The Commune

I was on a train, granted a vacation by the military in exchange for my service. As for Alaric, he had likely returned to his hometown to visit his mother. I took a sip of my unsweetened coffee while reading the newspaper. The media seemed to be heavily glorifying Germania's victories in the war, painting them as grand triumphs rather than the brutal conflicts they truly were.

The date on the newspaper read Vanuary 2. It had taken several days to process my leave before I was finally granted this well-deserved respite. I had celebrated the Holy Holiday and New Year in Bernun with the soldiers and Alaric at the military base, but now, as the train rumbled beneath me, I could finally feel the weight of exhaustion settling in.

After finishing my coffee, I found myself craving another cup. That was one of the luxuries of a first-class train—good food and quality coffee, albeit at a steep price. I stood up, walked to the service cart, and returned to my seat with a fresh cup in hand. As I settled in, I continued reading my newspaper.

However, as I became engrossed in the articles, a man in his twenties, wearing glasses and dressed in noble attire, approached me. He carried a briefcase stuffed with papers—perhaps a writer, I supposed.

"Excuse me, sir. May I sit with you?" he asked in the refined voice of a well-educated man.

I looked up, studying him for a moment before nodding. "Of course, you can, sir."

There was something oddly familiar about his face, though I couldn't quite place it. Had I known him from my old world? Was he someone famous?

He sat down across from me, carefully placing his briefcase on his lap. Adjusting his glasses, he pulled out a fountain pen and began scribbling on one of the loose papers he carried. My eyes flicked toward the page, catching a glimpse of the title at the top: The Commune.

Raising an eyebrow, I decided to break the silence. "The Commune, huh? Are you writing a political essay?"

He looked up from his notes, offering a faint smile. "Something like that. I believe the current system is deeply flawed. The aristocracy and wealthy elites control everything, while the common people toil endlessly with little reward. I am drafting a proposal—an ideology, if you will—where the means of production are collectively owned, and class distinctions are abolished."

I leaned back in my seat, intrigued. "That sounds... radical. You're suggesting an entirely classless society? No nobility, no ruling elite?"

"Precisely," he said, his eyes gleaming with conviction. "Imagine a world where workers are not mere servants to the wealthy. Where resources are distributed based on need rather than inherited privilege. Where every individual has an equal stake in society. No kings, no aristocrats, no generals lording over the common man."

I chuckled. "That last part makes me wonder—do you also intend to do away with the military?"

He shook his head. "A nation will always need a means of defense. But under a true commune, war would not be driven by imperial ambition or the greed of the ruling class. Soldiers would fight only to protect their homeland, not to expand an empire built on exploitation."

I took another sip of my coffee, mulling over his words. In my old world, there was a similar ideology—communism. It had been one of the most divisive and controversial movements in history. Some nations had embraced it, while others had fought fiercely against it. The very idea had led to revolutions, civil wars, and political purges.

"You're speaking as if class struggle is inevitable," I said after a moment.

"Because it is," he replied, leaning forward. "History has always been defined by the struggles between oppressors and the oppressed. Feudal lords and peasants. Factory owners and workers. Generals and foot soldiers. The powerful exploit the weak, and unless something changes, it will always be that way."

I smirked. "You sound like a revolutionary. Do you plan to overthrow the government?"

He laughed softly. "Ideas are more powerful than any army, my friend. I don't need weapons—I only need words. If enough people believe in the vision I propose, change will come naturally."

I studied him for a moment, feeling a strange sense of déjà vu. Something about him—the passion in his voice, the way he articulated his ideas—reminded me of figures I had read about in history books.

I set my newspaper down and folded my arms. "Well then, what's your name, philosopher?"

He smiled. "My name is Karl. Karl von Richter."

Karl. The name didn't match any famous communists from my old world, but his ideology certainly did. Was I witnessing the birth of a new political movement?

As the train rumbled forward, I continued listening to his theories, sipping my coffee as he spoke of a world free from oppression—a utopia where all men were equal.

A world that, in my experience, had never truly existed.

But who was I to say what the future would bring?