Chapter One: The Sovereign Across Ages?

1834, Austrian Empire, Vienna.

The sky was a clear blue, the river waters pristine—this was a city fit for living. Yet it hardly resembled the capital of a great power in the nineteenth century.

In contrast, cities like London bore gloomy skies, heavy smog, and dark rivers. Though environmentally harsh, such sights symbolized the strength of their nations.

Within a grand building adorned in Baroque style externally, the interior reflected Rococo elegance. Antique furnishings of every kind filled the rooms—from Eastern porcelain to raw Baltic amber—an impressive collection indeed.

Its master was none other than Francis II, the last Holy Roman Emperor and the first Emperor of Austria.

At this moment, Francis II faced a difficult choice: to select an exceptional heir or to uphold tradition.

Perhaps because of a deep familial bond, Francis II had always doted on his special grandson, Franz. A healthy boy without any intellectual disabilities, he was both the emperor’s hope and the empire’s.

Indeed, the Austrian Empire then grappled with a lack of suitable successors.

Today, in the nursery, young Franz arranged five letters into a combination that Francis II could not ignore.

“A.E.I.O.U.”

This cryptic phrase had been left by Frederick III in St. Stephen’s Cathedral, still engraved above the altar. It was also the only way Franz Joseph could think of to capture the old emperor’s attention.

“Austria will always be...” Francis murmured.

Frederick III was the last Holy Roman Emperor crowned by the Pope in Rome. Yet he was hardly an exemplary ruler. Faced with Hungarian invasions, his own power was limited; his vassals were lethargic, allies hesitant, forcing him into a hasty retreat westward.

His attempts at reform, aimed at eradicating entrenched corruption, were stifled by the nobility.

Eventually, he lived a reclusive life, absorbed in the study of the stars and alchemy.

Francis II was no different. His grandmother, Empress Maria Theresa, shone so brightly that later heirs paled in comparison.

Worse still, the radical reforms of Joseph II and the shock therapies implemented by Leopold II plunged Austria into chaos—all while France, Austria’s nemesis, rose under the figure of Napoleon.

In that era named after Napoleon, Francis II and the Holy Roman Empire became mere backdrops to history—losing capitals twice, marrying off daughters for peace, and ultimately dissolving the empire.

Though filled with bitterness, Francis II’s designated heir, his eldest son Ferdinand, seemed incapable of bearing the burden of reviving the empire. His second son lacked governance skills as well.

But Francis’s grandson, a peculiar child named Franz Joseph, showed remarkable intelligence from a young age. Yet Franz was too young, and the Austrian Empire had no precedent for a grandson inheriting the throne over his father.

Francis II still remembered the War of the Austrian Succession, sparked by a royal decree.

Deep within, however, lay an unyielding dream of greatness—a dream shared by every emperor.

What ruler would not wish to expand their realms and see their nation flourish? Even common folk desired to live in a strong state. Who would choose a land ravaged by war, where survival was a daily struggle?

Yet Francis II had failed; the empire was steadily declining. He knew his chance had passed and thus pinned his hopes on the next generation.

His eldest son was feeble-minded; the second son, withdrawn. Neither had the capacity to govern better than him. Francis did not want the fading Austria before him to mark the empire’s zenith.

What Francis II did not know was that the Austrian Empire would survive only three emperors before effectively ceasing to exist after the Austro-Prussian War of 1866. It would be replaced by the Austro-Hungarian Empire—a fragile facade that would ultimately collapse in World War I.

At this moment, young Franz Joseph was unaware of the turmoil within Francis II’s heart. His soul came from the future. Though the nineteenth century had neither computers nor phones, being born into royalty suggested a life of indulgence.

Yet he soon realized the identity he had assumed was that of a tragic emperor—Franz Joseph. His romance with Empress Elisabeth was well known.

But his siblings, parents, children, and wife all preceded him in death. His empire became a mere backdrop to the rise of Germany and France, only to crumble utterly in the Great War.

Franz Joseph’s life was a tragedy—but even that word fell short. He was the last monarch of the Austrian Empire and the first of Austro-Hungary. Two years after his death, the empire shattered.

Yet Franz’s greatest worry was not these grand tragedies but the staggering debts his country and family bore—over a billion florins, an absurd sum.

At this time, the Austrian government’s annual revenue was about 110 million florins, while expenditures exceeded 100 million. Without interest, it would take over a century to repay the debts.

A deep sorrow welled within Franz.

Fortunately, Franz Joseph had been born early enough. Yet this body seemed limited. His only thought was to win the old emperor’s favor and draw his attention.

After all, the old emperor held real power, unlike Ferdinand, whose decrees required the regency council’s approval. If pleased, the old emperor might grant estates or enterprises, providing Franz with capital. Coupled with his far-sighted vision, he believed he could make a fortune—at least, that was his hope.

His urgency stemmed from the impending turning point in Austria’s fate.

In 1834, the German Customs Union was established. Austria’s refusal to join sounded the death knell for the empire.

Meanwhile, anxious Francis II decided to seek divine guidance—not by ascending to heaven, but by consulting the emissaries of God in the cathedral.

Since ancient times, Eastern monarchs sought omens and divinations in times of uncertainty. Even today, people consult horoscopes, tarot cards, and I Ching for guidance.

The East was no different from the West in this regard. Thus, Francis II appeared at the gates of St. Stephen’s Cathedral.