Chapter 4: The Old Man’s Grievances

Fran found himself staying at the old man’s house. His Councillor son had insisted he remain, despite the old man’s extreme reluctance.

The Councillor was rarely home, often driving between parliament and some mysterious location in the suburbs. This naturally aroused Fran’s suspicion.

‘What could he be doing out there?’ Fran wondered. ‘Could he be keeping a mistress in a lavish suburban villa?’

He mused, knowing it was a common practice among the powerful. Yet, a moment later, he reconsidered. ‘No, that can’t be it…’

The Councillor wasn’t married. ‘What affair could he possibly be having? Couldn’t he just be open about it?’ Fran thought. ‘Unless he’s involved with some poor, unfortunate man’s wife?’

‘Hmm…’

Regardless, the Councillor’s elusive presence presented Fran with numerous opportunities. The old man’s condition was steadily worsening; he could barely leave his bed.

With the Councillor frequently absent, gathering the scandalous materials his teacher required would prove remarkably easy.

The only thing that made Fran somewhat wary was the old man himself. It wasn’t fear of a frail, dying elder, but rather the old man’s gaze—a mixture of disdain and a ‘hate-iron-for-not-becoming-steel’ frustration—that consistently sent shivers down Fran’s spine.

He even began to ponder if he had uttered something amiss, thereby offending the old man. Or perhaps his constant, furtive searching around the house had sparked the old man’s suspicions.

Under this peculiar atmosphere, Fran endured three days in the old man’s presence.

Finally, he could bear it no longer.

“I… Have I done something to displease you?”

Fran, a touch guilt-ridden, glanced at the old man. So frail now, the elder spent most of his days confined to bed, resting with closed eyes.

Hearing Fran’s question, the eighty-year-old former Imperial Guard angrily puffed out his white beard, shaking his head in disapproval.

“Hmph, it’s simply outrageous!” the old man grumbled indignantly. “This society is sick, I tell you! Men are men, and women are women.

“If everything gets turned upside down, how can Francis possibly endure? Fran, my boy, I can tell you’re a diligent child, and that’s excellent. But… why must you dress like this?”

Fran was momentarily stunned by the old man’s question. He had never imagined the elder would be such a stubborn, old-fashioned relic.

While the old man’s demeanor had been less than pleasant from their very first encounter, Fran had genuinely not anticipated this to be the root cause of his dissatisfaction.

‘What does it matter what the person caring for you looks like?’ he thought. ‘Is there any need to concern oneself with such trivialities? Isn’t it enough that they provide good care?’

‘Could it be that he finds me an eyesore?’

Fran sighed, a sound of weary resignation. He had no desire to argue with this frail, dying old man. Picking up the clothes destined for washing, he offered a simple, direct retort.

“That’s just how things are now,” Fran explained. “As a boy, if I work normally in a tavern, my wages are only half of what I’d earn wearing a maid outfit.

“If changing clothes doubles my income, why wouldn’t I do it? After all… without money, one simply cannot survive in the capital.”

“Ah, alas—”

The old man heard Fran’s retort and shook his head. “It’s all because of that war twenty years ago,” he lamented. “So many young lives were lost, which is why society is now so rife with… you know, this effeminate trend.”

It seemed the old man wasn’t criticizing Fran’s appearance at all, but rather the prevailing social atmosphere itself. Fran felt a little lost, unsure how to respond.

Indeed, in that World War, over a million Francian men had perished. A staggering million…

Fran could not fathom the sheer bloodiness of the war, nor the horrific sight of shells and muzzle flashes tearing into soldiers. He had only ever heard one apt, chilling metaphor.

‘The front line was a giant meat grinder.’

That trauma was deeply imprinted in the heart of every Francian. Regardless of whether they had personally endured the conflict, the scars of losing almost an entire generation of young men remained deeply etched into the very fabric of Francis’s present reality.

“Hmm…” Fran nodded, a flicker of understanding mixed with confusion in his eyes. He glanced down at himself. ‘Ah… come to think of it, it’s true,’ he mused. ‘If I really went to the battlefield, I probably couldn’t even pick up a gun.’

“Fran!” the old man suddenly declared, looking at him with intense seriousness. He spoke loudly, as if announcing a new decree. “You really should go to the barracks for some training. No, all men in Francis should go to the barracks for training after they come of age!”

“That would be universal conscription then.”

Fran felt a surge of annoyance. The old man’s words implied he was somehow deficient, as if he ‘owed’ the world some training. Yet, the elder showed no sign of backing down.

He seemed utterly oblivious to the offensive nature of his remarks, speaking with the excited earnestness of a well-traveled elder imparting profound wisdom to a junior.

“So what, young man?” the old man scoffed. “In our day, we didn’t go to school; we were all forged in the military camps. We followed His Majesty the Emperor, fighting north and south!

“And now? Hah, are we to rely on a bunch of aristocratic officers leading a troop of pampered soldiers?”

The old man snorted, a cold, dismissive sound. He seemed to still harbor resentment over the failed battle reports from just a few days prior. ‘Oh, right!’ he suddenly exclaimed, then turned to Fran with a flicker of anticipation.

“Today, did you buy today’s newspaper? Read it to me, read what’s written in the paper, cough, cough… today’s, cough, cough… today’s battle situation…”

He suddenly erupted into a violent fit of coughing, seemingly due to his earlier emotional agitation. Fran quickly rushed forward to support him, helped him settle back down, and after tidying the covers, pulled a chair to sit by the old man’s bedside.

He coughed incessantly, truly appearing too weak to read the newspaper on his own. His hand, resting on the blanket, trembled without cease. Fran had just touched it, and the icy coldness sent a fresh wave of unease through him.

‘I need to have my teacher come and examine the old man again,’ Fran thought. ‘It seems simple rest isn’t proving effective.’

‘Hmm…’

‘Perhaps I should find something to cheer the old man up first…’

Fran picked up the newspaper and began to read today’s news.

“Cough, cough… Can… can you read Francian?”

The old man still seemed slightly concerned about Fran’s literacy. Fran nodded. “Although I’m from the countryside, my teacher taught me to read,” he replied. “How else could I become a doctor later?”

“A doctor? Cough, cough… No, no, no, Fran, it would be better for you to join the army.”

The old man was once again trying to persuade Fran to join the army, quite persistently. Fran, however, feigned deafness, helplessly continuing to scan the newspaper in his hands.

‘Hmm…’

One minute, two minutes, three minutes…

“Read it, why aren’t you reading?”

The old man was growing anxious. Fran felt a wave of awkwardness, for the newspaper reported a devastating defeat for the Francian army on the front lines.

‘Could he really read such news to the old man?’

The old man’s constant urging became unbearable. There was no other way; Fran could only stammer out the words.

“Uh… General Peter’s troops, on the east bank of the Souva River, uh…”

Fran stole a glance at the old man’s face, which grew increasingly anxious, bordering on distress. Fran dared not read further.

Even without the words, he could discern the old man’s highly unstable state.

Seeing Fran halt his reading, the old man abruptly snatched the newspaper. His eyes darted across the printed words.

‘Souva River, devastating defeat…’

His vision blurred, and he collapsed heavily onto the bed.

“Old man—Old man—!”