Hello everybody!
Here is a new chapter!
Thank you Dekol347, Mium, Porthos10, Ranger_Red, AlexZero12, p_raj, Shingle_Top and Historyman_84 for the support! Enjoy!
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That day—July 26th, 1761—marked the fourth anniversary of Adam's transmigration.
Four years. Four years of fighting, of decisions, of responsibility, of gains and losses, marching from battlefield to battlefield, under sun and rain, through dust and mud…
So much had happened that just thinking about it made his head spin. Never in his life had Adam imagined living so much in so little time.
In his original era, he would have been twenty.
He probably would have finished high school without fanfare, passed his final exams as a simple rite of passage, and then… he didn't know. Before his transmigration, he had no clear plan for the future.
He hadn't prepared anything and lived day to day, with no dreams or ambitions.
Adam didn't even know what job he wanted to do.
He spent his free time reading manga and webnovels—mostly Korean ones—escaping into video games or binge-watching series.
Maybe he would have gone to college to eventually land a job vaguely related to his hobbies?
Or maybe he would have ended up with a useless degree and fallen into some dull, repetitive job—just lucrative enough to let him survive.
At twenty, he probably would still have been looking for his path, unknowingly walking straight into an invisible wall.
But here, he was twenty-four, a captain in one of the oldest regiments of the Kingdom of France, and had taken part in numerous battles. He had brushed up against death countless times, made close friends—and lost others.
He had known a brotherhood so strong it bound men like family, faced his fears, pushed past his physical limits.
He had grown. Maybe too fast.
His two lives had become so different that he wondered how such a thing could be possible. They now seemed irreconcilable.
In the end, he thought, I guess it's all about context. Strength, courage, determination… I think I had all that in me from the beginning. Was I just waiting for the right chance? I think… I was meant for this. Is it because of my soul? The one I share with François?
Then, a stranger thought crossed his mind.
In the end, what do I even know about my soul? Who was I in my past lives? Ah… I'd love to know who I was before being François, or Adam. Maybe I fought in the Crusades, marched with the Romans, or served in the First World War?
A bitter smile tugged at his lips as he thought back to his old life.
Maybe… I was born in the wrong era.
From his point of view, it seemed like there were no great wars anymore, not like in previous centuries. Of course, he knew that wasn't really true.
Before his transmigration, several conflicts were still raging around the world, even if only two were ever mentioned in his country. France, for instance, was engaged in operations against criminals in Africa who used terrorism as a weapon against well-established regimes with armies and militias.
But those conflicts felt distant—almost abstract.
In Europe, despite what some claimed, there was nothing but calm. Over seventy years of peace. More than a rarity—it was a miracle. A historical anomaly.
He'd known little about history, but since arriving in the eighteenth century, Adam had realized just how utopian such peace would seem to the people of this time. Here, there was always war.
Here, peace only existed to prepare for the next war.
Maybe… it won't last? Maybe it's modern people who are living in a dream? What if it's all just a parenthesis, and someday the European Union shatters? What if, for some reason, the continent is once again engulfed in flames?
He shook his head, as if to chase the thought away. He didn't believe it—or didn't want to.
He preferred to think that the memory of two world wars served as a strong enough deterrent—and would last forever. That Europeans, traumatized, would do everything in their power to avoid repeating such horror.
Even if it meant painful compromises, again and again.
But how far could that go? What if they eventually cracked?
His father used to watch TV in the evenings, after work. The news was never cheerful.
Adam pictured him again—slumped on the couch after a long day, glued to the 24-hour news channels. Images of war, petty political games, corruption, urban unrest, natural disasters.
It was enough to make anyone depressed.
Broadcasting all those things only raised the pressure—on countries, cities, even individual households. But if those things existed, would changing the channel make them disappear? Would it relieve the pressure? Or would it only delay the inevitable—the collapse of that fragile bubble?
If Europe was a pressure cooker, burying one's head in the sand wouldn't put out the flame.
Here, in the eighteenth century, as in all the centuries before, war was constant. For control of land and sea. For riches. No one hid behind moral ideals—useless on a battlefield.
Was that better? Less destructive in the long run?
He didn't know.
Ah, why am I even thinking about all this? Focus! Get back to work!
Adam vigorously rubbed his face, as if to wake himself up, and forced himself to focus on the task at hand.
He was studying the War of Spanish Succession, which had taken place at the very beginning of the century. It had lasted a little over thirteen years and profoundly changed the world.
It was through this war that a Bourbon—Louis XIV's grandson—had ended up on the throne of Spain, on the condition that the two crowns would never be united. A fusion of the Spanish and French colonial empires would have upset the balance of power, and all other nations would have felt threatened.
If that day ever came, all of them would surely unite to break such a terrifying alliance.
England emerged from the war as mistress of the seas, with several territories in North America, including Acadia and Hudson Bay, as well as Gibraltar and Minorca.
France, for its part, had managed to place its candidate on the Spanish throne, breaking the Habsburg encirclement, but at the cost of long-term impoverishment.
According to the memoirs he had already read, it was because of this war that France lost the following conflicts, which were also wars of succession.
Adam was currently reading battle accounts and examining maps. He was trying to learn from them, because even sixty years later, warfare hadn't really changed.
Battles were still fought by thousands of infantrymen; cavalry exploited the breaches opened by artillery, and naval power remained crucial to isolate colonies and cut off reinforcements.
He sighed.
"Battle of Brihuega, December 8, 1710…" he read aloud.
Another sigh escaped him. He found it all dreadfully boring. Necessary, no doubt. Instructive, surely. But despite all his efforts, never truly exciting.
Knock knock knock!
Adam looked up from his papers, surprised to be interrupted so early in the morning. He stood and opened the door.
It was Martin.
"Good news!" he said with a broad smile, waving a thick envelope. "My father replied!"
Without waiting, he walked into his friend's room, visibly excited, and handed him the envelope.
"I took the liberty of reading it, hehe! After all, it was addressed to me," he added with a conspiratorial wink.
Adam froze as he realized what it was about. A wave of tension rose in his throat and formed a knot.
"It's… about my novel? What does he say?!"
Martin crossed his arms, looking triumphant.
"Read it yourself," he said simply, smiling.
Adam swallowed hard and, fingers slightly trembling, nervously pulled the letter from the already opened envelope. He had been waiting for this for a long time now.
He took a deep breath, then began to read silently.
.
Jean-Baptiste du FourBook Examiner for the Department of Fine LettersParis, May 16, 1761
Sir,
The manuscript submitted to our judgment, titled Beauty and the Beast, presents a tale of a marvelous nature, apt to instruct young minds while entertaining them.
The work is written in a pleasant and clear style, without statements contrary to religion or to royal majesty.
However, we submit the following remarks:
The heroine, though animated by praiseworthy virtues, displays at times a degree of independence of mind that might trouble certain readers. It would be advisable to emphasize her piety and filial obedience in the early chapters.
The enchantment affecting the prince is not sufficiently motivated by a moral fault (pride, impiety, vanity). It would be appropriate to allude to one, in order to frame the tale within an edifying logic.
The talking creatures of the castle, though charming, tend toward an excessively light tone. Their role would benefit from being toned down or their speech rendered more in line with propriety.
Finally, the happy ending would merit a mention of Providence or divine design, to strengthen the Christian lesson that the reader must take away.
Provided these minor adjustments are made, we consider that the work may be published without harm to public morals or order.
.
Adam read the letter a second time. Then a third. His hands were clammy, and he didn't know what to think.
He finally looked up at Martin, his gaze still dazed.
"These… these are good news, I suppose?" he said uncertainly.
Martin beamed at him.
"They're excellent news, François! The censors aren't blocking your novel! That's already huge!"
Adam looked down at the letter again, without much enthusiasm.
"But I have to change it… to please them."
The expression on his face grew darker and darker. He thought he was done with Beauty and the Beast.
"Don't make that face, come on! These are just tiny tweaks, nothing more! Imagine if they'd asked you to rewrite the whole thing! Or worse—banned it entirely! You know how many authors are forced to use foreign printers just to bypass censorship?! This is huge! You're going to get real authorization!"
Adam raised an eyebrow in surprise. He had never truly considered censorship to be a major obstacle in France. Yet this letter was proof enough.
What surprised him most was how much importance this Du Four placed on morality and religion. Judging by what he had written, novels clearly had to serve a philosophical purpose.
A shiver ran down his spine.
"Shit… if that's what they expect, does that mean I'm going to get wrecked for Pirates of the Caribbean?"
Adam turned pale.
"Uh… Well, yes, you were… a little bold," Martin admitted, looking uncomfortable. "I warned you. Making pirates the center of the story—your Jack Sparrow… They're not going to like it. At all."
Adam collapsed into his chair like he had taken a blow to the head. He brought a hand to his face, as if to hide his despair.
Martin winced at the sight of his friend. He remained silent.
"They're going to hate it, aren't they? Tell me to rewrite everything?"
"Definitely. Personally, I liked it. Especially Jack Sparrow. But the censors? They're rigid. From their point of view, you're glorifying a criminal—turning him into a clever, freethinking, charming hero. It's not just bold; they'll see it as a provocation. If they don't ask you to remove him entirely, they'll at least demand you turn him into… I don't know… a repentant outlaw."
Adam abruptly looked up, his eyes red and glistening with frustration.
"But then he wouldn't be Jack Sparrow anymore!" Adam burst out. "That's who he is, for God's sake!"
"That's not the only issue, François. Your story also has those… uh… what do you call them? Undead? There are curses, the occult. I can't even count how many edicts have been issued against those kinds of topics. All that magic and superstition—it goes against Catholic doctrine. The censors will never allow it."
Adam clenched his teeth and gripped his clothes, as if restraining himself from smashing everything.
"What?! I'm supposed to get rid of the skeleton pirates? The Aztec gold curse?!"
"Look, honestly—even I had a hard time with that part. And I consider myself pretty open-minded. You could say the pirates looted a church, cursed God, or renounced the Apostolic Roman Catholic faith and were punished for it?"
"…"
"And then there's your heroine."
"Elizabeth Swann."
"Right. Well, I like her too, but… she's too independent. She defies her father, refuses an arranged marriage, fights—everything. It's not proper. She acts like a man."
Adam shot his friend a dark glare, as if Jean-Baptiste du Four himself had just thrown his manuscript in his face. He hadn't quite finished the novel yet, but he was nearing the end.
He was just about to write the epic duel between Jack Sparrow and Captain Barbossa on Isla de Muerta.
He turned away and let his head rest in his hands.
"I… I need to think. Can you… leave me alone for a while? Please."
Martin nodded sadly.
"Of course."
In heavy silence, Martin left the room, leaving his friend to his thoughts. He could understand his distress.
He knew how much Adam had invested in this project. He often talked about his progress.But what could he do?
Click.
Even once alone, Adam didn't move. He stayed motionless for a long while, seated behind his desk.
The mere idea of receiving those remarks broke his heart. And little by little, the sadness gave way to anger.
"FUCK!"
With a broad, violent gesture, he swept everything off his desk. Papers flew, and an inkwell crashed loudly to the floor.
Its contents quickly spread, filling the cracks in the wooden planks.
His manuscript sailed across the room and hit the far wall, collapsing like a bird without wings.
He didn't even spare it a glance and buried his face in his arms once more.
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Later, on the training ground.
"La Coquette! Is that a musket or a broom you're holding?! Three more laps! And pick up the pace! You're lagging behind!"
The captain's voice rang out across the still-cool morning air.
Before him, his men ran like the damned and sweated like oxen. No soldier, not even the hardiest, was spared from their superior's incomprehensible fury.
Since dawn, the captain had been on their backs. His criticism fell like autumn rain.
No one was safe.
"Beau-Regard! Your tricorne is crooked! And what's with that face, Buttercup?! Shut your mouth! You're going to swallow a bee—and let me tell you, that's not pleasant! Move it!"
Lieutenants Marais and Bellemaison watched in stunned silence. They had no idea what had gotten into their young captain this morning.
They didn't dare say anything, fearing they might draw his wrath onto themselves, but the looks they exchanged spoke volumes.
Adam didn't stop. He continued barking at his men all morning and would probably have kept it up all afternoon, if not for a sudden bout of hoarseness that robbed him of his voice.
By evening, he could barely whisper.