—
With Ciri's nonstop chatter ringing in his ears and Hjalmar's boisterous laughter blasting from below him, Gustave now understood what his older ex-girlfriend back on Earth meant when she said that becoming a primary school teacher was madness.
It was a catastrophe on a psychological level—slowly driving a person toward a uniquely tailored form of insanity. But since they were all just children, he, along with every adult who had ever dealt with kids, had no choice but to endure it.
[Controlled Madness: 3.1 → 3.2]
And would you look at that—his control over madness was increasing.
"Look! The central market square! Let's go! Let's check if the pond is already frozen!"
With her usual dexterous speed, Ciri darted down the paved walkway toward the massive, shopping-center–sized market square. Her sudden burst of energy immediately agitated Hjalmar, who began running after her.
"Ciri! Wait for me! I'll be the first one there!"
And Cerys—only slightly wiser than the other two—didn't fare much better. Anything involving her big brother instantly turned into a competition.
"Oh no you don't! I'm going to be the first one to arrive!"
"Hahahaha! Catch me if you can!"
With no choice but to hold on for dear life, Gustave gripped Hjalmar's hair to avoid being launched into the air by the Skelligan brute's sprint. Even that didn't slow Hjalmar down—if anything, having his hair pulled only made him run faster.
"I-I'll go too!"
And finally, seeing the excitement and joy of the four children, his brother Anséis couldn't sit still and joined the race as well. He completely ignored Villem and stepped out of the shadow he normally hid behind. It was a tiny step, but one that nudged Anséis toward becoming the brave knight he would one day be in the original timeline.
Although Gustave would have loved to calculate a way to ensure that Anséis grew into not just a brave knight, but a brave and cunning one—rather than brave and reckless—his train of thought was once again interrupted by the presence of these hyperactive children.
"Hah! I won! Bow to me, peasant! For your princess is the first to arrive!"
And Hjalmar, without thinking about the passenger on his shoulders, immediately bowed in defeat. As a result, Gustave was launched forward and tumbled to the ground. Thankfully, he had already anticipated this outcome and braced for the impact.
Thud, Thump, Whump.
"HJALMAR!"
"Huh, what? Oh…"
Sighing in fragile insanity, a blank, depressed expression settling over his face, Gustave realized he didn't need to think too hard about protecting himself with fancy steam-arcane technology. There was a 90% chance these children would be the death of him, both physically and psychologically.
"Hjalmar! You dunderhead! Did you forget Gustave was on your shoulders this whole time?!"
Upon hearing this, Gustave simply looked at Cerys with a deadpan stare, fully aware that she wasn't much better than her brother.
"Is there something on my face, Gustave?"
Knowing she was still wet behind the ears—and that children her age couldn't interpret such looks—Gustave merely sighed helplessly and allowed the Skelligan girl to apply yet another salve, this time over his entire body.
Thankfully, in this world, small wounds like these could be remedied with alchemical, magic-infused ointments. That was why the adults weren't panicking over the children's mischief; at the end of the day, any scrapes or bruises could easily be treated with healing salve.
"Hjalmar! Did you even realize Gustave was on your shoulders this entire time?!"
"And you, Ciri?!"
"Huh? What the blazes did I do?!"
"You're the one who started this! So you need to apologize and take responsibility for Gustave's injury too!"
"O-oh… yeah…"
"Not only that, you two also—"
Closing his ears to what was coming, he ignored Cerys as she continued berating Hjalmar—and even Ciri—for causing his latest injury. After all, her shouting wasn't any easier on his ears than being thrown to the ground.
But still, at the end of it all, this chaotic noise and jumble of familial catastrophe were things he had yearned for ever since he turned nine years old.
Being the sole survivor of a bus crash during a family trip had left a scar that never truly faded, making scenes like this—messy, loud, and alive—his favorite kind of life experience.
"I'm sorry, okay, Little Guy? Sister Ciri is sorry…"
But even though he loved this kind of warmth and attention, it didn't stop him from being irritated when people treated him like a child—especially when Ciri started petting his head.
Swatting her hand away, Gustave reprimanded her, "Princess Ciri. Even though Mother said it's fine to pinch Gustave's cheeks, it is not okay for someone to pet a prince's head."
Of course, he knew full well that his mother, Meve, had only said that back when he turned two out of pure selfishness—because petting his head was a sacred privilege she didn't want anyone else to copy.
"Is that so? Then your mother, Queen Meve, should know that Princess Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon will also mark head-petting as a sacred act—one that only I am allowed to do. Because… because… ahh… your hair is just so soft…"
"Oh, girl… you're playing with forces beyond your ken… You really, absolutely do not want to do that…"
"Huh? What's 'ken'?"
"Nothing, nothing…"
After petting his head for a while longer, Ciri—being the hyperactive child she was—had her attention shift once again. Spotting the pond connected to the Yaruga estuary, she immediately ran toward it, leaving his hair in a complete mess.
Dipping her hand into the cold estuary water, Ciri announced, "Hey, look! In another week or two, we'll be able to skate again! I call dibs on being the first one to skate on this pond!"
"Hahahaha, no way, Ciri! I will be the first!"
"No, me! I'll be the first one!"
"I–I think… it w–will be me…"
"No, no, no! I called dibs first!"
As the four children argued yet again, Gustave looked up at the first snowflakes drifting down from the sky and began to think about how much time he had left before everything went haywire.
Or, in other words, before Emhyr—with Vilgefortz's help—accelerated his conquest of the Northern Realms long before Cintra had the chance to grow into a behemoth.
Because although, according to his Earth calendar, Ciri should now be six years old, in the Continent's calendar system—heavily influenced by the elven division of time into eighth-parts—she wouldn't officially turn six until the next Belleteyn. Meaning that, technically, she was still five.
Which also meant that the events of the short story Something More, where Geralt returns in exactly six years according to the elven calendar, would take place next Belleteyn. And it was also next year that Emhyr would reclaim the throne of Nilfgaard.
So, based on all of that, he likely had only seven years to prepare for the invasion.
Sighing at the realization that he had such a tight window to invent anything capable of ensuring his survival, Gustave decided it was time to push his plans forward.
Not by slowly cultivating a mercenary group as he intended for Gascon, but by hiring someone trustworthy who could gather all kinds of monsters for his research—along with handling the many tasks he simply couldn't manage alone at the moment. Seven years was far too short a time to build an entirely reliable mercenary force from scratch.
And since his thoughts were still on Geralt, Gustave figured he might as well hire the Witcher right away, considering the protagonist's father was the only one who fit the criteria: trustworthy, discreet, and unlikely to blabber to others or pry too deeply into the things Gustave needed from him.
And even if his requests were suspicious enough to reach a second pair of ears, Geralt's current inner circle consisted of people who wouldn't bother digging into such matters. From Vesemir all the way down to Lambert—who might enjoy running his mouth but was still, at heart, a Wolf School witcher—none of them would care enough to investigate further.
Even if Yennefer became involved, Gustave knew that while she would follow up on any suspicion, she was the type to act out of selfish motives rather than out of loyalty to the Chapter or Brotherhood.
She cared only for herself—something that, in this case, actually worked in his favor.
Because what Gustave needed was someone who wouldn't blabber to the world—like Regis, who was curious enough to pry into his surface-level secrets about the Sequence, yet respectful enough of his privacy never to share them with a second pair of ears.
But considering that she and Geralt were currently in the middle of one of their many breakups, Yennefer snooping into whatever task he intended to give Geralt wasn't something he needed to worry about.
…Wait. She might actually stalk Geralt and find out what Gustave wanted from him.
But all things considered, letting Yennefer uncover his surface-level secrets was a drawback he could live with. If it were Triss or Coral doing the snooping, however, he would be in real trouble—Coral because of her spiteful wickedness, and Triss because of her delusional sense of righteousness.
He could easily imagine Coral, after discovering his intelligence and inventions, threatening to blabber everything to the world if he didn't kneel before her—something she would thoroughly enjoy, because that was exactly the kind of person Lytta Neyd was.
As for Triss, he could picture her deciding—for his own good and for the "good of the North"—that he should be placed under the care of the Aretuza sorceresses. Which would, in practice, mean quarantining him and letting her fellow sorceresses manipulate him.
It was exactly the sort of thing pre–Witcher 3 Triss would do, especially considering her actions in the books—particularly during the situation when Yennefer had been artifact-compressed.
If the Triss he knew—or even the rest of the sorceresses he knew, except Philippa—were the versions from the Witcher 3 timeline, Gustave might have welcomed them with open arms and worked with them.
But the sorceresses of this era, still full of themselves and looking down on anyone who wasn't one of their own with open contempt—like higher beings gazing at lower ones, or like elven sages viewing humans as primitive monkeys—made that idea completely unacceptable to him.
Because of that, Gustave made a mental note: when ordering his maids to deliver the contract to Geralt, they needed to emphasize the importance of discretion—especially regarding the two red-haired sorceresses.
Although he would've preferred something even more covert when gathering materials for his research, after recalculating everything, he simply didn't have enough time.
Thus, he had no choice but to rely on Geralt to acquire the materials he needed—such as capturing a golem and retrieving various witcher diagrams that might help in his long-term goal of creating steam armor in the future.
Finishing his train of thought, Gustave couldn't help but feel surprised that he had been left alone for once. There were no interruptions from the protagonist girl, and no urging from Vissegard or Reynard Odo about the entourage needing to meet Queen Calanthe.
But when he looked over at the children who were currently swimming across the estuary pond in the central market square—minus Villem, who was determined to be the first to reach the far end and back—he understood why he had been granted this rare moment of peace.
With only his maids, Ciri's palace maids, the Skellige shieldmaidens, and a couple of Cintrian guards remaining—while the rest of the army and their entourage had already gone ahead to meet Queen Calanthe—Gustave lay down on the sandy shore and allowed himself to relax to the sound of the children playing.
Because he knew he wouldn't get many moments like this—moments of quiet, peace, and anonymity—especially since, sooner or later, both he and Ciri would become the center of the world's attention.
But…
"LITTLE GUY!!! COME IN!!! LET ME TEACH YOU HOW TO SWIM!!!"
Twitching at the sound of a certain protagonist girl shouting, Gustave ignored her entirely. He closed his eyes and used his [Recall] to fake falling asleep—a method he had discovered was foolproof. And later down the line, it became his go-to strategy whenever he wanted some time alone.
—