Ding-ding-ding!
A sharp bell tolled through the air.
Lost in thought, I hadn't realized lunchtime had snuck up on me.
I hadn't noticed, but my stomach had been growling loudly for a while now.
"...I'm starving to death."
It made sense.
The first two days, I'd been too busy piecing together memories to think about food, and this morning, I'd rushed out after belatedly remembering I had to go to work.
That made two and a half days of straight fasting.
Thankfully, Mrs. Schmidt, my landlady, had stopped me as I bolted out the door and shoved a lunchbox into my hands.
"You haven't eaten a single meal yet, have you? Goodness, look at those cracked lips. You have to eat this, got it?"
Oh, Mrs. Schmidt!
A woman who worries about even the lunatic ranting extreme politics over meals—she had to be an angel.
Opening the lunchbox revealed a sandwich and a bottle of coffee.
"...This is good."
I slowly chewed the sandwich stuffed generously with ham, lettuce, and egg.
The food in this otherworld wasn't much different from Earth's.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
Knock knock!
Someone rapped on the door.
"Come in— Gah! Long live the Great Leader!"
"Long live Leader Krüger! Did you have a good weekend, Clerk Redan?"
"Of course, Assistant Clerk Hoffmann."
Before I could even process it, my body sprang up like a coiled spring.
Only then did I recognize the man beaming with a friendly face.
Emil Hoffmann.
A 7th Grade Assistant Clerk in his early forties.
Not particularly talented, but for some reason, he seemed to favor Lucas.
Well, he'd been the one who'd pulled strings with the instructor to get that idiot his 9th Grade Clerk position.
Which meant he was the guy I needed to impress most right now.
The problem? He was another vomit-inducing fanatic of the Leader cult. Birds of a feather, indeed.
'I can do this. No matter how messed up the situation, I've got sales experience. I even won over that psychopath Kim from the office. Handling a moron like this is a piece of cake.'
I steeled myself inwardly.
"Oh dear, you've already started eating? I was hoping to join you."
Hoffmann lifted his lunchbox with a pout.
Damn. Too hungry to think straight, but Lucas ate lunch with Hoffmann every day.
"No, no! There's plenty left. Please, join me."
I stood with a casual smile, acting like it was no big deal.
"Is that so? Then let's head to the square."
Three days ago—or was it during summer vacation?—I'd been strolling the East Coast beach, blinked, and woken up here.
Oddly, the date matched.
Today was July 24, 1900.
Unlike Korea's muggy summers, it was a perfect day—cool, dry, and pleasantly warm.
'This country has killer weather.'
Hoffmann and I walked to the square near the office.
From memory, they sat on a bench there, chatting over lunch as routine.
I scanned my recollections and froze mid-step.
Hoffmann was already unpacking his lunchbox on the bench.
In front of him.
About fifty meters away in the square's center stood a gallows lined with corpses.
Only remembering it now...
Laughter echoed here and there.
Couples on dates strolled by. An old woman sold apples from a cart. Boys raced each other; girls picked leaves for pretend play.
No one paid the gallows any mind, all cheerful and carefree.
They were just too used to it, probably.
'This is insane...'
Swallowing the bile rising in my throat, I sat calmly beside Hoffmann.
"Enjoy your meal, Assistant Clerk Hoffmann."
"Mm, you too."
Hoffmann dug into his meat skewers and pickled veggies like they were the best thing ever.
My appetite had tanked, but I averted my eyes from the gallows and forced down the sandwich slowly.
Then Hoffmann pointed straight ahead, forcing me to look.
"Man, that guy—I knew him. Young fella, such a shame. But he deserved it. Yeah, he did."
He indicated the leftmost of the five corpses hanging side by side.
Pale-faced, tongue lolling out—sight alone turned my stomach.
Hoffmann looked unfazed, so I forced a grin and played along.
"Really? What crime did he commit?"
Hoffmann shrugged slightly.
"Heh, how could I say it out loud? If you're that curious, go read the sign."
His tone implied even imagining it was blasphemous as he pointed to the wooden placard on the corpse's chest. Too far to read clearly, but something was scrawled in red paint.
'What would original Lucas say to that?'
I furrowed my brow, thinking fast.
Normal people wouldn't suspect possession, but magic existed here. No guarantee they wouldn't notice sudden changes.
I quickly settled on a haughty, contemptuous expression—like dumbass Lucas.
"Ugh, too gross for me."
"Ha, can't be helped."
Chuckling, Hoffmann leaned in and whispered.
"Truth is, the guy was a gardener at the Leader's residence. Dropped some scissors near the Leader's feet or something. Tsk, blasphemy. Deserved to die."
My brow twitched involuntarily.
'For that...? God, I hate this place.'
The Schupaven Republic was even crazier than I'd imagined.
Then Hoffmann stared blankly at me.
'Shit!'
I scowled harder, feigning outrage.
"The nerve! What an unforgivable crime. Daring to shame the Leader like that!"
"Right?"
Only then did Hoffmann chuckle heartily and resume eating.
My appetite was gone; I couldn't stomach the last sandwich.
I just sipped coffee and kindly offered it to the chubby Hoffmann, who polished off his lunch and still eyed it wistfully.
"Mm, thanks. Your landlady's Mrs. Schmidt, right? She's got real talent in the kitchen."
"Yes, she does."
Hoffmann scarfed the sandwich in seconds and stood.
"Time to go. Work resumes soon. Oh, how's that project coming? The play for the 31st."
"Huh?"
Play? Play...
"Yes, of course! You can count on me."
My confident reply set Hoffmann roaring with laughter.
"That's my Redan!"
I gritted my teeth as his meaty hand clapped my shoulder.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
The Schupaven Republic was a cultural powerhouse.
It boasted famous painters and musicians; theaters dotted the cities, drawing crowds for plays. The budding film industry was gaining traction too.
But lately, every play and movie was pure propaganda.
My workplace was a small office under city hall—think district office back home.
Civil servants here oversaw local theaters.
What plays went up was entirely up to them.
Sometimes the office produced its own—like this one.
"And Lucas volunteered for it..."
Back in the dim archive room after parting with Hoffmann, I muttered to myself.
"What a useless idiot."
Grind!
My teeth ground softly.
The office staged propaganda plays at nearby theaters every few months.
The last one had been milked dry, so they decided on a new one—and that's when Lucas stepped up.
When Hoffmann was named head, Lucas clung to his leg, whining.
" entrust this play to me! Please! I'll make it the best ever!"
Hoffmann dumped all the work on him, and he was thrilled.
The elation still hit me, making me shudder.
High on confidence, he'd blabbed at the boarding house.
"I'll write the script, direct it—all of it! Sure, the boss gets public credit, but this is my chance to spread the Leader's grace far and wide!"
But with my gritty industry experience, I saw it clearly: it was just busywork.
Hoffmann was just too lazy to handle it himself.
No big deal—a routine small-scale play.
Few would attend; even success brought no glory.
I inwardly mocked Lucas as the fool who'd volunteered for high-effort, low-reward drudgery.
'But now I have to do it.'
Lucas's soul was gone; the job fell to me.
"Ha ha ha, ha ha."
Hollow laughter escaped me.
Seven days left.
Damn, I hate this.
I sat calmly and rummaged through memories to see how far Lucas had gotten.
Luckily, everything was planned. He'd burned the midnight oil with enthusiasm.
Script, music, set designs—nearly done.
"Just casting the leads?"
Supporting roles were contracted; only Krüger and his mother stumped him.
"Eh, it'll work out."
I planned to scout actors tomorrow.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
6 p.m.
Adhering to the civil servant virtue of clocking out on time, I returned to the boarding house. Delicious aromas hit me at the door.
"I'm home."
"Welcome back. Feeling better?"
"Thanks to your concern."
I greeted Mrs. Schmidt and headed upstairs.
As recalled, the locked desk drawer held Lucas's script.
His idea of top-secret storage.
Inside was also a worn, thumb-marked book.
Revolution (by Friedrich Krüger).
The mad dictator's autobiography.
Here, "revolution" meant his coup 18 years ago, not the Republican Revolution 30 years prior. Shameless bastard.
Scraping by on pennies, Lucas seemed to channel his frustrations into fanatical support for Leader Krüger.
I sighed, shoved the book aside, and pulled out the script. Had to review it for casting anyway.
As expected, it was nauseating.
And better than I'd thought.
The thick notebook's handwriting was neat but chaotic with revisions, deletions, additions.
You could see the all-nighters, the passion, the deliberations. Deeper content than anticipated.
Sure, dictator-glorifying puke-fest, but it tugged at heartstrings in places.
Memories of propaganda plays and films focused on post-power Krüger.
Had to showcase his brilliant policies, his love for the people.
All majesty and glory.
But Lucas's script was different.
From Krüger's boyhood, through revolutionary youth, to ascending as Leader.
Unlike superhuman flawless portrayals, it humanized him.
The kid had real talent for agitation.
"Crazy bastard. With talent like that, use it for something good."
I sighed and mouthed the bold title on the first page.
Revolution.
Taken from Krüger's autobiography.
For the first time, I pitied Lucas—felt sorry for him—and loathed this twisted nation even more.
Wasting such promise on this garbage.
"Cough! Cough! Cough!"
A coughing fit hit, erasing any sympathy.
"Hey, Lucas? You okay?"
Someone knocked from outside.