The Eternal Empire

Two weeks had passed since Heimrich arrived in the small village. With a population of barely 200, it hadn't taken long for him to meet nearly every inhabitant. Introducing himself only as Heimrich, he avoided using a surname, knowing that only nobles and knights in this time carried such distinctions. It was a subtle but calculated move to blend in.

For these two weeks, he had been living under the hospitality of the village chief, a pragmatic man named Konrad. The chief's home was modest yet sturdier than most, a reflection of his position. Konrad had offered Heimrich a place to stay until he could build a shelter of his own. Not one to take advantage of others' kindness, Heimrich quickly volunteered to fell trees and provide firewood for the village. Winter loomed, and firewood was an invaluable resource. By taking up this task, Heimrich ensured not only his utility to the villagers but also reinforced the backstory he had created.

The story fit perfectly—a nephew of a woodcutter, taking up his uncle's work after a tragic loss. It was hard, manual labor, but Heimrich performed it with quiet determination. The villagers respected his willingness to contribute, though some remained wary. Among them was a young woman named Anna, barely in her twenties, who avoided him entirely. Anna was a bit seclusive and not very sociable—what one might call an introvert in today's time. Her suspicion was evident, but she kept her distance, never voicing her doubts aloud. Heimrich dismissed it as unimportant, as long as she left him alone and didn't overcomplicate things.

Each morning, Heimrich rose with the dawn, the faint light filtering through the wooden shutters of Konrad's home. After a modest breakfast of coarse bread and watered-down ale, he would head to the forest with an axe slung over his shoulder. His enhanced strength, though not supernatural, made the grueling task of felling trees more manageable. By midday, he would return to the village, his cart laden with freshly chopped wood. The rest of the day was spent stacking and distributing the firewood, ensuring that even the frailest villagers had enough to last the winter. His daily routine was simple and predictable, offering him a sense of stability in this unfamiliar world.

In the evenings, Heimrich would sit by the village square, engaging in quiet conversations with the locals. He was careful to ask questions sparingly, probing for information without appearing intrusive. Through these interactions, he learned the names of the three men who had discovered him: Ludwig, Hans, and Hugo. Ludwig, with his deep and commanding voice, often took charge, while Hans, nasal and nervous, and Hugo, slow and deliberate, followed his lead. The trio were farmers who worked the same fields, their camaraderie born of shared labor and hardship.

Through many conversations and his sharp intellect, Heimrich had quickly adapted to the older form of German spoken in the village. Within two weeks, he could understand and speak it fluently, bridging the language gap with ease. In one such conversation with Konrad, Heimrich finally uncovered a crucial piece of information: the year. "It is the year 1138 AD," Konrad said, leaning back in his chair.

Heimrich's mind raced. 1138. He remembered the historical significance of this year. Otto I von Wittelsbach, the founder of his bloodline, was born in 1117. By this time, Otto would be 21 years old. Heimrich recalled that Otto would not rise to prominence until 1180, when Emperor Frederick Barbarossa granted him the Duchy of Bavaria.

The thought intrigued Heimrich. What would it be like to meet the founder of his lineage? To see the roots of the Wittelsbach legacy firsthand? Yet, the prospect seemed distant. Freising, this quiet village tucked away in the wilderness, was unlikely to bring him closer to Otto. For now, Heimrich's focus remained on survival and integration.

Despite his outsider status, Heimrich's efforts did not go unnoticed. The villagers appreciated his contributions, and his reserved demeanor made him approachable. He offered practical advice where he could, carefully framing it as common sense rather than the product of advanced knowledge. Slowly but surely, trust began to grow.

However, Heimrich remained cautious. Though nearly everyone in the village had come to trust him, Anna remained the exception. Her avoidance and suspicion gnawed at him more than he cared to admit. According to his knowledge about human psychology, his behavior—from his speech to his actions and intellect—perfectly aligned with his story of being a nephew from afar who wanted to become a woodcutter. And yet, while the rest of the village trusted and believed him, Anna did not. In his experience, his instincts—what he often referred to as his sixth sense—were rarely wrong. It was time, he decided, to observe Anna more closely and uncover the reasons behind her mistrust.