If life at the Weiss villa was usually a symphony of discipline, ambition, and quiet political tension, then Saturday mornings were the only time the universe seemed willing to add a slightly more cheerful note to the score.
Slightly.
Stefan sat in the back seat of the family car as it approached the International Lyceum. Today was the school's Cultural Exchange Day—a lighthearted event meant to "promote friendship between nations." In reality, it was a diplomatic minefield disguised with flags, pastries, and children wearing traditional clothes they barely understood.
In my previous life, Stefan thought, Europe tried this too. Smiles, songs, and slogans couldn't hide the fractures beneath. But this time... I intend to fix the fractures before they break.
Still, even an aspiring architect of tomorrow needed to endure school festivals.
The courtyard was already bursting with energy. Stalls lined the cobblestone path, fluttering with the flags of thirty-two nations. The air carried the scent of waffles, curry, chocolate, and something vaguely Scandinavian that involved pickled fish. Teachers darted around like overworked diplomats, trying to prevent culinary or cultural incidents.
"Stefan!"A familiar voice broke through the noise. Lucas Reinhardt waved from the crowd, his blond hair ruffled by the wind. "You escaped early morning strategy class?"
"It's called breakfast with my grandfathers," Stefan replied as he joined him. "Same thing, different weapons."
Lucas laughed. "Fair. Come on, we're pairing up for the scavenger hunt."
Stefan blinked. "We are?"
"Yes. I already wrote your name down. You're welcome."
Before Stefan could protest, Julien Morel slid between them, nearly knocking Lucas off balance. He was carrying a tray of something suspiciously sticky.
"Mes amis, catastrophe!" Julien declared dramatically, clutching his chest like a wounded actor. "The Italian stall rejects my French crêpes, calling them 'pancakes for tourists!' Stefan, you must mediate. Use your noble neutrality!"
"I'm Swiss-Italian on paper," Stefan corrected, expression blank. "Which makes me the last person who should intervene."
Julien gasped in mock horror. "Then you must! Both sides will respect you!"
Lucas patted Stefan's shoulder with exaggerated sympathy. "Think of it as training for future EU negotiations."
Stefan sighed. "That's what I was afraid of."
Five minutes later, he found himself standing between a passionate Roman grandmother defending the honor of cannoli and an indignant French teacher demanding culinary fairness. A small crowd had gathered to watch. Somehow, this had escalated into a full-blown diplomatic crisis over sugar and pastry cream.
Stefan took a deep breath. "Ladies, perhaps we can reach a compromise—customers can buy one of each dessert to promote mutual understanding."
Both women paused. Then, remarkably, nodded.
Julien raised Stefan's hand in triumph. "Behold, the future ruler of Europe!"
Stefan pulled his hand back, cheeks warming. "Please don't call me that in public."
"It's better than calling you the tiny diplomat of doom," Lucas added, grinning.
Stefan turned sharply. "You made that up, didn't you?"
"Oh yes," Lucas said cheerfully. "And I'm absolutely using it again."
Julien leaned toward Stefan with mock seriousness. "You know, that nickname might look good on a campaign poster."
"I'm not running for office," Stefan muttered.
"Not yet," Lucas teased. "Give it a decade."
The scavenger hunt began soon after, teams scattering across the courtyard and school grounds to collect items representing different countries. Lucas was determined to win. Stefan was determined to understand why this activity mattered to anyone.
"Relax," Lucas said as they hurried past the Dutch stall. "It's just for fun."
"Fun," Stefan said carefully, "is a pleasant but inefficient use of time."
Lucas nearly tripped laughing. "You sound like a fifty-year-old general."
Closer to forty in my last life, Stefan thought dryly, though he didn't say it.
They collected a toy windmill (Netherlands), a plastic Viking helmet (Norway), and a tiny plush sheep (United Kingdom—though Stefan strongly disagreed with the symbolism).
The list also included:'Something that represents Belgium.'
Julien reappeared dramatically, waving a waffle like a sacred artifact. "Behold! A national treasure!"
"That's from the cafeteria," Stefan pointed out.
"Yes," Julien said proudly, "but spiritually, it counts."
Before Stefan could reply, Elena Varga appeared, her neat braids swaying as she crossed her arms. "Julien, the instructions clearly state that items must come from official stalls. Your waffle is contraband."
Julien gasped. "How did you—were you watching me?"
"I monitor stupidity the way doctors monitor infection," Elena said without missing a beat.
Lucas burst out laughing. "I'm writing that down."
Stefan couldn't help it—he laughed too. The sound felt strange, like something he hadn't done in a long time.
For a moment, it felt normal. Like he was simply a boy at school, not a reincarnated strategist carrying the weight of empires past.
Later, under the shade of an oak tree, the team took a short break. Children ran around shouting in half a dozen languages. The air was warm with the scent of sugar and grass.
Julien lay dramatically on the ground. "If we don't win this, I will renounce my citizenship."
"Which one?" Elena asked. "You claim three depending on who's offering free food."
"Details, my dear Elena. Details."
Lucas tossed him a small flag. "Wave that instead of surrendering."
Julien caught it and grinned. "Vive la France!"
"You're at a Belgian school," Lucas reminded him.
"Fine," Julien said with exaggerated solemnity. "Vive l'amitié internationale!"
Stefan leaned back against the tree trunk, watching them. The laughter, the sunlight, the chaos—it was all so far removed from the grim, strategic world of his home life. Yet it was necessary. A reminder of what the future he planned should feel like.
In his previous life, Europe had been divided not just by borders but by apathy. Nations competed for pride, not purpose. He had watched the continent stagnate under bureaucracy, ambition fading into comfort.
This time, he would not allow that.
If he was to shape the next generation, he would need people like Lucas—loyal and grounded. People like Elena—intelligent and unafraid. Even Julien, for all his chaos, could charm a room faster than any diplomat.
He smiled faintly. A future needs laughter too.
The afternoon drifted into a blur of music and chatter. Students performed dances, teachers gave small speeches, and someone somehow convinced a group of twelve-year-olds to sing the "Ode to Joy" off-key.
Julien joined the choir for precisely one verse before being "accidentally" removed for creative interpretation. His solo—an improvised French version about cheese and destiny—left half the crowd crying with laughter.
When he rejoined the group, Lucas groaned. "You realize you just embarrassed yourself in front of the entire faculty?"
Julien puffed his chest. "Non, mon ami! I merely provided entertainment. Culture requires passion!"
Elena smirked. "Culture also requires rhythm."
"Ah, details again," Julien said with a bow. "You must learn to appreciate my art."
Stefan chuckled quietly. "You'll be a politician one day."
Julien winked. "And you'll be the one funding me."
By the end of the day, the sun dipped low over Brussels, bathing the courtyard in gold. The students gathered for the closing ceremony. The principal congratulated everyone in three languages, though few were listening.
When the results were announced, Stefan's group came in second.
Julien groaned dramatically. "Second place is merely first loser!"
"First place cheated," Elena muttered.
Lucas raised his juice cup in mock toast. "To glorious defeat."
Stefan lifted his cup too, smiling faintly. "To learning from it."
Julien squinted at him. "You're incapable of taking a day off from being profound, aren't you?"
"Apparently not," Stefan said, smiling wider this time.
The group laughed. And for a fleeting moment, the future architect of Europe, the reborn strategist, allowed himself to simply exist among friends — laughing, learning, and feeling human.
That evening, back at the villa, Stefan returned home tired but oddly content. Vittorio looked up from his newspaper as he entered.
"You seem… lighter today," his grandfather observed.
Stefan hesitated. "Maybe I am."
"Good," Vittorio said, nodding approvingly. "Even generals need peace between wars."
As Stefan walked to his room, the words stayed with him. He stood by the window, watching the city lights flicker in the distance.
Peace between wars… perhaps that's what this life is. The pause before rebuilding begins.
He smiled faintly, thinking of the laughter, the chaos, and the smell of waffles.
Then, with quiet determination, he whispered to himself:
"Next time, we'll win."