hjihghhhhh

Darkness.

Then pain.

Not the sharp, definitive agony of artillery fire tearing through flesh, but something more primal—a compression, a struggle, a desperate fight for breath.

I was dying again, but differently this time. No battlefield. No glory. Just the primitive panic of suffocation.

Then light. Blinding, harsh, and unwelcome.

I tried to scream, to curse Being X with every fiber of my being—but what emerged was only an infant's wail, high and helpless.

No. Not again. NOT AGAIN.

My vision swam with blurry shapes and indistinct colors. My limbs refused commands, flailing uselessly against my will. I couldn't speak. Couldn't move with purpose. Couldn't even control my own bodily functions.

Hell. This was hell.

"It's a girl, Your Majesty." A voice, clinical and detached.

"Her name will be Tanya la Britannia." Another voice, female, weak and fading. "Tanya… after my grandmother…"

"The empress is hemorrhaging! We need to—"

"Save… my daughter…"

Chaos erupted around me. Voices shouting. Machines beeping urgently. My infant body was passed between hands, wrapped tightly, removed from the commotion.

Through the fog of new eyes, I caught a glimpse of blood. So much blood. A woman's face, beautiful even in death, golden hair spread around her like a halo.

I had killed my mother simply by being born.

An efficient entrance, if nothing else.

The first year was the worst. Trapped in a prison of undeveloped muscle and infant reflexes, I experienced a helplessness more profound than anything in my previous lives. As a salaryman, I had agency. As a soldier, I had power. As an infant, I had nothing but time and rage.

Being X had outdone himself with this particular torment. I couldn't even properly survey my surroundings or gather intelligence on this new world. I was dependent on the whims of nurses and attendants, fed on a schedule not of my choosing, unable to communicate even the most basic needs with precision.

Each developmental milestone became a military objective. Head control. Grasping. Sitting. Each victory against my useless infant body was celebrated with the grim satisfaction of a battle won, while the nurses cooed and applauded what they saw as normal development.

They had no idea they were tending to the Devil of the Rhine, reduced to drooling helplessness by a vindictive deity.

The nursery was opulent beyond reason—that much I could discern even through blurry infant vision. Gold filigree on the crib. Silk sheets. A rotating staff of attendants who addressed me as "Her Highness" and treated me with a deference that bordered on fear.

I gathered fragments of information through their conversations, building a mental map of my new circumstances like a prisoner scratching tally marks on a cell wall.

Empire. Palace. Britannia. Emperor. Consort. Prince Clovis. Princess Tanya. March. 2003. Succession.

Gradually, a picture emerged. I had been reborn into royalty within some kind of empire. My mother, a royal consort named Gabrielle la Britannia, had died delivering me on March 18, 2003 a.t.b—whatever that calendar signified. I had at least one brother named Clovis.

But the larger context eluded me. What political system governed this place? What was the technology level? What was my position in this royal hierarchy? The frustration of not knowing was almost worse than the physical limitations.

Almost.

"Must you insist on hovering over it like that, Clovis? It's merely an infant."

"She is our sister, Guinevere. And the last of my mother's bloodline. Show some respect."

I was perhaps four months old when I first heard my brother's voice. Through my improving vision, I could make out two figures standing over my crib—one tall and elegantly dressed with flowing blonde hair, the other a haughty young woman with an elaborate coiffure.

"A sister who killed your mother," the woman—Guinevere—replied coldly. "I don't understand your fascination with the creature."

"Creature?" Clovis's voice took on a theatrical quality of offense. "Really, sister, such language is beneath someone of your station. Besides, Mother chose to bear a child at her age. The risk was hers to take."

His voice dripped with practiced charm, but I could detect the underlying tension—complex emotions beneath the polished exterior. Here was someone who had mastered the art of saying one thing while feeling another—a skill I recognized from my corporate days.

"A decision that robbed us of her presence at court," Guinevere continued. "Your artistic sensibilities have suffered for it—your latest painting lacks her guiding influence entirely."

"Perhaps," Clovis conceded, leaning over my crib. I caught a glimpse of an elaborate outfit—ruffled sleeves, an ornate waistcoat, and jewelry that somehow managed to be both excessive and perfectly coordinated. "Though I doubt Mother would appreciate your assessment of her final gift to the empire."

Gift? The Emperor hardly needs more children."

"And yet he continues to collect them," Clovis replied with forced lightness. "Come, our presence is required for the Japanese trade negotiation. Your new gown is particularly striking—you should display it properly rather than wasting time in a nursery."

As they turned to leave, Clovis lingered a moment longer. When Guinevere had moved out of earshot, his expression transformed—the smile vanished, replaced by something more complex.

"Mother was the only person in this place who truly understood beauty. The only one who encouraged my art without agenda." His fingers gripped the edge of my crib, knuckles whitening. "Everyone else sees weakness in my paintings. Brother Lelouch wouldn't even look at my exhibition last month, though I specifically invited him."

So already at twelve, Clovis sought validation from his siblings.

"I'll do my familial duty," he continued, straightening his elaborate cuffs. "I'll visit. I'll ensure you're properly cared for. The la Britannia name demands nothing less. But don't expect what I can't give you, little sister. I have nothing left."

With that, he turned and swept from the room, his elaborate cape billowing dramatically behind him.

Fascinating. My brother was a narcissist with a theatrical flair, but with unexpected depths—artistic passion, grief, and a seemingly desperate need for approval from certain siblings. In my corporate life, I'd have marked him as high-maintenance but potentially valuable if his loyalties could be secured. In my military life, I'd have considered him emotionally volatile but possibly motivated by the right incentives.

In this life? Perhaps one with more potential uses than I'd initially considered. Being X had certainly dropped me into an interesting scenario this time.

It almost made me nostalgic for artillery fire.

By my first birthday, I had gathered enough intelligence to form a preliminary assessment of my situation.

I existed in a reality called Earth, but not my original Earth or the one of my second life. This world was dominated by the Holy Britannian Empire, a global superpower that conquered other nations and renamed them as numbered "Areas." The year was 2005 a.t.b., which apparently stood for "Ascension Throne Britannia"—a calendar dating from the ascension of the first Celtic king.

My father was Emperor Charles zi Britannia, a figure spoken of with reverence and fear by the palace staff but whom I had never seen. He had dozens of consorts and children in a complex polygamous arrangement that seemed designed to promote competition among siblings.

My mother had been Consort Gabrielle la Britannia, apparently a woman of significant beauty and artistic patronage who had died giving birth to me. This explained some of the resentment directed my way by my older brother Clovis, who at eleven had been old enough to feel the loss keenly.

Clovis's monthly visits had become a source of valuable intelligence. Now twelve and already developing a reputation as a budding artist, he maintained two distinct personas—the charming, artistic prince for public consumption, and the resentful, bitter brother when we were relatively alone.

"Look at you, sitting up all by yourself," he would coo during visits, his voice dripping with artificial sweetness when the nurses were present. "Such a precocious little thing."

The moment the head nurse stepped away, his expression would harden.

I maintained a blank, infantile stare, revealing nothing of my comprehension. Better to gather intelligence undetected than to reveal my awareness prematurely.

"Mother had plans," he continued during one such moment, voice low. "She was to guide my artistic development, to help me navigate the cutthroat world of imperial patronage. She understood the importance of aesthetics in a way no one else at court does." He adjusted his elaborately embroidered sleeve. "And now I'm left to make my way alone, while you—" He cut himself off as the nurse returned.

"Her Highness has quite the appetite today," the nurse reported cheerfully. "She's advancing well beyond the normal developmental milestones."

"Is she?" Clovis's charm returned instantly. "How wonderful. The la Britannia line has always produced exceptional children."

This pattern repeated with each visit—public displays of brotherly affection followed by moments of undisguised resentment when relatively unobserved.

But during one visit, something changed. As the nurse left the room, Clovis slipped not into the usual resentment, but something more complex.

"You know, I finished a painting yesterday," he said, studying his manicured nails. "A portrait of Mother from memory. The royal gallery curator called it 'technically impressive but lacking soul.'" His voice caught slightly.

For just a moment, I glimpsed something beneath the vanity and resentment—genuine grief, a depth of feeling I hadn't credited him with. Perhaps there was more to Clovis than I had first assessed.

"Perhaps one day I'll paint you," he said, composure returning as the nurse reentered. "When you're old enough to sit still. Mother would have expected it."

This glimpse of complexity was worth noting. Clovis was vain, artistic, and clearly ambitious despite his affected nonchalance. He cared deeply about appearances—his own especially. Beneath the theatrical facade lay someone deeply wounded by our mother's loss and uncertain of his position without her guidance.

But there was also artistic passion—perhaps even talent—driving him. Not simply a one-dimensional narcissist, but someone seeking to preserve beauty in a court that valued strength above all else.

At age three, I was deemed sufficiently developed to begin formal education, such as it was for a royal toddler. My nursery suite was expanded to include a small classroom where tutors would spend an hour each day introducing basic concepts in mathematics, language, and etiquette.

The etiquette lessons were particularly galling—hours spent learning the proper way to curtsy, address different ranks of nobility, and comport myself as befitting a princess of the realm. But I endured them with grim determination, recognizing that social protocols were simply another form of battlefield regulations in this environment.

"Straighten your back, Your Highness," the etiquette tutor clucked. "A princess never slouches, even when seated."

"But it hurts," I complained with calculated childishness, having noticed that occasional juvenile behavior helped maintain my cover. "Can't I sit how I want for just a little while?"

The tutor's face softened slightly. "Perhaps for a moment. But remember, appearances matter greatly at court. The way you carry yourself tells others what to expect from you."

I nodded as if processing this simple lesson. Learn the rules before you can effectively bend them—that had been my approach in the corporate world and the military alike.

My language tutor was more interesting. She was a severe woman with wire-rimmed glasses who showed genuine surprise at my vocabulary development.

"Extraordinary retention," she muttered, making notes as I correctly identified increasingly complex words. "Nearly perfect recall of previous lessons."

Of course—I had the advantage of two previous lifetimes of language acquisition and the added benefit of a developing brain primed for learning. But I was careful not to demonstrate abilities too far beyond what would be considered merely precocious. Being identified as supernatural would only bring unwanted scrutiny.

"What does that mean? Ex…tra…or-di-nary?" I asked, deliberately stumbling over the word I understood perfectly, observing how the tutor's expression shifted from suspicion to the satisfaction of a teacher with a gifted but normal pupil.

The mathematics tutor—a nervous young man clearly intimidated by teaching royalty—provided the most useful sessions. Through his lessons, I gained small insights into the systems and technological level of this world, which seemed roughly equivalent to the early 21st century of my first life, with some apparent divergences in computational development.

Between formal lessons, I was permitted supervised exploration of limited villa areas, primarily the gardens (where younger royals were allowed to play) and the Minor Royals' Library (a smaller collection deemed appropriate for children of noble birth).

It was in the gardens that I first encountered children of similar age, other royal offspring navigating the same complex hierarchy from different positions.

"Who are those children?" I asked my escort, pointing to a dark-haired boy walking alongside a smaller girl with sandy brown hair.

"That would be Prince Lelouch vi Britannia and his sister, Princess Nunnally," my escort replied. "Princess Nunnally is the same age as you, Your Highness."

A potential ally or, at minimum, a useful measuring stick for normal development expectations.

"May I meet them?" I asked, using the eager, slightly over-formal tone I had developed for my public persona.

As we approached, I assessed their reactions closely. The boy—Lelouch—looked about eight years old, with an intense, watchful demeanor that seemed far too serious for a child. The girl, Nunnally, practically skipped alongside him with a carefree energy that contrasted sharply with the demeanor I had observed on most royal faces.

"Prince Lelouch, Princess Nunnally," my escort called. "May I present Her Highness, Princess Tanya la Britannia?"

Lelouch looked up, his violet eyes sharp with intelligence as they assessed me. "The daughter of Consort Gabrielle," he stated rather than asked. "My mother mentioned her passing. My condolences."

"A pleasure to meet you, Princess Tanya!" Nunnally said with a surprisingly genuine smile. "Do you like the gardens? The roses are my favorite! Come see the yellow ones—they just bloomed yesterday."

Her unaffected warmth caught me off guard. I adapted quickly.

"I'm exploring the gardens for the first time," I replied, matching her friendly tone. "I've only recently been permitted beyond the suites."

"I see," Lelouch acknowledged. "Nunnally and I come here often. Mother encourages outdoor activities."

So, this was the brother that Clovis talked about frequently. Something in his manner reminded me of myself—a reserved mind behind a child's face, evaluating threats and advantages. But unlike my cold pragmatism, I could sense his calculations seemed rather centered around his sister's protection rather than purely self-interest.

"Would you like to join us?" Nunnally offered, taking my hand with unexpected familiarity. "Lelouch is very smart! He knows all the names of the flowers and where the best hiding spots are!"

This seemingly innocent invitation represented the first potential alliance in my new life, a connection to the vi Britannia line, which I soon learned was headed by Marianne, a former Knight of Six and now imperial consort.

"I would enjoy that," I replied with calculated enthusiasm.

As we toured the rose gardens, with Lelouch providing detailed explanations of each variety with surprising botanical knowledge, I gathered several key insights:

The vi Britannia children, despite their mother's reportedly high standing with the Emperor, were somewhat isolated from the main court activities.

Nunnally possessed a cheerfulness that seemed almost out of place in the imperial family—racing between flower beds and challenging us to games.

Unlike many royal siblings I had observed or heard mentioned, these two seemed to lack the cutthroat ambition that characterized most of the imperial family.

"Have other siblings visited you in the gardens?" I asked casually.

"Euphemia comes often," Nunnally replied cheerfully. "And sometimes Cornelia brings her."

"Your brother Clovis visited once," Lelouch added, his tone neutral. "He wanted to paint the white roses, but lost interest when the light changed."

"You don't sound very impressed with our brother's artistic pursuits," I observed.

Lelouch shrugged slightly. "Clovis has talent, but wastes it on flattering portraits of noblemen who don't deserve the honor." A brief pause. "It's a shame he hides behind his paints and theatrics."

This assessment aligned with my own observations. Lelouch saw through Clovis's facade but recognized potential underneath—potential that Clovis himself might be unaware of, or deliberately suppressing to fit his chosen role at court.

"Do you attend the palace school?" I asked as our tour concluded.

"Not yet," Lelouch replied. "We have private tutors until age eight, then integration with the Imperial Academy for those deemed suitable."

"Perhaps we could meet again," I suggested. "I found our conversation most educational."

"Please do!" Nunnally replied warmly. "We'd like that, wouldn't we, brother?"

Lelouch nodded, though his expression remained evaluating. "Indeed. It's beneficial to form connections with like-minded siblings."

Like-minded.

An interesting choice of words that suggested he had recognized something in me that matched his own nature. I would need to be cautious—perceptive allies could become the most dangerous opponents if circumstances changed.

As my escort led me away, I glanced back to see Lelouch watching me with that same serious expression. Yes, definitely one to monitor closely.

"I understand you've been socializing," Clovis remarked during his monthly visit, which had become more formal and less frequent as I aged. At five years old now, I was no longer a curiosity to be checked on regularly but rather a developing piece on the imperial chessboard. At sixteen, Clovis had begun carving out his position as the artistic prince—a patron of culture and beauty within the otherwise militaristic and political imperial family.

"I've met several of our siblings in the gardens and library," I replied, maintaining the precise balance between childish enthusiasm and the composure expected of a princess. "Nunnally and Lelouch most frequently."

Clovis's handsome face transformed instantly, a flash of genuine interest breaking through his carefully maintained ennui. "Lelouch? You've spent time with him?"

This unexpected reaction was worth noting. "Yes, he and Nunnally often visit the gardens when I'm there. He's teaching me chess."

"Chess," Clovis repeated, a complex mixture of emotions crossing his features. "He never accepted my invitations to learn painting. I've asked him three times this year alone." He adjusted his sleeve, affecting nonchalance that didn't quite mask his disappointment. "Brother Lelouch has a remarkable mind."

There was something in his tone—admiration, perhaps even a hint of hero worship—that I hadn't expected from the narcissistic Clovis.

"He's very patient with my questions," I offered, watching Clovis's reaction closely. "Though sometimes distracted by watching over Nunnally."

"He's devoted to her," Clovis nodded, his expression softening. "One of his more admirable qualities. Family loyalty is…" he glanced at me, something vulnerable flickering behind his eyes before the mask returned, "…rare in the imperial court."

"Do you know Lelouch well?" I asked, sensing an opportunity to gather intelligence.

Clovis straightened, adopting a casual pose that seemed carefully practiced. "We've had several conversations about art and strategy. I've been trying to convince him that aesthetic considerations have military applications, but he's rather literal-minded." A small, genuine smile. "Though even Schneizel admits Lelouch might surpass him at chess someday."

This was fascinating—Clovis clearly admired Lelouch, perhaps even craved his approval.

"Perhaps you could join us sometime," I suggested, watching his expression brighten immediately. "I'm sure your perspective would be valuable."

"Yes, well," he replied, trying and failing to hide his pleasure at the suggestion, "my schedule is terribly demanding, but I might arrange something." He cleared his throat. "Regarding your social circle, you might also consider Euphemia li Britannia as a companion. She's about your age. And her sister Cornelia is well-known throughout the military ranks, something that might interest you, given your fascination with those dreary military books."

His tone suggested bewilderment at my interests rather than disdain.

"I'll seek an introduction," I promised, recognizing the potential value of military connections.

"Excellent." Clovis adjusted a ruffle on his sleeve, glancing at his reflection in a nearby mirror. Today's outfit was elaborate even by his standards—gold thread and jewels adorning an electric blue jacket that somehow managed to be both excessive and skillfully designed. "Oh, and you haven't been informed yet, but the Emperor will hold a formal court presentation in three months' time. All royal children between five and ten years of age will be presented. You should prepare."

This was significant.

It was going to be my first official introduction to the Emperor, whom I had still never seen in person despite living in his palace for five years. As far as I could gather, royal children were kept separate from imperial activities until deemed worthy of notice.

"How should I prepare?" I asked, genuinely uncertain of the expectations.

"Demonstrate value, of course," Clovis replied, as if explaining something obvious to a particularly slow child. "The Emperor has no interest in children who can't contribute to the Empire. You've drawn the short end of the stick by being the youngest. What value you could offer at five years old, I can't imagine." He laughed at his own wit.

"And what potential would be most advantageous to demonstrate?" I pressed, ignoring his condescension.

Clovis's face suddenly darkened, his mood shifting with the speed that only true emotional immaturity allows. "Had Mother lived, she could have guided you through this." His voice turned bitter.

I maintained a neutral expression, but inwardly I noted that Clovis's emotional control remained as poor as ever.

As he turned to leave, he paused at the door. With his back to me, shoulders tense, he added: "There's a rumor that Marrybell mel Britannia plans to claim the governorship of Area 24 when she comes of age. She's a decorated tactician already at eight." A glance over his shoulder. "The Emperor rewards ambition, sister. Remember that."

After he departed, I sat in contemplative silence, processing this new development. The Emperor's assessment was a chance to position myself advantageously in the imperial hierarchy, but also a potential spotlight I had thus far avoided.

The safest path remained unchanged—demonstrate enough value to secure a comfortable position without attracting excessive attention or ambition-driven enmity. But Clovis's parting comment suggested that mere adequacy might not be sufficient in the Darwinian court of Charles zi Britannia.

Three months to prepare, and I was given a heads-up in advance thanks to brother dearest. I would use them efficiently.

The Imperial Library was technically restricted to royal children over the age of eight, but exceptions were made for those demonstrating "exceptional academic promise"—a category I had deliberately positioned myself within through calculated performances for my tutors.

"Princess Tanya requires more advanced materials than our children's collection provides," my mathematics tutor had reported up the chain. "Her analytical capabilities exceed the normal curriculum."

Thus, with a special dispensation from the Royal Academic Overseer, I gained limited access to the vast Imperial Library, though still restricted from certain sections deemed inappropriate for younger readers, regardless of intellect.

It was here, among towering shelves of leather-bound volumes and digital archives, that I began my true education on the Holy Britannian Empire and my place within it.

The Empire, I learned through careful selection of source materials, operated on a social philosophy called Social Darwinism—the belief that evolution through competition separated the worthy from the unworthy. This principle extended from international relations (conquering and subjugating "inferior" nations) to personal advancement (the strong rising while the weak faltered).

What truly captured my strategic interest, however, was my discovery of something called sakuradite, a rare mineral absent from both my previous worlds. This substance's superconductive properties had apparently revolutionized military technology through unprecedented miniaturization.

The geopolitical implications were immediately clear: a staggering 70% of the world's sakuradite reserves were located in Japan. This single resource explained the complex balance of power I'd been trying to understand. Despite not ranking among the three global superpowers (Britannia, the Chinese Federation, and the Europia United), Japan maintained its independence through masterful manipulation of its sakuradite supplies.

"Heavy reading for a five-year-old," observed a cultured male voice, interrupting my thoughts.

I looked up to find a tall, blonde young man in an immaculate white uniform observing me with measured interest. I recognized him immediately—Schneizel el Britannia, the Second Prince.

"Your Highness," I acknowledged, offering the practiced curtsy I had perfected through tedious etiquette lessons. "I find military organization and geo—" I stopped myself, remembering to maintain my cover as a precocious child rather than a reincarnated military veteran. "I like reading about how armies work."

A hint of amusement flickered across Schneizel's face. "Do you? Following the la Britannia tradition, I see."

I tilted my head slightly. "I was under the impression the la Britannia line was known primarily for artistic contributions. My late Mother Gabrielle and brother Clovis, for example."

"Indeed, but every family line has its variations," Schneizel replied smoothly. "Both military and political traditions exist in several branches of the imperial family."

That made sense. In an empire built on conquest, martial ability would naturally be valued across bloodlines. Military logistics—exactly the field I hoped to enter for its combination of importance and relative safety—would offer the perfect position for someone prioritizing survival and comfort over glory and advancement.

"I see," I replied thoughtfully.

"Strategic thinking deserves nurturing," Schneizel said, selecting a volume from a nearby shelf. "This might prove more useful than the general overview you're reading. It details our military's organizational structure in more depth."

I accepted the book with genuine interest. "Thank you, Your Highness."

"Tell me, Princess Tanya," he said, studying me with unexpected intensity, "what interests you most about military matters? The glory of command? The thrill of tactical challenges?"

Here was a test—I could see it in his evaluating gaze. And I nearly made a critical error. My instinct was to express my genuine interest in logistics and supply chain efficiency, but something in Schneizel's manner gave me pause.

In my eagerness to position myself for a comfortable rear-echelon post, I had nearly revealed my true motivations to perhaps the most politically astute member of the imperial family. Instead, I reconsidered my approach.

"I find it interesting how small decisions affect big outcomes," I replied, deliberately using simpler language. "Like in chess, but with real people." I gestured to the book. "These pages about supply lines made me think of a game I played with Prince Lelouch, where my pieces got trapped because they couldn't move properly."

Schneizel's expression shifted subtly—reassessing, recalculating. "An apt comparison. Resources in the right place at the right time determine victory more often than dramatic confrontations." He smiled. "You play chess with Lelouch?"

"He's teaching me," I said with calculated modesty. "He wins most games, but I'm learning."

"Perhaps we might play sometime," Schneizel suggested, his tone deceptively casual. "I find chess reveals much about one's character."

As he departed with a nod, I mentally revised my assessment of key players in the imperial hierarchy. Schneizel epitomized the Britannian ideal—brilliant, composed, and ruthlessly effective despite his cultured exterior. But he was even more perceptive than I had anticipated, and I had nearly exposed my true nature to him.

I had underestimated the challenges of maintaining my cover. A childish demeanor was easier to fake with tutors and attendants than with genuinely intelligent observers like Schneizel or Lelouch. I would need to be more careful—blending genuine precociousness with age-appropriate limitations to avoid suspicion.

The book Schneizel had recommended proved surprisingly valuable, despite my near slip-up. It was a detailed analysis of logistics systems that would have made any efficiency-minded salaryman weep with joy. The Britannian military had implemented what I recognized as just-in-time inventory management and distributed warehousing—concepts familiar from my corporate life, but applied on a global scale with impressive effectiveness.

A perfect alignment with my own inclinations. I had always sought positions that were essential yet not directly in the line of fire—maximizing security while maintaining sufficient value to ensure favorable treatment. Military logistics would provide exactly that balance: vital to operations but safely behind the front lines.

Being X might have intended this third life as another trial, but perhaps I could finally secure that coveted rear-echelon position I'd always been denied. A comfortable office, important work safely behind the lines, and the respect accorded to royal lineage—it was almost too perfect.

Which meant, knowing Being X, there had to be a catch.

"You're Princess Tanya?" exclaimed the pink-haired girl examining me with undisguised curiosity. "Clovis's sister? I've been wanting to meet you!"

"Euphemia, composure," admonished the tall, purple-haired young woman standing beside her. "Remember your etiquette lessons."

I observed my sisters with careful interest. Being introduced to more members of the imperial family expanded my intelligence network, and these two seemed to hold significant positions in the hierarchy.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Princess Euphemia, Princess Cornelia," I replied with a perfectly executed curtsy.

I had finally secured an introduction to these particular li Britannia sisters—Euphemia, just a year older than me at six, and Cornelia, already a rising star in the military at seventeen. Both valuable connections for different reasons.

"You're very well-spoken," Cornelia observed, her assessing gaze reminding me of seasoned officers evaluating new recruits. "Your tutors report exceptional progress in strategic studies. Unusual interests for a princess your age."

"I find such subjects fascinating," I replied, carefully balancing enthusiasm with appropriate deference. Then, remembering my need to seem childlike, I added: "The pictures of the big machines are exciting!"

"Knightmare Frames," Cornelia corrected, her expression cooling slightly. Was that disappointment? Had my attempt at childishness backfired?

"Oh! Like the Ganymede that Lady Marianne pilots?" I asked, recalling a detail from my readings that might redeem the situation.

"Indeed. Lady Marianne is an exceptional pilot."

I noted her reaction carefully. There seemed to be complicated feelings regarding Marianne vi Britannia that I hadn't fully decoded yet.

"Tanya spends all her time in the library," Euphemia offered helpfully. "Lelouch mentioned she reads military histories instead of storybooks. Nunnally gets awfully lonely without her."

"Did he?" Cornelia's expression sharpened slightly at the mention of Lelouch. "You've been spending time with Lelouch and Nunnally?"

"Occasionally in the gardens," I replied neutrally. "The siblings always seem to be there whenever I visit."

"Of course," Cornelia said, her expression softening slightly. "Nunnally is a sweet child." She paused, then added with reluctance, "And Lelouch has a brilliant mind, when he chooses to apply it properly."

It seemed the vi Britannia children's relationship with the li Britannia sisters seemed positive but complex.

The slight hesitation told me there was more to this relationship than mere respect. I filed it away for further investigation through other channels.

"I understand you're to be presented to the Emperor soon, along with my dear sister," Cornelia continued, changing the subject. "Your first formal court appearance."

"Yes. I admit I'm somewhat uncertain about expectations." I allowed a hint of genuine concern to show through—a calculated vulnerability to make my persona more believable.

Cornelia studied me for a long moment. "Be direct and honest about your abilities and ambitions. The Emperor respects clarity and purpose. False modesty and excessive flattery are seen as weaknesses."

"I heard that Cornelia was nervous at her presentation too," Euphemia confided with a smile. "My tutors say she practiced her curtsy for hours!"

"Euphie!" Cornelia protested, a rare flash of embarrassment crossing her otherwise composed features.

"Well, you did," Euphemia insisted. "And then you told Father you wanted to lead armies, and rumors says he actually smiled!"

Cornelia, the serious military commander, had a soft spot for her younger sister. A genuine bond, rare in this environment.

"What will you tell the Emperor of your ambitions?" Cornelia asked, studying me with renewed interest.

I hesitated, recalling my near-mistake with Schneizel. This was another crucial moment—an opportunity to position myself, but also a risk of revealing too much.

"I want to help the Empire be strong," I said carefully. "I've been studying how armies need supplies to win wars."

"Military logistics?" Cornelia's eyebrow arched slightly. "Most children your age who express military interest dream of piloting Knightmare frames in glorious battle."

Sensing her skepticism, I allowed genuine passion to show through. "But what if the pilots run out of fuel? What if soldiers don't have ammunition? The best weapon is useless without bullets."

My enthusiasm wasn't entirely feigned—efficient systems had always been my professional passion across multiple lives. But I deliberately kept my reasoning childish, focusing on concrete examples rather than abstract strategic principles.

Cornelia's expression remained guarded. "A pragmatic perspective. Unusual in one so young."

"Tanya has always shown remarkable focus," came a smooth voice from the doorway. Clovis entered with his characteristic theatrical timing, as if making an entrance onto a stage. "Even as an infant, she had an intensity about her. Isn't that right, little sister?"

I hadn't expected Clovis to appear, nor to support my position. This deviation from the script I'd mentally prepared left me momentarily disoriented.

"Brother Clovis," Cornelia acknowledged with formal politeness. "I didn't realize you were joining us."

"A happy coincidence," Clovis replied. "I was delivering a commissioned portrait to Lady Ambrosia when I heard my sisters were gathered. How could I resist?" His gaze lingered on the doorway behind Cornelia. "Is Lelouch with you today?"

"No, he's attending tutoring," Cornelia replied.

Something flickered across Clovis's face—disappointment poorly concealed—before his pleasant mask returned. "Pity. I wanted his opinion on a new chess set I've designed. Each piece is an artistic interpretation of Britannian military ranks." He gestured expressively. "The knights are miniature Ganymedes."

"I'm sure he'd find it… interesting," Cornelia said, her tone suggesting otherwise.

"Well, perhaps another time." Clovis turned his attention back to me, his eyes meeting mine briefly, a silent message passing between us. For all his emotional complexity, Clovis was surprisingly playing the role of supportive older brother. But why? Was it merely to establish connection with someone who might eventually provide access to Lelouch?

"I was just telling Princess Tanya about court presentation expectations," Cornelia explained.

"Ah, yes, the grand debut." Clovis waved a hand dismissively. "A formality, nothing more. The Emperor sees dozens of children presented each year. Most make no impression whatsoever."

"Clovis—" Cornelia began, her tone warning.

"It's simply reality, dear sister," he continued undeterred. "One must have something truly exceptional to stand out. My artistic talents were apparent even at that age. Your martial prowess likewise. But most children simply curtsy, mumble their ambitions, and are forgotten before the next name is called."

I watched this exchange carefully. Was Clovis deliberately undermining my confidence? Or warning me against drawing attention? His motivations remained opaque.

"The Emperor values potential, not just achievement," Cornelia countered firmly. "Princess Tanya's strategic interests are notable. The military academy would benefit from more cadets with her practical perspective."

"Perhaps," Clovis conceded with affected magnanimity. "Though our sister might find her talents better suited to other pursuits. The la Britannia line has produced notable diplomats and administrators as well as artists."

This unexpected reference to administrative roles resonated with the alternative path I'd begun to consider—governorship rather than military service. Could Clovis somehow have intuited my thinking? Or was this merely coincidence?

"I'm still exploring options," I replied cautiously. "Brother Clovis has encouraged me to develop varied interests."

Clovis smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Indeed. One never knows what skills the Empire will value most. Flexibility is an asset in uncertain times."

"These are hardly uncertain times," Cornelia said with a frown. "Britannia grows stronger by the day."

"Of course," Clovis agreed smoothly. "I merely meant that one's personal fortunes at court can shift unpredictably. Wouldn't you agree, Princess Cornelia?"

Something passed between them—an unspoken reference that I couldn't decipher but that caused Cornelia's expression to harden.

"Euphemia," Cornelia said abruptly, "we should continue to your language lessons. We've kept Princess Tanya long enough."

"But we just started talking!" Euphemia protested.

"Another time," Cornelia said firmly. She turned to me with formal politeness. "I wish you success at your presentation, Princess Tanya. Remember: clarity and purpose."

As they departed, Euphemia glancing back with a small wave, I was left alone with Clovis, whose artificial smile faded the moment the door closed.

"You need to be more careful," he said quietly, all theatrical pretense gone. "Cornelia idolizes Lady Marianne, which means anything you say to her potentially reaches the Emperor's favorite consort."

I hadn't expected this level of political awareness from Clovis, whose concerns had previously seemed limited to art and appearances.

"I don't understand," I said cautiously.

Clovis gave a bitter laugh. "Of course you don't. You're five. But listen carefully, sister. There are factions at court—invisible lines drawn between families and consorts. The vi Britannia line has the Emperor's favor through Lady Marianne. The li Britannia line, through Cornelia's military achievements, is aligned with them. Our la Britannia branch has less secure standing since Mother's death."

This was more direct political guidance than anyone had offered me thus far. And coming from Clovis, of all people, it was doubly surprising.

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked, unable to conceal my suspicion.

Something flickered across Clovis's face—a complex emotion I couldn't quite identify. "Because you bear our mother's name. And because I've watched you these past months." His voice hardened. "Whether I like it or not, you're a la Britannia. Your successes or failures reflect on our line."

It was the closest thing to genuine concern he had ever shown me. Not affection, certainly, but a recognition of shared interests that transcended his personal resentment.

"I don't know what games you're playing with your military books and strategic studies," he continued, "but wanting to be in the military is dangerous, even for a princess. The prize isn't just the Emperor's momentary attention, but long-term positioning in the imperial hierarchy."

He turned to leave, then paused at the door. "Oh, and don't mistake this for brotherly affection. Mother would have expected nothing less."

As he departed in a swirl of ornate fabric, I absorbed these unexpected revelations. Court politics were even more complex than I had anticipated, with alliances and factions operating beneath the surface. And Clovis, despite his apparent frivolity, was more attuned to these currents than I had given him credit for.

One more month until I would stand before the Emperor. One month to prepare my strategy for securing that coveted position of comfortable obscurity—important enough to be valued, invisible enough to be safe.

But now I understood that the path would be more challenging than I had initially calculated.

Being X had placed me in a royal family governed by Social Darwinism, where children competed for position and favor. The irony wasn't lost on me. In my first life, I had clawed my way up the corporate ladder through ruthless efficiency. In my second, I'd fought in a world that operated purely on survival of the fittest.

In this third life, it seemed the battlefield was a palace, the weapons were words and alliances, and the goal remained the same—secure that comfortable rear-echelon position I had always been denied.

As I reviewed the books Schneizel had recommended, I couldn't help but wonder what trap Being X had laid this time. Things seemed almost too perfect—a clear path to exactly the kind of position I had always sought, with royal privilege as a bonus.

There had to be a catch. There always was.

Whatever cosmic game Being X was playing, I didn't like it. Not one bit.

The Imperial Presentation Hall dwarfed any architectural space I had encountered in either of my previous lives. Soaring marble columns supported a vaulted ceiling adorned with frescoes depicting Britannia's military conquests. Crystal chandeliers cast prismatic light across the assembled courtiers in their finery, creating an atmosphere of opulent intimidation.

I stood with seven other royal children, all between five and ten years of age, awaiting the Emperor's arrival for our formal presentation. We had been arranged by birth order, placing me near the end of the line.

Lelouch stood two positions ahead of me, his posture rigidly perfect. In front of me was a half-sister I knew only distantly—Carine ne Britannia. At the front of our line stood Marrybell mel Britannia, the highest-ranking among us by birth. Conspicuously, Nunnally was absent.

The court protocol officers had spent weeks drilling us on the precise etiquette required—the depth and timing of our bows or curtsies, the exact wording of our responses, the positioning of our hands and feet. Any deviation would be noted and interpreted as either disrespect or incompetence, neither of which would serve our interests.

I wore a formal dress in the la Britannia colors of midnight blue and gold, designed to echo military uniform styling without being inappropriately martial for a child. My hair had been arranged in a simple but elegant style that emphasized my resemblance to my late mother—a deliberate choice for my first appearance before the Emperor who had once favored her.

A fanfare of trumpets silenced the murmuring courtiers, and the massive doors at the far end of the hall swung open. The Imperial Chamberlain entered first, striking his ceremonial staff three times against the marble floor.

"All hail His Imperial Majesty, the 98th Emperor of the Holy Britannian Empire, Charles zi Britannia!"

"All hail Brittanina!"

The assembled court dropped to one knee in perfect unison, a choreographed display of submission that would have impressed even the most demanding drill sergeant. We royal children followed suit, executing our practiced movements with mechanical precision.

And then He entered.

My first impression of Emperor Charles zi Britannia was one of sheer physical presence. He stood well over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and an imposing build that his ornate robes did nothing to diminish. His face was stern, framed by elaborate white hair and his distinctive beard, with piercing eyes that seemed to evaluate everything they beheld with cold calculation.

This, then, was my father in this life. The man who had sired dozens of children with multiple consorts, who ruled an empire spanning continents, who embodied the Darwinian philosophy of strength above all else.

He did not acknowledge the kneeling courtiers as he proceeded to the throne, attended by guards in ceremonial armor and several figures I recognized from my research as high-ranking nobles and advisors. Among them walked a beautiful woman with dark hair—Marianne vi Britannia, I presumed, mother to Lelouch and Nunnally and reportedly the Emperor's favorite consort despite her common birth.

Once seated on the throne, the Emperor made a slight gesture, and the court rose to their feet. Another gesture, and the Imperial Chamberlain struck his staff once more.

"The royal children will now present themselves for His Majesty's consideration."

One by one, we stepped forward as our names were called, executing the elaborate bows or curtsies we had practiced for weeks, then responding to the Emperor's brief questions with carefully prepared answers.

I observed each interaction closely, noting which responses seemed to satisfy the Emperor and which earned only dismissive indifference. Marrybell mel Britannia spoke confidently of her achievements with some counter-terrorism legislation I hadn't previously encountered in my research. The Emperor seemed marginally pleased by her direct ambition.

When Lelouch's turn came, he surprised me. Rather than the cold calculation I'd observed in our private interactions, he projected earnest determination, speaking of his desire to reform Britannia's administrative systems. The Emperor's expression revealed nothing, but I noted Lady Marianne's small smile of approval from her position near the throne.

Finally, my turn arrived.

"Tanya la Britannia, daughter of the late Consort Gabrielle la Britannia, 89th in the line of succession," the Chamberlain announced.

I stepped forward, executing a perfect curtsy—neither too deep (which would appear obsequious) nor too shallow (which would appear disrespectful). Rising, I met the Emperor's gaze with the exact degree of deference expected of my station.

"Your academic tutors report exceptional aptitude in strategic studies and mathematical analysis," the Emperor stated, his voice deep and resonant in the hushed hall.

"I find such subjects fascinating, Your Majesty," I replied in the clear, composed tone I had practiced. "The functional elegance of efficient systems appeals to my nature."

So far, so good. But now came the critical moment: declaring my ambitions in a way that would secure my desired position without drawing excessive attention or challenge.

"I hope to serve the Empire through strengthening its foundations," I continued carefully. "Perhaps in military logistics or provincial administration."

The Emperor's eyebrow raised a fraction—the first reaction I'd seen him display. "Two distinctly different paths," he observed. "One serves war, one serves peace. Which do you truly seek?"

I hadn't anticipated such a direct challenge to my deliberately ambiguous positioning. The court's attention sharpened around me, and I sensed I stood at a crossroads. This was the moment to commit to a direction, but which one?

The safe answer would be to firmly declare for administration—a respectable political field that would keep me far behind the lines. But something in the Emperor's evaluating gaze made me reconsider.

Cornelia had advised clarity and purpose. Clovis had warned about faction politics. Schneizel had shown interest in my strategic thinking. Each interaction had revealed different facets of court expectations, but all suggested that ambiguity would not serve me here.

The silence stretched a dangerous fraction too long. I needed to respond.

"I seek to serve where I can be most effective, Your Majesty," I answered finally. "Our military's strength depends on its supply chains, just as our provinces depend on efficient governance. Both require the same skills—resource optimization, strategic planning, eliminating inefficiencies."

The Emperor leaned forward slightly, his massive frame making the gesture subtly intimidating. "You avoid committing to either path. Some might interpret this as… indecision." His voice carried no accusation, merely clinical observation. "Britannia demands clarity of purpose, princess. The weak vacillate; the strong choose."

The court's murmurs grew. I felt my carefully constructed plan wavering. He had seen through me with unsettling precision, forcing a commitment I had hoped to delay.

This was a tactical challenge I hadn't adequately prepared for. I recalled Lieutenant Grantz, paralyzed by indecision in the face of unexpected artillery fire, and Lieutenant Serebryakov, adapting instantly to changing battlefield conditions. Which would I be?

"I choose logistics, Your Majesty," I answered firmly, abandoning my hedging. "Not from weakness but from recognition of my strengths. A commander without supplies commands nothing but defeat."

Something flickered in the Emperor's cold eyes.

"And you believe your talents are most valuable behind the lines rather than leading them?" His question was a test, laden with unspoken judgment.

"I believe that in war, as in nature, specialized roles create the strongest whole," I responded. "The Empire requires minds dedicated to efficiency as surely as it needs warriors dedicated to conquest."

Charles zi Britannia studied me with an expression I couldn't quite interpret—not approval, but not dismissal either. Finally, he nodded once. "A sharp mind, at least, you do not lack. Time will determine if your choice serves Britannia's needs… or merely your own comfort."

My stomach dropped with his last words. He had seen through me completely—recognizing not just my desire to avoid the front lines, but the self-interested calculation behind it. Worse, he had announced this insight to the entire court.

With a slight gesture of dismissal, I backed away with another precise curtsy, returning to my position in the line. My heart pounded beneath my composed exterior. The Emperor had recognized my true motivation—the desire for safety—but had neither embraced nor rejected my reasoning. I stood exposed, my carefully constructed persona partially stripped away.

What was clear was that Charles zi Britannia was a far more perceptive adversary than I had anticipated. If he could see through my careful facade so easily, I would need to be even more cautious in executing my plans.

The few remaining children presented themselves in turn, and then the ceremony concluded with another round of elaborate protocols. As the court dispersed for the reception that would follow, I caught Clovis watching me from among a group of courtiers, his expression a complex mixture of surprise and something darker—resentment, perhaps, that I had successfully navigated my first court appearance despite the Emperor's challenge.

Lelouch appeared at my side as we were escorted to the reception area for refreshments deemed appropriate for royal children.

"Well played," he said quietly. "Few recover from the Emperor's direct challenges."

I glanced at him, reassessing once again. "He saw through me completely."

"Perhaps. But you didn't falter." His violet eyes studied me with renewed interest. "Most would have crumbled under that scrutiny."

"Experience in difficult situations," I replied vaguely, then immediately regretted the slip. What experience could a five-year-old princess possibly claim?

Lelouch's gaze sharpened. "Indeed."

Before I could respond, a high voice called out. "Lelouch! Tanya!" Nunnally approached, guided by an attendant. "How did it go? Was Father pleased?"

"As pleased as ever," Lelouch answered, his expression softening instantly in his sister's presence. "Princess Tanya handled herself admirably."

"I knew you would!" Nunnally said with genuine warmth. "Will you join us in the gardens tomorrow? I want to hear all about it!"

Her unaffected kindness provided welcome relief from the political tension of the day. "I'd like that," I replied sincerely.

As we chatted, I surveyed the reception hall. The Emperor had already departed, but various court factions had formed distinct groupings around the room. I noticed Schneizel engaged in conversation with several ministers, his posture relaxed but his gaze alert. Cornelia stood protectively near Euphemia, who was chatting animatedly with another young princess.

Most notably, I saw Marianne vi Britannia watching our small group with evident interest. When our eyes met briefly, she smiled a gesture both welcoming and assessing. Then she turned away to join Cornelia's conversation.

"Your mother seems interested in our acquaintance," I observed to Lelouch.

A shadow crossed his face. "Mother believes in forming useful alliances."

"And am I a useful alliance?" I asked directly.

Lelouch hesitated, then responded with surprising candor. "I think everyone can be either useful or dangerous. Sometimes both."

"Which am I?"

"I haven't decided yet," he replied with a small smile.

As we were eventually escorted back to our respective quarters, I reviewed the day's events. The Emperor's challenge had forced me to commit more firmly to the military logistics path than I had intended at this stage. But perhaps this clarity would serve my long-term goals, even as it exposed aspects of my true nature.

I had made connections—some potentially valuable, others potentially dangerous. Lelouch and Nunnally offered friendship of a sort, but also brought the complication of Lady Marianne's attention. Cornelia might provide military mentorship, but her faction loyalties remained uncertain.

And Clovis… His resentment toward me remained, but was tangled with genuine artistic passion, political awareness, and a surprising admiration for Lelouch. There was more to my narcissistic brother than just vanity and bitterness.

Most critically, the Emperor himself had demonstrated he was no mere figurehead, but a deeply perceptive judge of character who had seen through my carefully constructed persona with disturbing ease.

As I prepared for bed, I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror—a small, blonde child with serious eyes that betrayed nothing of the calculating mind behind them. This royal mask would need strengthening in the wake of today's partial exposure.

The path to that safe, comfortable rear-echelon position had grown more complicated, but not impossible. I would need to be more careful, more strategic in my approach.

But as I drifted toward sleep, a new thought emerged. What if the logistics route wasn't the optimal path after all? The Emperor's challenge had forced me to consider alternatives I had previously dismissed.

Perhaps there was another approach worth considering. As an imperial princess, I potentially had access to an even more appealing option—a governorship of some peaceful, prosperous territory within the Empire. Administrative work with all the comforts of royalty and none of the dangers of military service.

The more I considered it, the more elegant this solution appeared. A provincial governorship—perhaps over some agricultural region far from disputed borders—would offer everything I'd ever sought: authority without risk, importance without exposure, comfort without compromise.

I had been so fixated on finding a rear-echelon military position that I'd overlooked the obvious superior alternative. This single-minded focus on military logistics was clearly a lingering effect of my previous life, where witnessing the horrors of trench warfare had conditioned me to think only in terms of military hierarchies. But this life offered different paths.

In the Empire's vast territories, there must be dozens of peaceful provinces requiring competent administration—places where the greatest danger might be an accounting error or a delayed harvest. I could finally escape the battlefield entirely, not merely retreat to its edges.

The realization was liberating.

I had been trying to replicate my previous strategy when I should have been exploiting the unique advantages of my current position. Being royal opened doors that neither a salaryman nor a military officer could access.

As I drifted closer to sleep, a small voice of caution whispered from the back of my mind. If I had learned anything from my previous lives, it was that Being X delighted in subverting my carefully laid plans.

The moment I'd find safety was precisely when the artillery would start falling.

Oh, well. I was only five. There was plenty of time to get all my ducks in a row.

What was the worst that could happen?