The countryside passed slowly outside the carriage window, trees and fields stretching under a steel-gray sky. Rain had fallen the night before, leaving the earth damp and fragrant. Otto von Bismarck—no, Jonathan Miller—shifted slightly in his seat, trying to ignore the stiffness in his left side. The wound from the duel still ached, though it had scabbed over. What a strange and painful birth this had been.

  He watched droplets run down the glass, as if trying to trace the contours of his thoughts. Since waking in this world, in this body, everything had been a disorienting blur of pain, formality, and memory—some his own, and others… not. His identity hadn’t just been transplanted. It was layered, like parchment pressed against parchment. When he thought of his childhood, flashes of American suburbia collided with scenes of a Pomeranian estate: sprawling fields, Lutheran sermons, stern tutors.

  The confusion had begun to settle, slowly, like silt in a jar of shaken water. He was beginning to sense where Jonathan ended and where Otto began—but it was hardly neat. There were moments, like now, when the cadence of the German language felt native on his tongue, the customs around him familiar and expected, and the smell of pipe smoke comforting. Yet in other moments, he'd flinch at the sheer foreignness of this world’s manners, its politics, and the brutal machinery behind aristocratic power.

  Berlin lay ahead, politically fragmented yet the beating heart of Prussia. Count Friedrich von Arnim had extended the invitation personally, apparently impressed—or at least intrigued—by Otto’s recent speech at G?ttingen, and perhaps curious about the rumors of his recent “brush with death.”

  Jonathan—Otto—had decided to accept. He needed allies, even if he didn’t yet know his role in this grand game.

  He looked across the carriage, where his cousin Friedrich dozed lightly, his head bobbing with the motion of the wheels. They shared blood, though the connection was distant and diluted. Friedrich had been a useful presence in these early days: a conduit to this world’s social web, and not entirely insufferable.

  The quiet of the ride gave him time to reflect. His memories of his world still flickered, particularly in the early mornings or when his thoughts drifted. Afghanistan. The operation near Helmand. Heat, dust, and the roar of gunfire. But these memories were growing faint, less vivid. The sensation was like trying to recall a dream slipping away with each passing hour.

  Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something had gone wrong. If this was reincarnation, why wasn’t he a baby? Why did he retain his memories? The dream—or vision—he had in that moment between lives, that strange void, it remained half-lost, like static before a broadcast. No voice. Just sensation. Like passing through something intangible, like water made of light.

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  He pushed those thoughts away and focused on what lay ahead.

  Prussia was… strange. Familiar, yet different. Jonathan had studied 19th-century Europe in his undergrad years, back when he believed he’d be a historian. That world had been a tapestry of dates and decisions. But this world? Already, he’d noticed discrepancies.

  He had skimmed a political pamphlet earlier that morning. It spoke of the Ottomans holding most of the Balkans in defiance of Western interests. That wasn’t right.

  And the American Revolution? Delayed. From what he'd gathered from Friedrich's conversation, the colonies were just now entering open rebellion, spurred not by taxes but by a series of failed diplomatic negotiations and a British crackdown in Boston that had led to widespread boycotts. The French weren’t openly supporting them—not yet.

  The Austrians, meanwhile, were more powerful than expected, propped up by trade alliances with a thriving Russian Empire, which itself hadn't collapsed into autocracy and peasantry. In fact, their recent maneuvers along the Crimean border had drawn Prussian concern.

  Jonathan frowned, rubbing his temples. This world was… adjacent. Parallel. But skewed.

  And if the Qing Empire truly dominated East Asia, as he had read briefly in an imported gazette, then it meant the Great Game of imperial powers had taken a different route entirely. Yet here he was, a man placed in a position that could—would—alter the balance.

  The carriage slowed. Berlin was close.

  The skyline rose ahead: spires and smoke, bureaucratic grandeur mingled with industrial ambition. The city’s architecture lacked the overwhelming scale of Paris or the chaotic sprawl of London, but it exuded a unique austerity. Every stone seemed to speak of order, precision, and hierarchy.

  Friedrich stirred. “We’ll arrive shortly,” he muttered, stretching. “I imagine Count von Arnim has arranged an audience for you. He’s quite eager to hear you speak.”

  Otto—Jonathan—nodded absently. “And what exactly would he like me to speak about?”

  Friedrich chuckled. “Politics, of course. The union. Trade. Military spending. You gave quite the impression in G?ttingen—some even say you possess the mind of a statesman.”

  Jonathan smiled thinly. If only they knew.

  As they rolled past the gates, his stomach turned—not from nerves, but from the weight of what lay ahead. He had a role to play, but no script. And the world, already askew, would not wait for him to find his footing.

  He reached into his coat, pulling out a small notebook he’d begun keeping. Inside were scribbled reminders—not just facts about this new world, but corrections. Things that shouldn’t be this way. Things he might, one day, try to change.

  He flipped to a blank page and jotted:

  “Berlin – First Steps. Watch. Learn. Adapt. This world is not mine—but it may become so.”

  The carriage rattled to a halt. The gate to Count von Arnim’s estate stood open. The game was beginning.