Breaking the Multiverse for You

The crunch of gravel beneath Micheal von Shelb's boots punctuated his determined strides toward the mansion. The golden hues of the late afternoon sun stretched across the Shelb estate, casting long shadows over the statues and hedges. Micheal's sharp blue eyes burned with a mixture of frustration and resolve as he replayed fragments of the vivid dream that refused to leave him.

He couldn't tell anyone about the dream—not his father, not his brothers, not even his best friends. To them, the world was as normal as it had always been. But to Micheal, the dream had revealed a different truth: their lives were mere threads in a tapestry of novels, manipulated by unseen authors. The thought gnawed at him, both infuriating and invigorating.

As Micheal walked toward the mansion, the crunch of gravel under his boots became a steady rhythm, matching the thoughts racing through his mind. His sharp blue eyes caught sight of a grand portrait hanging in the main hall as he entered. It was a painting of his grandparents, Harold and Lila von Shelb, their expressions serene yet commanding. The sight stirred something in him, an unspoken connection to the past.

Unwittingly, his thoughts turned toward them. Harold's image, coupled with the vivid dream from earlier, triggered a cascade of memories—only, they weren't his memories. Fragments of unfamiliar details flooded his mind, aligning too seamlessly to be dismissed as imagination. The pieces fell into place, revealing a novel from the repository in his dream: To My Lady, From the Battlefield. His grandparents were its protagonists, their love story the heartbeat of its narrative.

Harold von Shelb was celebrated across the Empire as the first Duke of Southwest, a man whose valor and loyalty had shaped the empire's borders. His victories in battle, strategic brilliance, and the prosperity he brought to the Southwest earned him a legacy steeped in admiration and awe. But Micheal now knew the truth: Harold's every triumph had been driven by an unshakable love for Lila, the woman who had become his world.

At seventeen, Harold was a nameless knight serving in the household of Baron Edsel, a minor noble weighed down by debts. The baron's fortunes had been waning for years, and his last hope lay in his daughter, Lila. At sixteen, Lila was celebrated for her sharp wit and beauty, but to her father, she was a commodity to be traded. He had arranged for her to marry an aging duke as his fourth wife, a match that promised wealth but left Lila despairing.

Harold had fallen deeply in love with Lila. To him, she was more than her beauty—her resilience and kindness had captivated him. When the baron's plans became clear, Harold resolved to change their fates. He joined the Empire's campaign against the barbaric tribes of the West, determined to earn the status and wealth that would allow him to free Lila from her father's schemes. With each battle he climbed ranks, soon he became a commander of a ragtag team of loyal mercenaries.

At nineteen, Harold led a daring expedition that secured his future. Pushing beyond the Empire's borders, he captured the castle of a minor king, claiming a fertile expanse of land for the Empire. The Emperor, impressed by Harold's strategic brilliance, rewarded him with the title of Count and allowed him to retain the castle as his own. This fortress became the foundation of the Southwestern Dukedom.

When Harold returned to Baron Edsel's estate two years later, he was no longer the nameless knight who had left. Now a Count with land and wealth, Harold was ready to claim Lila's hand. But what he found upon his return left him shaken. Lila, believing Harold had died in battle, had decided to escape her father's control by entering a nunnery. She was just days away from taking her vows.

Their reunion was bittersweet. Lila, stunned by Harold's return, hesitated to believe he was real. "You came back?" she whispered, tears brimming in her eyes.

"I promised I would," Harold replied, his voice steady but thick with emotion. "And I've returned with everything I need to set us free."

Armed with his newfound status, Harold confronted the baron, paying off his debts and securing Lila's freedom. For the first time in years, Lila had the agency to choose her own future. She chose Harold.

Their marriage marked the beginning of a partnership that would leave an indelible mark on the Empire. Harold continued his military career, earning accolades as he expanded the Empire's borders and protected its people. His victories solidified his reputation, and the Emperor elevated him to the rank of Duke, making him the first Duke of Southwest. The castle Harold had captured became the seat of the Dukedom, a symbol of his resilience and Lila's faith in him.

Together, Harold and Lila transformed the Southwest into a prosperous region. Harold's leadership extended beyond the battlefield; he introduced fair governance, improved infrastructure, and fostered trade. Lila, with her sharp intellect, became a trusted advisor, ensuring the region's success was built on more than just military might.

Despite his public image as a fearless warrior, Harold's letters to Lila revealed a different side of him. Hidden behind a portrait in their favorite reading room, these letters were written before each battle, meant to be read only if he did not return. The location of these letters were a secret that only Harold knew of. He knew that if he were to fall in battle, as the custom dictated back in those days the portrait above the fireplace would be replaced with the picture of the last patriarch, it would be then that Lila would get all the letters that he had written to her. Micheal now knew, through the novel, that the letters were brimming with vulnerability and love.

The novel described Harold's first letter, written on the eve of his initial campaign:

"Lila,

The dawn is near, and my men ready themselves for the journey ahead. They call this a noble cause, but I do not fight for the Empire—I fight for you. For the promise of a future where we can be together without shadows looming over us. If I do not return, know this: every sword I raise, every battle I fight, is for you."

Though Harold survived every campaign, his letters painted a portrait of a man deeply aware of his mortality. In one of his later letters, written after they were married, he confessed his fears:

"My dearest Lila,

Tomorrow's battle looms, and the odds are not in our favor. My men look to me for strength, yet I feel nothing but fear. Fear that I may never return to you, fear that I will leave you to face this world alone. If I fall, promise me you will live boldly, for both of us."

The letters were forgotten even by Harold in his retirement, but they were a testament to the man behind the myth. To the Empire, Harold was a hero of unyielding strength. To Lila, he was a man who loved her more than life itself.

Now retired, Harold and Lila lived in coastal city in a castle overlooking the sea, fulfilling a dream they had shared in their youth. Their love story, immortalized in To My Lady, From the Battlefield, was a testament to the power of devotion and resilience.

As Micheal stared at their portrait, he felt a surge of admiration and resolve. Harold had rewritten his destiny for love, building an empire within an empire to protect the woman he cherished. Micheal clenched his fists, determination flickering in his eyes.

"Grandpa, you suddenly make all my troubles seem like child play," Micheal thought, "I will fight to change the story that binds me—and also save Magda from a fate she doesn't deserve."

Micheal pushed open the door to what was now Magda's waiting room. The room, once the cherished reading room of his grandparents, Harold and Lila von Shelb, had been transformed into part of Magda's suite when she joined the household. The family had spared no expense in arranging the finest accommodations for her, a gesture intended to reflect her status as the Emperor's daughter. Yet the ornate furniture and grand fireplace seemed at odds with the quiet figure standing by the window.

Magda was bathed in the soft, golden light of the setting sun, her silhouette framed by the tall windows. Her black braid fell neatly over her shoulder, and her pale complexion seemed almost translucent in the warm light. Her crimson eyes, so much like the Emperor's, turned toward him, widening slightly in surprise.

"Micheal?" she asked, her voice hesitant, yet carrying a note of restrained hope.

It had been months since they'd exchanged more than obligatory pleasantries. Micheal felt a pang of guilt as he realized just how little he had tried to understand her. Her presence stirred something unfamiliar within him—not love, but a burgeoning sense of responsibility. He had neglected her, allowed her to become a peripheral figure in his life, yet here she stood, carrying herself with a quiet dignity that made his chest tighten.

"Magda," he replied, her name foreign yet weighted on his tongue. "It's been a while."

She nodded faintly, her expression unreadable. Silence stretched between them, thick and awkward, laden with unspoken regrets. Micheal shifted uncomfortably under her gaze and cleared his throat. "I just need to check something," he said, turning abruptly toward the grand portrait hanging above the fireplace.

The painting depicted his grandparents, Harold and Lila von Shelb, their serene expressions immortalized in soft brushstrokes. The sight of it stirred an unexpected pang of nostalgia. Micheal had always admired the portrait as a symbol of their legacy, but now it served as a portal to memories he had never lived. Details from the dream swirled in his mind, fragments of his grandfather's love story piecing together with striking clarity.

"To My Lady, From the Battlefield," Micheal thought, the title of the novel now etched into his consciousness. Harold and Lila's love story had been more than the family's whispered tales—it had been the heart of an epic, filled with fragility and strength, vulnerability and valor.

The hidden letters, a secret even his grandfather had forgotten, suddenly felt like a living connection to the past. Micheal's resolve hardened.

Dust filled the air as he carefully removed the painting from its mount. Behind it, just as he had seen in the dream, was a hidden compartment. Micheal's pulse quickened as he slid open the panel, revealing a small chest nestled inside. Its surface was worn, the wood dulled by time.

Magda stepped closer, her crimson eyes alight with curiosity. "What are you doing?" she asked, her tone cautious but intrigued.

Micheal glanced at her briefly, his blue eyes softening. "I need to make sure of something," he murmured.

He retrieved the chest and placed it on a nearby table. The lid creaked as he opened it, revealing a bundle of letters tied neatly with a faded ribbon. The sight of the yellowed pages, their edges curled with age, made his breath catch. He untied the ribbon, his fingers trembling slightly as he unfolded the first letter.

Magda stood beside him, her gaze fixed on the delicate script. "What are those?" she asked softly.

"Letters," Micheal replied, his voice thick with emotion. "My grandfather wrote them before every battle. They were meant for my grandmother, in case he didn't make it back."

Her expression shifted, a mixture of awe and sadness crossing her features. "He must have loved her deeply," she murmured.

Micheal nodded, his throat tightening as he read the words. The ink was faded but legible, the emotions behind them raw and unfiltered. Harold von Shelb, a man revered as a symbol of valiant strength, had poured his fears and vulnerabilities into these pages. He had faced countless battles with the weight of his love for Lila anchoring him, and the letters revealed a side of him the world never saw—a side filled with uncertainty, longing, and unwavering devotion.

Magda crouched beside him, her presence grounding in its quiet strength. "He must have been a remarkable man," she said gently.

"He was," Micheal admitted, his voice low. "But not for the reasons people think."

As he scanned the words, fragments of the dream resurfaced, aligning perfectly with the text before him. The details were exact, right down to the way Harold had signed each letter with, "Forever yours, Harold." Micheal's chest tightened as he realized the truth of the dream's revelations. These weren't just echoes of a forgotten past—they were proof that the world he lived in was shaped by stories far beyond his control.

Magda's gaze shifted to him, her crimson eyes searching his face. "Why are you showing me this?" she asked after a moment.

Micheal hesitated. He wanted to tell her everything—the dream, the novels, the fate he had seen awaiting them both. But how could he explain something so incomprehensible without sounding mad?

Instead, he said, "Because I think there's something to learn here. Something important."

Magda tilted her head, curiosity flickering in her expression. "Like what?"

"Responsibility," Micheal replied, his tone firm. "Harold wasn't perfect. But he took responsibility for what he loved—for who he loved."

Magda's lips parted slightly, but she said nothing. Micheal felt the weight of his words settle between them, a promise unspoken yet understood. He didn't love her, not yet. But he owed her something—his attention, his effort, and perhaps, one day, his trust.

For the first time, he looked at Magda not as an inconvenience or a stranger, but as someone who deserved better. Better than the indifference he had shown her. Better than the cold shoulder she received from his family. Better than the life the story had dictated for her.