—
"Cintra, salute!"
Halberds and greatswords shot into the air before two hundred soldiers brought them down in unison, striking the ground twice.
THUMP! THUMP!
"Lyria and Rivia, salute!"
The landsknechts raised their weapons high, then brought them down as well, hammering the ground twice.
THUMP! THUMP!
Although the military display was impressive, there was something he just couldn't get out of his mind. Upon looking at the soldiers—particularly the Cintrian ones—Gustave couldn't help but notice that the Cintrian knights' armor design shared about 20–30% similarity with the foot soldiers from the Warcraft III human cinematic trailer.
The resemblance was so uncanny that it made him wonder—just maybe—whether some humans who arrived on the Continent after the Conjunction, especially in the Cintra region, were the same humans from the Warcraft universe.
Maybe the humans who arrived were just villagers in some remote corner of the kingdom, which would explain why there were no major changes to the Continent. But from the design of their armor, their clothing, their symbols, and their fondness for the color blue, he could tell that some traditions had survived—hence the uncanny similarity.
Although that tradition and design have now drifted far from the original Human Alliance aesthetic—having blended over centuries with elven styles and various human influences from other worlds—their roots were still visible, especially to someone like him, a modern-day viewer who loved watching game cinematic trailers.
And the biggest giveaway was the golden lion symbol. When it wasn't displayed on a horizontal flag, it was practically a one-to-one copy of the golden lion used by humans in the Warcraft universe.
He was about to continue this train of thought—having just added another impressive point to Cintra's track record—when he was abruptly cut short as the protagonist girl pinched his cheek.
"Hehehehe, now we can talk to each other again, right?! Because the procession is finished, right?! So… still so young, already able to talk back to someone that much older than you, right?!"
It wasn't only Ciri who annoyed him—Hjalmar joined in too, already giving him a noogie with his fist.
"Hahahahaha! I've always wanted a little brother! I don't know how it is in Lyria and Rivia, but in Skellige, little brothers must listen to their big brothers! So from now on, I will teach you to become a real Skelliger!"
And because he only had the body of a three-year-old, Gustave's cheek was already turning purple from Ciri's pinching, and his head was beginning to show signs of being dented. Thankfully, Cerys came to the rescue, because now, acting as an emo baby, he couldn't show any sign of pain or crying.
"Hey, hey! You two oafs, stop it! He's just a baby! Look, his cheek is already turning purple! And you, Hjalmar—this is not Skellige! Mainlander bodies aren't as tough as ours! So behave yourself!"
Stunned by the sight of his injuries, both of them went pale with guilt. Gustave, still being hugged by Cerys, replied, "It's fine, Skellige sister. Princess Ciri and Skellige brother are just excited. They didn't mean to hurt Gustave."
And that reply—as expected of an emo baby—made the adults nearby start whispering among themselves, confirming the rumors about his intelligence and becoming the catalyst for them to ask what had happened and why he behaved this way.
Not only did it become the catalyst for the rumor he wanted to spread as an alibi, but it also became the catalyst for his big brother Villem to begin his character arc as a villain.
Because now, instead of simple annoyance in Villem's eyes, there was hostility—hostility born from seeing Gustave become the center of attention, and from seeing how easily Ciri grew close to him, while every time Villem visited Cintra, she never spared him that kind of attention.
Although he would have loved to muse to himself about wanting Ciri close—but not so close that she became a love partner, since he knew he would lose all autonomy under Queen Calanthe's preference for matriarchal rule—Gustave couldn't indulge in those thoughts.
Why? Because the hyperactive protagonist girl once again pulled him back to reality, this time not by pinching him, but by rubbing his face.
"O-oh no… What did I do?! Quick! To Madam— I-I mean, to Uncle Mousesack! Quick!"
Lifted up by a six-year-old girl—much like how an older sister might rush her baby brother to their mother in a panic—Ciri waddled like a dawdling penguin, but after only a few steps she was already panting.
After she set him down, Gustave said to the tired Ciri, "It's okay, Princess Ciri. It just hurts a bit. I can manage on my own until we arrive at the castle. So let's just walk alongside the march of the army."
"Wait! You two! Huff… huff!"
"By Grymmdjarr! How can you be so fast?! Did you eat some of the stash of mushrooms that Mousesack hid away, Ciri?!"
Ignoring Hjalmar and Cerys as they caught up, Ciri kept rubbing the little guy's purple cheek while looking him straight in the eyes. With the seriousness only a six-year-old could muster, she then said with a solemn attitude, "But at least don't walk by yourself again, okay? I feel bad for treating you that way."
Turning to Hjalmar, Ciri asked, "Hjalmar, give this little guy a piggyback, would you?"
Pumping his chest, Hjalmar bellowed, "Hahahaha! You don't need to worry about him! I will carry him until we reach the castle! Or even—if it comes to that—I can carry him while lapping around all of Cintra!"
So, while being given a piggyback ride by six-year-old Hjalmar—who already had the body of an eleven-year-old, jacked-up boy—Gustave found himself being pampered by two sisters and one big brother as the army marched through the city.
But because Cerys was the only one wise beyond her age among them, the topic the two oafs started with—his injury—quickly drifted into realms far outside logical thinking for someone who didn't have a hyperactive child's mind.
From catching insects in winter, to which snow tasted the best, to who among them could stay up the longest at night—every topic shifted at lightning speed into the kind of nonsense only six-year-olds could come up with.
It gave him a headache just thinking about how fast the subjects changed; from meaningful conversation, he had now reduced himself to answering with simple yeses and nos because of how exhausting it was to keep up.
"Does your cheek still hurt, Gustave?"
While Cerys applied the healing salve—him leaning down from Hjalmar's shoulder so she could reach—Gustave replied, "No, it doesn't hurt anymore, Sister Cerys. Thank you very much."
"Huh, so your name is Gustave? I thought your name was Little Guy…"
"What?! You didn't even know the name of the person you've been giving a shoulder ride to this whole time, Hjalmar?! You are truly an idiot!"
"What did you say to me, Cerys?! I am not an idiot! I thought because Ciri calls him Little Guy, his name was Little Guy!"
Thump, thump!
Clinging for dear life as the siblings Hjalmar and Cerys headbutted each other—turning the piggyback ride into a full-on roller coaster—Gustave finally managed to regain a steady position thanks to Ciri, who stepped in to calm the two competitive siblings down.
"You two! Stop it! Little Guy almost fell off because of you!"
"Ciri! Why do you keep calling Gustave 'Little Guy'?! Did you also not know his name, just like Hjalmar?!"
"I say he is Little Guy, then he is Little Guy. There is no other reason."
Squinting her eyes, Cerys asked skeptically, "Really?"
"Y-yes."
"Well, okay then. But don't call him that again. He has a name, you know."
Watching this, Gustave couldn't help but shake his head at how easily Cerys was duped. From Ciri's fidgeting and the tremor in her voice, it was obvious she was lying about knowing his name.
But since Cerys was literally just a child, he didn't think much of it—except that maybe the reason she eventually became so wise in The Witcher 3 was because she had to grow up dealing with a lying Ciri, which trained her to spot mainlander schemes from miles away.
"Alright, alright, sheesh! You're no fun at all, Cerys!"
As he tried to stop Cerys's hand from continuing to apply healing salve to his cheek and the top of his head, Gustave's eyes widened upon noticing a group of merchants in the distance.
He wasn't surprised because he recognized them—no, they were complete strangers—but the way they acted and dressed looked almost exactly like a house he knew from Game of Thrones.
"What are you looking at, Little Guy?! Oh, them?! They're merchants and nobles from Nazair! They're a bunch of very beautiful people, right?! I heard their blue roses are very fragrant and very pretty, that's why their crest—"
"Ciri! What did I tell you?! Don't call Gustave 'Little Guy'! He has a name, you know!"
"Hjalmar! Help me! Your sister is bullying me!"
"CIRI!"
"Hahahaha! You're such a baby, Ciri! It's just a name! Why don't you just call him that?!"
"H-Hjalmar, y-you too?! I—I am…"
While the children continued talking among themselves, Gustave couldn't help but keep his eyes glued to the Nazairian merchants, who bore an uncanny resemblance—at least in their clothing and mannerisms—to people he knew.
If his mind hadn't still been lingering on the idea of Cintra being populated by humans from the Warcraft universe, he might not have even noticed that these Nazairians looked suspiciously like humans from House Tyrell in Game of Thrones.
The green-and-gold embroidered patterns on their garments practically shouted that they came from lands overflowing with greenery and abundant harvests.
The boldly open cleavages—used as weapons in negotiations by the younger members of their house, much like Loras and Margaery—were unmistakable, a classic "brownie-points" tactic favored by the Tyrells.
The crespine headdresses worn by the older members, with the women quietly directing the younger ones from behind as they haggled over prices in the market, only solidified the resemblance.
Because now he knew—he knew for certain—that the Conjunction had not brought humans from just a single world, like Regis's vampire realm, but from countless different worlds across the multiverse, each carrying their own cultures and traditions.
Because unlike monsters, which tend to have only one general type across many universes, humans were overabundant—so overabundant, in fact, that when the Conjunction occurred, it didn't pull in just one kind of human, but many, each with their own history.
And this was also the answer to the question that had always plagued his mind back when he played The Witcher 1, 2, and 3 on Earth: how could such a tiny corner of the world—the Continent—house so many different kinds of people, each with their own traditions and cultures so distinct that the differences between kingdoms were immediately recognizable?
Kaedwen, which looked like Russia.
Redania, which resembled the Romans.
Toussaint, which mirrored France.
Skellige, which embodied the Vikings.
And now, seeing everything firsthand, he knew that Nazair resembled House Tyrell from Game of Thrones, Cintra mirrored the Kingdom of Lordaeron, and it was now certain that the reason for all these differences was simple: every human on the Continent had roots from worlds vastly different from one another.
Unable to continue his train of thought, Gustave's musing was once again broken by the protagonist girl shouting as she shoved sugared almonds into his face.
"GUSTAVE! Did you hear me?! Hello?! Here—aaah! Eat this! This is very good candy! Grandmama bought it from Toussaint!"
Sighing to himself like an old man whose thoughts were constantly being interrupted, Gustave ate the almonds while thinking that perhaps getting close to her wasn't such a good idea—especially considering the headaches he would surely have to endure for many years to come.
But looking at this mischievous little she-devil—who had glued herself to him because of a single incident, without him lifting even a finger—he knew, oh he absolutely knew, that he wouldn't be able to back out now.
—