magic. If not that, then perhaps this was merely a vision seen at the moment of death.
For now, the only connection between this body and my own is the name Ian.
But that meant little—Ian wasn't a rare name.
Scratch, scratch.
To clear his mind, he began writing down major events from memory. If this was a dream—or another world entirely—history would eventually diverge from what he remembered.
"Hm."
Without much trouble, Ian began drafting a rough chronicle of Bariel's future history. There were gaps here and there, but that didn't matter. The absence of events only meant that peace had endured during those times.
"By the way, why is there so little paper on a child's desk if he's supposed to be studying?"
The once-clean sheet was soon covered in dense writing. The only remaining pages were full of crooked scrawls—perhaps the illegible hand of the bastard son, Ian. He sighed and tried to decipher them, though he couldn't make sense of a single word.
They're letters, at least… right? There's some pattern—so he wrote something, but… maybe it's not Barielic?
Knock, knock.
At that moment, a sound came from the hall. Ian quickly slid the papers into the drawer and turned around. Whoever it was, if they could read, this could be trouble.
"Come in."
"I've brought your supper, Sir Ian."
Ah—Haena.
He smoothed the crumpled paper inside the drawer and looked toward the window. The sun had already set; the sky of early spring still carried the weight of winter's dusk. The faintly luminous stones set in the ceiling began to glow.
"Haena."
"Yes?"
The stones were a cheap substitute for real lighting—just bright enough to make out shapes in the dark.
"Could you bring me a candlestick?"
"Ah… I'm afraid I can't, sir. Anything brought into your room requires the Countess's permission."
Her awkward voice filtered through the door. Judging by the state of this pitiful little room, it was clear no such favor would be granted. After all, he was the living reminder of her husband's mistake—the very definition of an eyesore.
I suppose I should be grateful they're not starving me outright.
"…Shall I go and ask her?"
The odds of receiving a half-used candle versus the odds of being scolded for daring to ask.
Which was higher? Especially today, after her beloved son Chel had embarrassed himself in the drawing room.
"No. That won't be necessary. You may go."
"Then I'll take my leave, sir."
Her footsteps receded down the hall.
Ian picked up his pen again. He tried several times to continue writing, but the darkness was too thick now—he could barely see the inkwell anymore. Leaning back, he gazed toward the door.
Creak—
A small tray lay on the floor. Two pieces of rye bread, a sliver of cheap ham, and a cup of water.
"Well, look at that."
Haena must have taken her portion and left him the bare minimum. No wonder he had so little strength. Clicking his tongue, Ian picked up the tray.
Not satisfying, but hunger left no room for pride.
He dipped the bread in water and chewed slowly. Even the orphans on the battlefield hadn't eaten this poorly. Back then, at least, there had been Gula stew—
"Ah!"
It felt as though a gust of wind had blown away the fog in his head; everything suddenly came into focus.
Yes—he had found it strange, something about the kitchen. The lavish luncheon had felt off somehow.
There was no Gula.
Gula was a nutrient-rich vegetable, filling enough to serve as a meal on its own. Its flavor was unmatched, and it could be used in countless dishes—an essential staple for every citizen of Bariel.
The discovery of Gula had marked a turning point in the Empire's history.
It had reduced deaths from famine by nearly eighty-five percent, dividing Bariel's timeline cleanly into before and after Gula.
But by rights, Gula shouldn't be discovered for another fifty years.
Not invention, but discovery. It wasn't created—it had always existed, simply unrecognized. Imported from the East, every part except the seed was poisonous, so no one had thought it edible. Over time, it had spread naturally across the wilds.
No one knew how to make it safe to eat. Not for fifty whole years.
But Ian did.
Which meant—if he could discover Gula now, he could erase one of the Empire's greatest famines from history.
"My word…"
For the first time, Ian found himself hoping that all of this was real.
That it wasn't an illusion of magic, but the true past of Bariel—so that he might change history itself.
'Sir Ian, it's alright. There's always a way. The gods never give us problems without answers.'
Naum's last words echoed faintly in his ears. He didn't yet know how, but somehow he felt he could find that answer—whatever it was.
First things first—survive.
Then, make for the Imperial Palace. Seek out Naum's traces.
That was the first conclusion Ian reached.