In the religions I knew, when a person died, the big boss of that religion would show up, pull data from the life you lived, put you on display for judgment, then decide at their own whim whether you went to heaven, hell, or reincarnation.
What's certain is that I never met any big boss, and this place is neither heaven nor hell.
Ah, reincarnation? Reincarnation might be right. But doesn't reincarnation usually send you to the future?
Why, of all places, Europe's China—France—and why the 1700s…?
"Young Master Guillaume, what are you thinking about all by yourself again?"
"Oh, just the usual random thoughts. Nothing to worry about."
My musings were scattered by Alain, the butler of our estate.
How should I put it—this… 'world,' I guess?
Anyway, I was reborn as the child of a fairly well-off noble family under the name Guillaume de Toulon.
Thanks to that, I got to enjoy a mansion, servants, and a luxurious life I couldn't even dream of on my original Earth.
The elegant, stylish life people usually imagine when they think of European nobility.
Of course, that would be true if not for those 'half-brothers' sitting across from me, sipping tea.
"Alain, didn't I tell you there's no need to fuss over a bastard like that? Right, Georges?"
Pierre, the eldest brother who always picked a fight with me first, said that after a sip of tea.
"Brother Pierre is right. Don't pamper a half-baked noble like him, Alain. Hahaha!"
The second son, Georges, chimed in.
Bastard. Bastard.
Well, it's not wrong.
I wasn't born a noble—I was born the son of a common-born woman.
The so-called illegitimate child, the kind you always see in historical dramas and over-the-top melodramas—that's me right now. Guillaume de Toulon.
Ah, I can't call my father Father, but I can call my mother Mother. Slightly better than Hong Gildong, I guess.
When I stayed silent despite their provocation, the two of them started scraping at my nerves again.
"He's quiet because he knows his place, isn't that right, Alain? Haha."
Tsk.
Brats. I'm thirteen here and thirty-six if you add my past life, and these middle-school punks whose heads aren't even dry yet are badmouthing me—what a joke. Seriously.
Even though I was reborn on this cheese-smelling land, it seems my identity as a Korean raised under Confucian moral rigidity is stronger.
Still, the reliable social skills I'd trained for thirteen years in this hellhole forced a smile onto my face toward those punchable mugs.
"My brothers are right. Alain, please don't worry too much."
The moment I finished speaking, Pierre and Georges curled their lips and snickered.
Look at them giggling.
Is it hormones at that middle-school age making them itchy if they don't bully someone, or are they just rotten by nature?
Confucius and Mencius were wrong. Xunzi's theory of innate evil is right.
People are born evil.
And those two are top-tier among them.
You think I'm too spineless? I wasn't like this from the start. Three years ago, I snapped and fought back.
The result… wasn't great.
"This fucking bastard's got a mouth and still talks like shit?"
"W-What? What did this bastard just say?"
"Why, pissed off that a bastard's talking back?"
But the power of puberty was great, and I—at best a slightly big elementary school kid—had no choice but to kneel before the ruthless violence of middle-school suppression forces in their growth phase.
"Aaagh! Let go, let go, you bastards! Aaagh!"
And after that scuffle, the head of the house—our father—personally smashed our heads together.
"Even if he is your half-brother, he is still your blood. As nobles, you must possess mercy and patience, yet I see none of that in you. Pierre, Georges, one week of confinement for both of you."
Up to there, it was fine.
"And… youngest. You lack the virtues of humility and obedience. You as well—one week of confinement."
They called it confinement, but it was really a week of stuffy solitary isolation.
After it ended, I clung to my fading sanity, begged and begged never to do it again, and barely earned forgiveness.
Solitary confinement in midsummer without air conditioning or even a fan—how did I even survive that? Still a mystery.
In the end, stuck in a position where I couldn't properly rebel and couldn't fight back either, I thought long and hard and reached one conclusion.
"Build an unassailable fortress of ability so thorough that no one can look down on me."
I don't know why I was given memories of a past life. Maybe it's compensation for being born an illegitimate son?
Since it's come to this, I'll squeeze every drop out of the memories I have.
Maybe it's because I'm still growing, but just imagining Pierre and Georges clinging to my pant legs later already makes endorphins surge.
But showing brilliance too early is extremely dangerous.
If I slip up, those two hooligans could mark me and crack my skull one night.
Or their mother, deciding I threaten the succession, might personally slip poison into my milk.
Maybe because I've seen too many people die from poison in Detective Conan, I'll pass on that.
Besides, 18th-century France barely has proper educational institutions for young children. Education? What's that? Can you eat it?
What an advanced child-rearing system. Parents in 21st-century Korea would foam at the mouth if they saw this.
So I endured until today, the day I turned thirteen.
At least at this age, they might consider sending me to an educational institution.
Ah, this cool sensation—it's been thirteen years. There's no more hazy little kid now.
Thanks for making me this determined, you bastards Pierre and Georges.
"Head of House, may I come in?"
"Enter."
I straightened my clothes once more, opened the lavishly decorated door, and entered my father's study.
Every time I come here, I feel it—the nobles of this era are truly extravagant. Even a noble in this rural backwater decorates his study with this many precious ornaments.
When I closed the door and sat, Father set down the book he'd been reading and looked at me.
"What is it? Did you fight with Pierre or Georges again?"
"No. This concerns only me, unrelated to the two of them."
"Oh?"
He stared at me with interest, then slowly set down his magnifying glasses.
I spoke quickly before losing his attention.
"Please send me to the University of Paris."
"The University of Paris?"
The University of Paris, commonly called the Sorbonne.
The cradle of French talent and the mecca of education, gathering not only noble children but also exceptional commoners, training high officials and clergy alike.
After hearing me, Father stroked his chin a few times and spoke.
"Do you know how old you are to say that?"
"I am thirteen this year."
"Don't you think you're too young yourself?"
"Saint Joan of Arc also received God's calling at thirteen and went to the battlefield. I don't believe age is a problem."
"Huh."
A strange light appeared in Father's eyes.
Of course.
A thirteen-year-old who had shown no drive or talent suddenly citing great figures and speaking clearly—he must think I ate something wrong at lunch.
Too bad for him. I chewed my lunch thoroughly today. No indigestion here. None.
"Sudden words like this must have a reason."
"…."
"May I hear it?"
He closed his eyes briefly and spoke gently.
"To receive the level of education I want, I must go there.
There is no one here who can teach me."
When I finished, his brow furrowed.
"Hah… you're already learning arrogance at your age?"
"It's not arrogance. It's confidence."
The moment I said that, sparks flew in his eyes.
"What have I always told you! If you wish to live as a noble, you must possess the proper duties, honor, and qualities! Where have you left humility and modesty! Get out!"
I didn't expect him to be this furious.
To a man who embodied proper nobility, I must have looked like I'd gone too far.
Well, if some sixth grader with nothing to show for himself came saying, "I'm kind of amazing," I'd want to flick his forehead too.
I bowed my head.
"Yes, Head of House. I apologize for causing concern."
He took a deep breath while looking at me and spoke.
"…Hoo. Have dinner alone in your room tonight. Think carefully about what you did wrong while you eat. You may leave."
"Yes, Head of House."
Still, I'd achieved my initial goal.
He'd clearly started looking at me differently. That alone was enough.
Maybe not three stars on an Angry Birds stage, but at least one star.
He's upright, righteous, and full of family affection. Even if he's angry now, he'll soon mull over my words and sink into thought.
My part is done. Now I just wait for the fishing float to move.
Charles de Toulon. Head of this estate. Lord of Gehenne.
And a branch member of the Toulon family.
A noble driven out from the sapphire port of Toulon in southern France, never granted a rightful territory matching his name, practically exiled to the countryside.
He was deep in thought.
Even the wine and cheese he usually enjoyed had little taste for him now.
He tried to savor the remaining wine in his glass, but felt nothing.
Right now, only thoughts of the 'youngest' filled his mind.
First came denial.
"A child whose actions outran his words. He couldn't have meant it."
Second came anger.
"Still, I warned him so much about arrogance…"
Third came calm.
"If—if—just if—the youngest's words weren't empty, but drawn from deep inside… the result of combining his status as an illegitimate son and some knowledge he's accumulated without me noticing…"
"If he's not a genius, then he's someone who can't control his own pride."
He poured the last of the wine into his glass and drained it.
"It won't hurt to confirm."
And if that child truly were a genius—
In his nose lingered not the fragrance of wine, but the briny smell of Toulon Port from twenty years ago, when he'd been driven away by his cousins and brothers.