The Eternal Empire

Heimrich crouched low behind a dense thicket of bushes, his sharp ears attuned to the faint sounds of approaching footsteps. The crunch of frost-covered leaves and the occasional snap of a twig betrayed the presence of three individuals moving cautiously through the forest. Their voices carried through the crisp morning air, low and serious.

"...Hans...zurück...verdammt...Wölfe..." (Hans...back...damn...wolves) one of the voices murmured, gruff and thick with an archaic accent.

The language was familiar yet foreign. It bore the unmistakable roots of German, a language Heimrich spoke fluently in its modern form. However, the speech was rougher, the grammar simpler, and many of the words were unfamiliar to him. He strained to pick out fragments of meaning.

"...Holzfäller...zwei Tage..." (woodcutter...two days)

"...Blut...Spuren...Vorsicht..." (blood...tracks...caution)

One of the men muttered, "Gustav...es muss Gustav sein..." (Gustav...it must be Gustav), the name ringing clear to Heimrich's sharp ears. They had clearly found the body of the woodcutter, whose name was now known to him. Their cautious pace and the way they were holding their weapons showed their nervousness and fear. Weapons is maybe not the right word to describe what they were holding, since it was just a shovel, a pitchfork, and an improvised shield made of a few wooden planks. Heimrich remained motionless, his sharp mind analyzing and cataloging their actions and voices—one deep and commanding, another nasal and nervous, and the third slow and deliberate.

"...Höhle in der Nähe..." (cave nearby)

They paused near the clearing, their eyes scanning the ground. One pointed toward faint tracks leading to the woods. Heimrich knew they would soon find the body. His moment to act was approaching.

Slipping quietly back toward the cabin, Heimrich moved to the cellar, closing the door gently behind him. He crouched in the shadows, his sharp mind calculating his next move. To ensure the men would discover him without outright suspicion, he created a faint noise—a subtle rattle of a crate against the stone floor. The sound was just loud enough to be noticed.

Above him, the murmurs of the men grew louder, followed by heavy footsteps approaching the cabin. The door creaked open, and one of them muttered, "...Was war das...?" (What was that...?)

Heimrich's heart pounded, not from fear but from the tension of the moment. He knew this was his chance to make contact.

The cellar door was flung open, and light flooded the space. Heimrich jumped, feigning terror as he stumbled backward. "Bitte! Nicht!" (Please! No!) he cried, his voice trembling and unsteady.

The men stopped in their tracks, startled by the sight of him. One, the leader, stepped forward cautiously, his pitchfork raised. "Wer bist du?" (Who are you?) he demanded.

Heimrich stammered, his expression a masterful portrayal of fear and confusion. "Ich...ich bin...ein Verwandter! Ein Neffe von Gustav!" (I...I am...a relative! A nephew of Gustav!) he blurted, pointing toward the floor as if indicating the deceased woodcutter.

The leader's brow furrowed. "Ein Neffe? Aus welchem Dorf?" (A nephew? From which village?)

"Aus...aus der Nähe von Mainz," Heimrich replied hesitantly, deliberately using a location vague enough to avoid contradiction. "Mein Onkel...hat mich in den Keller geschickt...Wölfe!" (My uncle...sent me to the cellar...wolves!)

The nasal-voiced man leaned closer, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Dein Dialekt...klingt seltsam." (Your dialect...sounds strange.)

Heimrich nodded quickly, his mind racing. "Ich komme von weiter weg...aus einem anderen Gebiet. Wir sprechen alle so..." (I come from farther away...from another region. We all talk like that...)

The men exchanged uncertain glances, their suspicion tempered by the plausibility of his story. Heimrich took the opportunity to appear even more distraught, lowering his head and rubbing his hands together nervously. "Ich hörte Schreie...dann hat mein Onkel mich hier versteckt." (I heard screams...then my uncle hid me here.)

The leader lowered his pitchfork slightly but kept his stance firm. "Der Holzfäller ist tot," he said grimly, his voice softening. (The woodcutter is dead.)

Heimrich feigned shock, his eyes widening as he gasped audibly. "Tot? Mein Onkel?" (Dead? My uncle?) His hands trembled, and his voice cracked with what seemed like genuine despair. As he maintained the act, he couldn't help but reflect briefly: if he could evoke such convincing emotions, why had his colleagues always described him as cold and emotionless? They simply lacked the perspective to recognize skillful pretense as an art.

The third man, who had remained quiet, finally spoke, his voice slow and deliberate. "Ja. Wölfe haben ihn zerfleischt." (Yes. Wolves tore him apart.)

Heimrich swallowed hard, nodding slowly as though processing the information. "Ich...ich wusste es nicht...ich war zu verängstigt." (I...I didn't know...I was too scared.)

The men began to relax, their weapons lowering slightly as pity began to overtake their suspicion. "Komm mit uns," the leader said, gesturing toward the stairs. "Wir können dir helfen." (Come with us. We can help you.)

Heimrich hesitated for a moment before nodding, allowing them to guide him out of the cellar. The first contact had been made, but the men's initial sympathy was tempered by lingering doubt. As they guided Heimrich out of the cabin and into the crisp forest air, they whispered among themselves in hushed tones.

"Gustav hat nie von einem Neffen erzählt," (Gustav never mentioned a nephew) muttered the nasal-voiced man.

"Vielleicht...kommt er wirklich von weiter weg," (Maybe...he really is from far away) the slower man suggested, his voice uncertain.

Heimrich, trailing just behind them, caught every word. His enhanced hearing, a product of the optimized biology of his era, allowed him to pick up even their quietest mutterings. In his original world, such abilities were not extraordinary—merely the pinnacle of natural human potential, comparable to that of a highly trained secret agent. But here, in this primitive age, it gave him a significant edge.

As they approached a narrow trail leading down toward a distant clearing, Heimrich noted the faint outline of structures—a small settlement nestled among the trees. The chimneys of wooden cottages puffed thin columns of smoke into the pale sky. A village he murmured to himself, his sharp mind already planning his next moves. For now, he allowed himself to appear meek and frightened, the image of a lost relative in need of help.