Hearts of Iron 4 Player's Guide to Save the Isekai World

Collie 1.10.3

There was nothing poetic about Erich Kasper's death. In the grand scheme of things, it only took a second to become aware of one's existence — the moment you wrap your head around the world you're in, the time you close your eyes for the last time, and that's it. That's the one second the universe gave you. The rest is nothing.

And yet, as that one second passed, a minty scent pervaded over a wrap of softness and warmth. The unmistakable light shone through the lids, the area around it tingled, and the tapping of shoes went from right to left.

Shoes?

A bright, blurry world appeared, and Erich closed and waited out. He was thinking. Thinking, hearing, seeing, feeling. His hand slid over something furry and smooth to his pounding chest.

If it's a chest, to begin with. 

It doesn't hurt to take a chance.

Three...two...one!

His eyes went wide. A net...no, a curtain hung over him, tied away to the sides from the beams meant to cover the bed. He raised his left arm, clenching and unclenching his hand, twisting and bending the wrists and fingers imaginable. He traced a finger down the arm and locked up at his sensitive elbow

Erich rolled to his left and embraced his arm, almost burying his face into the soft pillow.

He's alive. It was only a second.

Something sounded off a gasp; a man, a few years older, the face of an intern, an aquamarine robe with white stripes centering around a golden peace symbol pattee, and a staff. His face paled, but his eyes fixed on Erich.

Erich opened his mouth. "Who–"

His first attempt at words fell short with a dry throat, and the man dashed out the door. Giants towered over him, the armor turning the man even scrawnier despite his average build.

"He's awake! The Hero has come to!"

One giant looked at him. Helmets reminiscent of the Swiss Guards, the thick blue plumes, the romantic golden face shields erecting upward to cover the nose like a turtle with its chin up, looking down on someone, the ornamental lines of their aquamarine armor, and the white tunics...he's dying, isn't he?

A romanticized renaissance isn't usually what you'd expect the brain to fantasize on its last neurons, let alone being called a Hero. Does he even deserve it? After everything?

Voices continued blending outside, panic, surprise; everyone seemed in a rush.

It's a warm December day for the AC to spew cold air. The place outside was too green, too peaceful, with no honking and whatnot. Did the climate protestors finally resort to eco-terrorism? Erich must be asleep for a big minute.

Whoever tossed him into an imperial bed-chamber had a lot of money. The bed's too comfortable for anybody's got own good. The question was what do they get out of him? No one's too generous to put him into some chateau for recovery. What's the set, Lichtenstein? Erich got to his feet and reached the window. He scanned around the room. Not an instrument or a calendar in sight.

The Niagra falls in all its scenic beauty on the brochures stretched across a massive lake. It took leaning a bit further out of the window to catch a glimpse of dry land on both sides. The boats scaled them down to something proportionate, not too big, not too small, just perfect.

Yep, he's about to die. But there's no point. For all their bite, those losers' alibis are going to be shit either way. But who expects to hear anything reasonable from them?

Erich wobbled back to the big bed. The glass of water on the nightstand was all too enticing, if not a vice, as his brain could just give up already.

The clacking of shoes and metal drew closer. One of the armored giants snapped as more of it marched into the room in two columns with halberds and faced each column with the click of military precision. It's a mystery how snappy they are, hauling that much armor.