Chapter 3: The Diet of Worms and the Death of Dignity
The carriage doors had barely hissed open before the oppressive humidity of Frankfurt's summer air hit Julian like a physical blow. He stumbled onto the cobbles, his legs still feeling like jelly from the "lap pillow" incident, only to find Lady Mathilde von Andechs blocking his path. She looked radiant, her sharp, predatory elegance completely unfazed by the long journey.
"Aunt Mathilde," Julian began, trying to summon the voice of a future Count but failing as his voice cracked slightly. "I've been thinking. About the Academy in Aachen. If I'm to be the head of this House, shouldn't I be attending? All the major heirs are there. It's where the 'plot'—I mean, the social networking happens."
Mathilde stopped. She turned slowly, her silk dress rustling like a warning. She didn't look angry; she looked amused, which was infinitely more dangerous.
"The Academy?" She reached out, and before Julian could recoil, her fingers clamped onto his cheek, pinching with just enough pressure to make him wince. "My sweet, delusional nephew. Why would I send you to that glorified daycare?"
"Daycare? It's the Imperial Institute of—"
"It's a drain on the treasury," she interrupted, giving his cheek a playful but firm tug. "High nobles don't go to academies to learn, Julian; they go to find spouses and show off their horses. Your father spent more gold on your private tutors in Merania than some Barons make in a decade. Besides, if I sent you to Aachen, do you know what would happen?"
Julian rubbed his sore face. "I'd get a degree?"
"No. Your father, Baron Maximilian, would sue me in the Imperial Court for 'Kidnapping of the Heir' and 'Willful Separation of Blood.' Do you think I want to deal with your father's temper? He's currently defending our borders with 150 men and a prayer. If I take his son away, he'll march those 150 men straight to my manor." She leaned in, her perfume—a mix of expensive sandalwood and cold iron—filling his senses. "Who wants to get between a father and his bond? Not me."
Julian slumped. He looked at the blue screen hovering in his peripheral vision.
'Bro, please,' he thought at the interface. 'Tell me her favorability. Give me something. I'm dying out here.'
[System Notification: Request received.]
[Sarcastic Commentary: Oh, look at that 'begging face.' It's pathetic, truly. However, the User's sheer desperation has triggered a secondary aesthetic response in the Target.]
[Affection Update: Lady Mathilde von Andechs +10%. (Total: 30/100)]
[Status: 'Cute Nephew / Potential Asset.']
[System Advice: Your handsome face and pathetic reactions are currently your only viable survival tools. Keep it up if you want to unlock your first 'Heroine' route, even if it is a side-character aunt.]
'Side-character?' Julian countered mentally. 'She's the one who controls the money!'
[System Correction: Do not mock her as a 'Side Road.' Mathilde von Andechs holds significant political weight. While her own personal guard is modest—60 elite Meranian crossbowmen and 40 heavy infantry—her network of favors spans three Circles. If you become her 'favorite'—or perhaps more—you gain a local buffer. A meat-shield, if you will, to prevent an immediate knife to the skull.']
"Fine," Julian muttered. "I'll be a buffer-seeking nephew. It beats being a corpse."
The Imperial Diet: The Hall of Chaos
They entered the Römerberg, walking past the towering guards of the Imperial Guard. Inside, the chamber was a cacophony of shouting men and rustling parchment. Julian was led not to the front, where the Great Houses sat in gilded chairs, but to the lower nobility desks—the "cheap seats" reserved for minor Barons and fading Houses.
"Listen and stay quiet," Mathilde whispered as they sat. "Observe the hierarchy."
Julian stared at the hall. "System, be honest. I got the genre wrong, didn't I? I thought this was an 'Academy Noble' story. You know, the kind where I beat up bullies and get a harem of classmates?"
[System Message: Final Clarification.]
[Status: CONFIRMED.]
[World Type: Political/Dating-Sim Hybrid.]
[Notes: This world has been developed with extreme realism in every category—economics, military logistics, and theological strife—EXCEPT the dating mechanism. The romance system is purely based on favorability, physical intimacy, and political bartering. You are in a world where a kiss can stop a war, but a failed conversation choice can lead to a public execution.]
Julian's soul felt like it was leaving his body. "So I'm screwed."
[Addendum: Not entirely. This world possesses 'Magic.' If you wish to avoid kicking the bucket in the first half-hour of the upcoming war arc, I suggest training your Light Magic affinity.]
"I have magic?"
[System: Unknown. Due to your 'Transitory Soul' status, you may possess Light. Or Water. Or perhaps just the ability to glow slightly before you die. Go to a testing center when we have the gold. Until then, don't embarrass the Barony by pretending to be a wizard.]
The room suddenly fell silent. The massive doors at the head of the hall swung open.
"His Imperial Majesty, Frederick II of Hohenstaufen!" the herald bellowed.
A man walked in, radiating an aura of such intense cynicism and power that Julian felt the urge to hide under his desk. The Emperor didn't look like a saint; he looked like a polyglot genius who had just finished reading everyone's private diaries and found them all boring.
Julian watched as the nobility bowed in a wave.
"Who is he, really?" Julian whispered to Mathilde.
Mathilde didn't look up, her head bowed perfectly. "He is the Staufen. The man who hates the Pope more than he hates the plague. But look at how people greet us, Julian. Notice the minor lords nodding?"
"Why? We're broke."
"We are a Mid-Ranking Barony," Mathilde explained, her voice a low silken thread. "The Empire is split into tiers: Low, Mid, and High for every rank. A Low Baron is a glorified peasant with a stone tower. A Mid-Ranking Baron, like us, has history and a chance at promotion. If we play this week correctly—if we win a local skirmish or fall into the Emperor's favor—we could rise to a Viscounty. That is why they respect you. You aren't just a mob; you're a mob with a chance to become a Boss."
Julian blinked. So the politics are more complex than the game described. It's not just about levels; it's about momentum.
Across the hall, the "Protagonist Halo" was in full effect. Albrecht von Habsburg was sitting surrounded by beautiful women—the daughters of Dukes and Counts, all giggling and vying for his attention.
"A harem? Already?" Julian's stomach burned. It was a physical sensation of pure, unadulterated salt. "He hasn't even done anything but swing a sword and give a speech about flowers."
Mathilde noticed his sour expression. She reached into her sleeve and produced a small, sugar-dusted pastry shaped like a bunny. Without a word, she stuffed it into Julian's mouth.
"Mmph?!"
"Eat," she commanded. "You're making a face like a constipated mule. You have a beautiful body, Julian—don't ruin it with bitterness. It's one of the few assets we haven't mortgaged yet."
"M-beautiful body?" Julian managed to swallow the bunny.
"Shh. No talking back to your aunt," she teased, her eyes sparkling with that predatory light again.
The Diet officially began. It was not the noble, poetic debate Julian expected. It was a shouting match.
"The taxes are too high! My peasants are eating their own boots!" shouted a lord from the Saxon Circle.
"The Emperor demands military reform!" shouted another. "The levies are useless! We need a standing professional army to deal with the Sky Pirates near Bohemia!"
"Bohemia is fine!" King Ottokar of Luxembourg stood up, his voice cold and industrial. "The Sky Pirates are a nuisance, but the real threat is in the south. The Spanish have taken Sicily! The Holy Roman Empire is becoming a ceremonial relic while Spain takes the Mediterranean!"
The hall erupted. Some yelled about wheat prices. Some demanded more authority for the Dukes. Some wanted to fund a crusade in Naples to kick out the mercenaries.
Julian watched the chaos, feeling small. "What do we do?"
Mathilde leaned back, her hand resting casually on his shoulder, her thumb grazing the base of his neck—a gesture that sent a jolt of 'Ecchi' tension through his spine.
"We do what the Andechs-Merania always do to survive," she whispered into his ear. "We wait. We see which way the wind blows. And when the dominant faction is clear, we vote with them. We stay neutral. We stay invisible. That, Julian, is how a mob survives the end of the world."
Julian looked at the shouting lords, then at the "Hero" Albrecht who was looking bored, and then at the "Villainess" Emilia who was staring at the floor.
Neutral? Julian thought, his gamer instincts screaming. In a game like this, the neutral ones are the first ones to get purged when the war starts.
[System Notification: Correct. Lady Mathilde's strategy is 'Survival.' Your strategy must be 'Dominance.']
[Warning: The Emperor is looking this way.]
Julian stiffened as Frederick II's cynical gaze swept over the lower nobility desks, pausing for a fraction of a second on the boy in the fur coat.
The game had truly begun.