My eyelids twitched. *Arrest them all?* Did this man truly believe a few sentries could contend with Anja, who had just turned a man into a living ice sculpture? Or, worse, did he think *I* was going to let him ruin my chances of finally getting that nap? My past self’s meticulously annoying plan was almost at its conclusion. I was not about to let this geriatric tyrant throw a wrench into my hard-earned idleness. I stepped forward, the Orlov folio still clutched in my hand, its pages exposing generations of incompetence. Anja, still radiating a faint shimmer of ice, glanced at me, her expression unreadable. His gaze, previously fixed on Anja’s defiant stance, now snapped to me, his cold pupils narrowing. “Lord Orlov,” I began, my voice clear and, much to my annoyance, carrying a surprising amount of weight. “Before you issue further illegal orders, take a look at this.” I held up the leaves. “It details a hereditary magical deficiency within your esteemed lineage. A flaw, I might add, that mirrors the erratic flux your grandson, Pavel, just publicly displayed. The same erratic flux that caused the regional reactor’s initial meltdown.” Whispers erupted amongst the faculty, quickly hushed by the old man's glare. He scoffed, a dry, brittle sound. “A baseless accusation from a witless youth. My house is pure.” “Purely fraudulent,” I countered, a flicker of my past self’s infuriating confidence igniting within me. “This record, preserved by my ancestor’s inconvenient foresight, meticulously logs generations of falsified attunement scores. It explains *why* the regional Core, maintained solely by your bloodline for centuries, was so prone to collapse. It also explains why, when a minor, perfectly understandable magical incident occurred, Pavel was so quick to frame Lady Volkov rather than admit his bloodline's weakness.” I paused, letting the implications sink in. Orlov’s jowls began to flush, a dark crimson spreading from his neck to his temples. He knew. He absolutely knew. “But this goes beyond simple incompetence,” I continued, my voice dropping slightly, forcing them to lean in. “My ancestor, the Grand Tactician Bogdan Chekhovsky, predicted an event precisely like this. He foresaw how a noble clan, weakened by a concealed flaw, would seek to compensate by seizing control of critical Runic Cores to consolidate power. Not just the local engine, but the capital’s central regulator, the *Chornoroot Core* itself.” Murmurs swelled again, louder, edged with panic. The Chornoroot Core. The heart of the floating capital, the ultimate prize. “This paper,” I raised it again, “coupled with my ancestor’s research notes, indicates a pattern. Your kin have been systematically sabotaging the capital’s Core maintenance for decades, creating a manufactured crisis. A crisis that you intended to ‘solve’ by seizing emergency control, effectively staging a coup under the guise of stabilizing the realm.” The old statesman shook with fury. “Lies! Fabrications! You dare accuse me, a servant of the throne, of treason?” His hand twitched, reaching for the ceremonial blade at his hip. Before he could draw it, Matron Elzbieta stepped forward, her deceptively sweet smile firmly in place. She held a stack of aged, leather-bound scrolls and a heavy, sealed document. Her eyes, usually so benign, held a sharp, unwavering gleam. “A servant of the throne, indeed,” she said, her voice soft but slicing cleanly through the hall. “Or instead, an unwitting instrument of Bogdan Chekhovsky’s posthumous will.” All eyes, including mine, swiveled to her. This was it. The big reveal. “For decades,” Matron Elzbieta continued, her gaze sweeping over the astonished faces of the faculty and halberdiers, “I have served as the custodian of the late tactician's final directives. A failsafe, he called it. A contingency against the very kind of systemic rot he predicted would infest the state after his retirement.” She tapped the scrolls. “These are copies of his sealed calculations, detailing the Orlov clan's ambition and their hereditary magical deficit with chilling accuracy. He even predicted the precise method of their planned coup.” She then unfurled the sealed document. “And this is a sovereign writ, signed by the crown three centuries ago, granting the appointed executor—myself—the standing to investigate and prosecute any individual implicated in these contingencies, with the full backing of the palace regiment.” She met his furious glare without flinching. “It seems your ‘farce’ is, in fact, an official inquiry. One you are failing spectacularly.” The palace sentries exchanged brief glances. Their loyalty was to the crown, not to a disgraced minister caught in a web of three-century-old treachery. With synchronized precision, the soldiers flanking him shifted, leveling their azure pikes at his breastplate. Orlov’s color drained instantly. His mouth opened, but no sound emerged. The game was up. He was cornered not by a single accusation, but by the ghost of a genius who had foreseen his downfall before his great-grandparents were even born. “Arrest him for treason against the realm,” Matron Elzbieta commanded, her tone brooking no argument. “And impound all Orlov assets, including their Core maintenance contracts, for crown audit.” In moments, it was done. Stripped of rank and dignity, the minister was hauled away, sputtering protests. Pavel, still trapped in Anja’s ice prison, could only watch in impotent fury as his grandfather’s power crumbled. The academy erupted in cheers and startled shouts. Anja, the feared ‘Witch of the Frostwood,’ stood vindicated. The shattered vault door remained behind her in jagged shards, silent proof of the truth she had forced into the open. Her sanctuary for children would receive formal crown patronage by week's end. Later that day, a royal edict was read aloud, clearing Anja’s name entirely and commending her actions. Pavel Orlov was stripped of his titles and exiled. Matron Elzbieta, meanwhile, looked utterly exhausted but quietly triumphant. I, Bogdan Chekhovsky, the accidental savior, was summoned before the newly convened council. They offered me an appointment of immense power: ‘Grand Tactician to the Throne,’ along with a lifetime stipend and a private floating estate. The ultimate reward for securing the realm. I looked at their earnest, hopeful faces. I looked at the piles of paperwork, the endless meetings, the ceaseless demands on my time and intellect. I thought of the uninterrupted, blissful oblivion I had so nearly achieved. Then I thought of my past self, winking annoyingly from beyond the grave, and decided to stick it to him one last time. “Thank you, esteemed Council,” I said, managing a polite, if weary, bow. “But after such… extensive exertions, all I truly desire is a long-overdue nap. Perhaps a century or two. The Empire is secured. My work here is done.” Blank shock settled across the room. I ignored them, already mentally drifting towards the softest, most silent corner of the academy I could find. I eventually found a deserted rooftop garden, tucked away behind the library, bathed in the soft glow of the twin setting suns. The air was cool and still. Perfect. I was just about to close my eyes, a blissful sigh on my lips, when a shadow fell over me. “A long-overdue nap, you said?” Anja’s voice, now softer than I’d ever heard it, drifted down to me. She stood there, no longer the Ice Queen, but simply Anja, her eyes holding a warmth that would have melted any of her previous ice prisons. I opened one eye. “Indeed. A man’s got to sleep.” She sat beside me, her presence a quiet comfort. “You’ve earned it, Bogdan. You saved us all. Elian, the children… me.” Her voice caught slightly on the last word. “Thank you.” I grunted, a lazy acknowledgment. “Just trying to get back to my afterlife. Turns out, it was a colossal disaster.” She smiled then, genuine and luminous, settling a quiet warmth into my ribs. “Perhaps. But you know,” she leaned a little closer, smelling of clean frost and crushed mountain petals, “I think I'd prefer you didn’t sleep for another century.” My eyelids, which had been so eager to close, now stayed stubbornly open. My afterlife retirement plan was, without a doubt, a complete disaster. But for the first time since I’d woken up, I found I didn’t seem to mind at all.

A Retirement Finally Earned