The endless historical battlefield that began with World War I

The mornings at Exeter Manor never belonged to those who lived in the attic.

While the curtains of the master's house were still tightly drawn, while the lady of the house was still having sweet dreams under the silk sheets, and while the young masters and ladies were still turning over in their warm down beds, the servants' quarters were already bustling with activity.

The stove in the kitchen must be lit by 5:30.

At six o'clock, the host's morning tea needs to be prepared.

At 6:30, all the dust in the corridors, staircases, and lobbies must be cleaned thoroughly, as if no one had walked through them last night.

And those who were responsible for these dirty and tiring jobs were low-level male servants like Joseph.

Joseph passed through several closed doors.

According to the original owner's memories, those were the other servants' rooms—the maids slept in dormitories with four people per room, the grooms lived in small huts next to the stables, and the cooks had their own single rooms, but they weren't much better. As for the butler, Clark, he lived in the "butler's room" on the first floor, which was the only room in the servants' quarters that could barely be considered decent.

The hallway was filled with a mixture of smells: damp wood, moldy clothes, cheap soap, and coal smoke wafting from the kitchen.

"You've finally come up with something."

A hoarse female voice came from the direction of the kitchen.

Joseph turned his head and saw a plump middle-aged woman standing in the kitchen doorway, hands on her hips, her face full of impatience.

That was the cook, Mrs. Jane Morris, a widow in her fifties, vulgar and short-tempered, but one of the few people in the manor who still had humanity.

Good morning, Mrs. Morris.

"What do you mean 'early'!" The cook rolled her eyes, but still pulled a hard piece of rye bread from her apron pocket and tossed it to him. "Here, get to work. Don't let that fat pig Clark cause you any trouble."

Joseph took the bread and secretly remembered this small favor.

"Thank you, madam."

"Enough nonsense, the stables haven't been cleaned yet." The cook waved her hand, shooing him away like a fly. "And the coal buckets, the Earl burned the fireplace in his study all night last night, the cinders are piled up high."

Joseph nodded and turned to leave.

As he reached the kitchen doorway, he glanced at the scene inside:

The huge cast-iron stove was already red-hot, and the flames reflected off the copper pots hanging on the wall.

The cook's two assistants—both fifteen or sixteen-year-old farm girls—were kneading dough, their hands covered in flour.

On the table were the ingredients for breakfast: eggs, bacon, sausage, fresh butter, and jam.

That was prepared for the host.

The servants' breakfast consisted of hard, black bread that could be used as a weapon, served with thin oatmeal porridge, and if they were lucky, they might get a small piece of salted meat.

Class is as naked as it is.

Joseph took a bite of bread; it was so hard he almost broke his teeth. He chewed as he walked through the backyard toward the stables.

**************

The morning mist hadn't yet dissipated, the lawn was damp, and dew soaked his trouser legs. The main building in the distance appeared somewhat ethereal in the thin mist, its red brick walls and spires resembling a castle from a fairy tale.

But Joseph knew that it wasn't a fairy tale.

That's a prison.

A prison built on class, tradition, and etiquette. Here, you die in the same place you are born. A servant's child will always be a servant, and a noble's child will always be a noble.

Unless something breaks this order.

For example, war.

[System Prompt]

New player quests have been released:

Learn basic riding skills

Reward: 50 points

Joseph stared thoughtfully at the semi-transparent interface that appeared before him.

Learning to ride a horse? That suits him perfectly. Having an extra skill means having an extra layer of protection if he wants to survive on the battlefield.

"Hey, Joseph!"

A cheerful voice interrupted his thoughts.

Joseph turned his head and saw a young man walking out of the stable.

That was Tom Foster, the stable boy at the plantation, in his early twenties, sturdy, with messy blond hair and a perpetually kind smile on his face.

According to the original owner's memories, Tom was one of the few people in the manor who was friendly to him.

Unlike the other servants, he was not snobbish and did not look down on Joseph because of his low status.

On the contrary, Tom always helped him within his means—secretly sharing some leftovers with him, or saying a few good words for the butler when he was angry.

"Good morning, Tom." Joseph gave a tired smile befitting his persona.

"You look terrible." Tom walked over and patted him on the shoulder. "Didn't sleep well again last night? Is the attic leaking?"

"No, it's just... I had a nightmare," Joseph casually made up an excuse.

"A nightmare?" Tom laughed. "What did you dream about? Clark whipping you with a cane?"

"More or less."

Tom shook his head, a hint of sympathy flashing in his eyes: "That's just how this godforsaken place is. But don't worry, you're still young, you'll have your chance eventually."

opportunity?

In this era, for a low-ranking male servant, the so-called "opportunity" is nothing more than toiling away for more than ten years, and if he's lucky, he'll be promoted to a senior male servant, able to wear a slightly more respectable uniform, and his salary will increase from five shillings to seven shillings. Then, on some cold winter night, he'll die of tuberculosis or overwork.

But he nodded outwardly: "I hope so."

"By the way," Tom suddenly lowered his voice and said mysteriously, "have you heard? The newspapers say something happened in Serbia, and it seems the Austrians are going to start a war."

Joseph's heart skipped a beat.

coming.

The gears of history have begun to turn.

"Really?" he asked casually. "What does that have to do with us?"

"Who knows?" Tom shrugged. "But Jenny in the kitchen said her cousin works as a newsboy in London and heard the government might mobilize. If war breaks out, we might have to join the army too."

"You want to go?"

"Of course!" Tom's eyes lit up, like a child hearing an adventure story. "Just think, wearing a uniform, carrying a gun, protecting the country! How glorious! And I've heard the army provides food and lodging, and the salary is higher than at the manor. Besides, what future do people like us have staying at the manor? To be slaves to someone like Clark for the rest of our lives?"

Joseph looked at Tom's excited expression and started making plans in his mind.

This was the atmosphere of 1914, and also his opportunity.

The war propaganda machine had been activated. Newspapers were filled with words like "glory," "courage," and "patriotism," and recruitment posters depicted handsome soldiers and fluttering national flags. What the young people from the lower classes saw was an opportunity to escape their oppressive lives, adventure and glory, a stable salary, and the possibility of promotion.

What Joseph saw was the path to high scores.

"You're right," Joseph nodded. "There's no future in staying here anyway. Rather than spending his life as a manservant, he might as well try his luck on the battlefield. Maybe he can even become a sergeant, which is much more prestigious than Clark."

"That's exactly right!" Tom patted him on the shoulder excitedly. "When the conscription order comes down, let's sign up together! Brothers fighting side by side, looking out for each other!"

"It's a deal." Joseph extended his hand.

Tom gripped his hand tightly, his eyes sparkling with anticipation for the future.

Joseph paused, then suddenly said, "Tom, if we're really going to war, I'd like to make some preparations first."

"What preparations?"

"Could you teach me to ride a horse?" Joseph asked in a low voice. "I think if we're going to join the army, being able to ride a horse is a survival skill. Cavalrymen definitely have a higher survival rate than infantrymen, artillerymen need people who know how to ride horses, and even signalmen need to be able to deliver messages on horseback."

Tom hesitated for a moment, then his expression turned hesitant: "Riding a horse? Are you crazy? You're a manservant, not a groom! What if Clark sees you—"

“I know the risks,” Joseph interrupted him, his tone firm. “But if we’re going to join the army, every extra skill increases our chances of survival. You and I are both poor guys, with no connections or background; we can only rely on ourselves. If we want to come back alive, we have to be stronger, smarter, and better prepared than others.”

Tom bit his lip, clearly hesitant.

"Besides," Joseph continued, "who said I had to ride my master's horse? The draft horses for pulling carts or the draft horses for plowing fields are docile and no one will pay attention to them. You're the groom, you'll have the opportunity to interact with them. I don't need to learn any advanced riding skills, just be able to ride a horse and run without falling off."

Tom was silent for a few seconds, then slowly nodded: "Alright... but you have to do it secretly, before dawn or after dark, and you absolutely can't be discovered. And you have to promise me you'll be careful, you can't get hurt, and you can't hurt the horse."

"no problem."

"Let's start tomorrow morning. At five o'clock, before everyone else gets up, I'll take you to the fields in the back. There are two old draft horses there, good-tempered, suitable for beginners."

"In addition," Joseph continued, "I also want to learn how to care for horses. Feeding, brushing, checking horseshoes, treating minor wounds... these are all useful in the army."

Tom looked at him, a hint of admiration flashing in his eyes: "You... really think ahead."

"How can you live long if you don't think about going far?"

"Okay, I'll teach you these things slowly." Tom patted him on the shoulder. "But we need to get to work now; the stables are waiting to be cleaned."

Joseph followed Tom into the stable.

The stable is large enough to hold ten horses. At this moment, there are eight: four are the master's riding horses, two are draft horses for pulling the carriage, and two are thoroughbreds used by the young master for hunting.

The air was filled with the mixed smell of horse manure, straw, and leather. It wasn't unpleasant; rather, it had a kind of rustic vitality.

"Same as always." Tom handed him a shovel and a bucket. "You're in charge of the four stables at the back, and I'll take the front ones. Remember, be especially careful with the master's Thoroughbreds; don't startle them."

"understood."

Joseph took the tools and walked to the stables at the back.

*************

Two hours later, the stable was cleaned up.

Joseph was covered in sweat, his clothes stained with grass clippings and dirt, but he felt surprisingly good. The physical exhaustion actually made his mind clearer.

"Go clean up the cinders," Tom patted him on the shoulder. "Don't be late, or Clark will dock your pay."

Joseph nodded and carried the coal bucket toward the main building.

Upon entering the main building, the atmosphere immediately changed.

If the servants' quarters are the backstage area, then the main building is the stage.

The spacious marble corridor had high vaulted ceilings, oil paintings and deer head specimens on the walls, and Persian carpets on the floor. Morning sunlight streamed through stained-glass windows, casting dappled patterns of light and shadow on the floor.

The air was filled with the scents of flowers and waxed wood, exuding elegance, luxury, and a sense of nostalgia.

Joseph walked down the corridor and saw the family portraits hanging on the wall: generations of earls dressed in magnificent uniforms, their expressions solemn, as if looking down on everyone who walked under the portraits.

ridiculous.

A few years from now, some of the people in these portraits will be blown to pieces on the battlefield of the Somme, buried in the same muddy ground as the peasant soldiers they once looked down upon.

War is the greatest egalitarian.

"Linden!"

A sharp voice interrupted his thoughts.