Chapter 2
The Empire had, in the end, started a war.
Years passed after that. Ranje wandered from battlefield to battlefield, earning achievements through effort—and sometimes luck. At first, things were awkward with Lenart, but they eventually became close and survived many crises together.
All in all, Ranje Swanhild was a rather lucky person.
Though she had an unfortunate birth, she was given opportunities. She overcame countless dangers, gained an excellent partner, found purpose in life, and perhaps even some glory.
But even for her, the moment finally came when her luck ran out.
The battlefield is a place where even effort and skill can be crushed by the ruthlessness of fate.
In the early summer of her twenty-fifth year,
Ranje realized that she had forgotten that truth.
A technique she had repeated dozens of times collapsed, and she fell. An enemy’s magic bullet pierced her body in an instant.
There wasn’t even time to think that something had gone wrong.
If Lenart hadn’t managed to draw out power beyond his full ability, she would have died without even realizing what had happened. That, too, was fate.
“So this is how I die.”
Ranje suddenly understood.
It was while she was being carried on his back in retreat.
“You said you didn’t want to die!”
The voice was sharp in her ears.
“Senior, I…”
Her flickering vision turned pitch black. She didn’t know what she said in response—only the certainty of death remained clear.
“Don’t say something so weak now!”
Before she could think about whose voice had pierced through the ringing in her ears, Ranje Swanhild’s life ended, just as she had predicted.
…Wasn’t it over?
The twilight-lit sky at dawn came into view.
It had been so long since she’d left. She thought she’d forgotten it after it had been shattered. But the moment she opened her eyes, Ranje recognized the attic room.
Her joints felt frozen, her nose ran, and her head was foggy. It was the state she’d be in when the heater went out too early.
On instinct, she found her coat and shoved her arms into the sleeves, then checked the handheld mirror on her desk.
Had it been in the autumn of her fifteenth year? A kind-hearted maid had given her that mirror when she left the mansion. She’d received a new one as a retirement gift from her fellow maids.
Ranje had carried it her whole life. When she moved rooms to the main house, when she went to the capital, even in the military… That worn mirror had always been in her travel bag.
“Is this a dream?”
But in the mirror was a face younger than she remembered, and hair of a light flaxen color—something she should never have seen in this attic room.
“No way.”
Unable to tell which was the dream—the battlefield or the attic—Ranje slapped her own cheek.
“Ow!”
It hurt enough to make her scream.
“So this is… reality?”
Nine years of vivid memories—just a single night’s dream?
“Then what’s with this hair?”
Ranje’s hair had originally been a deep brown, barely qualifying as blonde. But due to an accident at age twenty, it had turned this pale color.
“I was… on the battlefield.”
She had accepted the Count’s offer and left the attic. She’d entered a school in the capital, was commissioned into the military, and had wandered the front lines ever since.
And in the early summer of her twenty-fifth year, she’d lost consciousness from a serious wound.
“I thought I was going to die.”
Thump. A bitter wind rattled the window, and Ranje turned her head.
“…It’s winter.”
It was a situation she couldn’t understand by any reasonable standard. Ranje shoved the mirror into her pocket and opened the door.
“First, I’ll check outside.”
She hurried down the stairs, and the hood of her coat flopped down behind her head.
The cold was numbing, and her head was sluggish.
“Hey! What do you think you’re doing!”
Almost to the first floor, a scolding voice struck her ears.
She didn’t quite remember the woman’s face, but it looked familiar.
A servant?
As Ranje blinked blankly, the maid scolded her again.
“You know how busy mornings are—why are you being lazy!”
It was still dark because it was winter. If it were summer, it would’ve been bright by now.
The work of servants had to start earlier than the Count’s family. Breakfast was in ten minutes. Since the young count had returned, more effort was required. Ranje’s tardiness had come at a bad time.
But the maid couldn’t stay angry.
“…Are you sick?”
Her face was pale enough to look blue. Under the coat, she was still in her nightclothes. Something was clearly wrong with Ranje.
Unlike usual, when she seemed lost in her own world, she looked restless.
“A-anyway. If you’re up, get changed and come quickly.”
The maid left, unable to shake off an uneasy feeling and without time to press further.
Once she was gone, Ranje ran back to the attic.
“That voice…”
Leaning against the door, Ranje bit her lower lip.
“I don’t remember her name, but she was one of the nagging ones.”
Her slapped cheek still stung.
“This really is Swanhild.”
Hard to accept, but reality was reality. Ranje changed out of her nightgown, washed up roughly, pulled on work clothes, tied an apron, and wrapped a headscarf.
She sneaked into the kitchen and joined the group washing dishes. The other maids subtly slipped away and left the work to her.
The noble family had long since finished their meal, and even the servants’ table was bustling.
Only an hour later, once the dishes were done, did Ranje get a chance to eat what was left.
“What am I even doing?”
That’s when irritation set in.
She could bear it before, but the sight of cold soup and stiff, half-burnt bread filled her with anger.
Resting her forehead on her hand, Ranje stared at the center of the table. On a greasy plate were the scraps of candied fruit and cake.
“So it’s January now.”
It was clearly a cake used for year-end banquets. Nobles would enjoy them as decoration rather than food, and since they didn’t spoil, they’d be reused as decorations until after New Year’s—then trickled down to the servants’ table.
“I still have my mirror, so… sixteen?”
She realized it had been nine years ago, but that didn’t help her move forward. Ranje sighed and looked at her meager portion.
“Not a single chunk in this soup.”
It was almost nostalgic to be treated this poorly.
After leaving Swanhild, she always had decent meals. She even visited nice restaurants while on leave or stationed in the capital.
Naturally, she thought of her partner from those days.
“Senior was with me…”
She recalled the last moments.
“The mission failed.”
Their first and only failure.
Lenart’s calculations were perfect, as always. If the coordinates had been off, the technique wouldn’t have worked at all, so the mistake wasn’t his.
“Right. At the start… everything was fine then.”
It all happened so fast that she couldn’t remember clearly. A severed connection, a bullet through her body, and the last glimpse of Lenart’s face floated up disjointedly.
Her tangled thoughts spiraled into darkness—only to reconnect with this attic room.
At twenty-five, Ranje Swanhild had surely expected death.
But when she opened her eyes, she found herself back in the attic of Ranje Baer, the sixteen-year-old maid. Somehow, with her twenty-year-old faded hair intact.
Her cheek no longer hurt, but her pruned fingers and scratched gums made it clear—this wasn’t a dream.
Yet the memories of war were just as vivid. Ranje had no choice but to draw a ridiculous conclusion.
“I’ve come back nine years.”
If Lenart were here, he’d stare blankly at her and ask if she really meant that. Ranje would have nodded vigorously.
This wasn’t wishful thinking, nor some naturally cheerful fantasy.
It just felt less insane than believing nine years had been a dream.
Once Ranje made a conclusion, she wasn’t one to look back.
“So what do I do now?”
Moaning and fretting wouldn’t change anything. Planning ahead was more productive.
“Worrying never helped! Right, senior?”
Though anxious, she mentally conjured her partner and sought his opinion. True to form, even in her imagination, Lenart didn’t give her any affirmation.
“Well then, let’s go.”
Back in the attic, she lit the heater and fell into thought again.
“I’m officially adopted in March, so there’s time.”
After her cousin’s sudden death, the mansion had been tense for a while. She wouldn’t feel that tension until at least two months later.
“More importantly… do I have to enroll again?”
Last time, she’d accepted it with a mix of motivation and hope.
“Yeah, back then I was like that.”
But years of battle had left her with nothing but weariness.
Now that she had returned to the past, thoughts of gaining an advantage or changing results began to surface. But she didn’t know how to intervene.
That kind of insight seemed reserved for people who pondered deeply and had regrets. Ranje had none worth noting.
“If only Senior had come back instead.”
One night, Lenart had asked her:
—If you could change just one thing in your life, what would it be?
—You’re not asking that because you’re unhappy with me, right?
—…You need to fix that paranoia.
—Hmm. I’m not sure. I lived my life as best I could. Why are you asking this all of a sudden?
—Just… thinking about the past.
—Is that why you’re looking all gloomy? That’s a bad habit…
Back then, she thought Lenart was making life too hard on himself.
“Maybe I should’ve learned from him.”
If Lenart had fallen back nine years, he probably would’ve crafted a far more sophisticated plan.
Even if he pretended otherwise, he always tried to fulfill his obligations. It was just that they conflicted with each other, making him unhappy and miserable.
Ranje briefly worried that this second chance had come to the wrong person.
“You think so too, Senior?”
Once again, her imaginary conversation yielded no satisfying response.
“Not that it changes anything.”
Steeling herself, she decided to go to the capital.
It was a sudden leap in thought, skipping all the middle steps—but for Ranje, it was perfectly logical.
The attic of Swanhild was far too remote for plotting “what comes next.” She didn’t want to waste two more months doing chores.
More than anything, she wanted to see Lenart in person.
“Senior’s in the capital.”
Just confirming with her own eyes that he was alive and well would bring her peace.
“He’ll probably think I’m crazy if I suddenly show up.”
But staying obediently in the attic was even worse.
“I’ll just… swipe the travel money from there.”
That sounds like a problematic plan versus waiting