"You've got a good face, young man."
"Huh?"
Hans felt his life was truly cursed with bad luck.
Twenty minutes until his shift ended.
Just a little longer, and he'd finally be free from this grueling day. But then, he had to deal with this—a bizarre combo of a foreign old man who read faces like some kind of mystic. The kind of character so odd even Satan might run away screaming.
"Haha, I get that a lot. So, sir, what can I help you find?"
"I'm looking for something, sure. But more importantly, young man, when's your birthday?"
Hans plastered on his best service-industry smile, trying to steer the conversation elsewhere, but this old guy was tougher than he'd expected.
Not only did he speak fluent Chinese—hardly sounding foreign—but he was also annoyingly chummy.
"Come on, I'm not gonna bite. Just tell me already."
The old man's impatience was palpable, pushing Hans to answer.
Maybe he should just ditch the whole "respect your elders" thing and call the cops?
"But that'll delay my clock-out time…"
Hans could tolerate a lot, but that was non-negotiable.
Besides, it was just a birthday. What's the worst that could happen?
With a mental shrug and a desire to get this over with, Hans spoke up.
"Fine… January 18th."
"January 18th… Hmm, just as I thought."
The old man's lips curled into a satisfied smile, clearly pleased with Hans's answer.
Whatever significance that date held for him, it didn't seem like a bad thing.
"As you can see, I'm German."
"Oh, really?"
Hans nodded politely, but honestly, he couldn't tell.
To him, the guy just looked like any other Westerner—how was he supposed to guess German, British, or French?
"And January 18th, for us Germans, is a day of great significance. Do you know why?"
A German holiday?
Hans might know a thing or two about Chinese history, but a random foreign country's special day?
No clue. Still, he wasn't completely in the dark.
"Is it the day the German Empire was founded?"
"Oh, you know your stuff, don't you?"
"I'm into history a bit."
Once upon a time, Hans had dreamed of becoming a historian.
But his parents' disapproval and the harsh reality of a historian's paycheck killed that dream.
His family wasn't exactly swimming in money, so he'd settled for a decent university and a "respectable" major. And yet, here he was, stuck in a dead-end job.
Fate wasn't kind to humanities majors.
Add to that the global mess of a pandemic and an ever-worsening economy, and finding a decent job felt like climbing a mountain with no peak.
Hans was just another ordinary, unlucky young man in 21st-century China.
"Exactly. January 18th, 1871—the glorious day at Versailles."
The old man, oblivious to Hans's inner turmoil, was lost in his own world, his face glowing with nostalgia.
"That was when we Germans truly came together."
For centuries, Germany had been a patchwork of tiny states. That day marked its first unification.
After defeating France in the Franco-Prussian War, the Kingdom of Prussia, in the heart of France's own Versailles Palace, crowned King Wilhelm I as the first emperor of the German Empire.
The moment was so iconic it was immortalized in oil paintings and history textbooks.
Ironically, less than half a century later, France got its revenge in that same palace, with the Treaty of Versailles, turning Germany's triumph into humiliation.
"The Empire was magnificent," the old man said, a faint smile playing on his lips as if recalling a golden age.
"The lavish balls at Sanssouci Palace, the emperor's armies marching through the Brandenburg Gate. Everyone looked up to us, envied us."
"From the Maas to the Memel, from the Etsch to the Belt."
"Oh, you don't hear those names much anymore."
Hans was quoting the first stanza of Deutschlandlied, Germany's national anthem, which referenced the Maas River (covering Luxembourg and parts of Alsace-Lorraine), the Memel (now Klaipėda in Lithuania), the Etsch (the Adige River in Italy's former Austro-Hungarian South Tyrol), and the Belt (the Little Belt strait near Schleswig-Holstein).
These were the farthest reaches of the German Empire's dominion, symbols of its glory.
But Germany lost those territories, and it was their own doing.
World wars.
Germany didn't just start the two most devastating wars in human history—they lost both.
The result? Massive territorial losses and a divided nation, split into East and West Germany.
As the saying goes, "Those who play with fire get burned."
"But in modern Germany, isn't talking about those old territories kind of… taboo?"
That's why the first stanza of Deutschlandlied was never sung anymore.
The second stanza, criticized for sexism, was also rarely used.
This made Hans even more suspicious of the old man.
"Wait a sec… you're not a Nazi, are you?"
"Shut up!"
The old man's kindly smile twisted into a furious scowl, his roar hitting Hans like a slap.
"You think I'm one of those scum? I'm just an old guy who misses the days of the Empire."
"Sorry, sorry! But, come on, you can't be that old, right? The German Empire fell over a hundred years ago in 1918."
"What does that matter? As long as you carry the Empire's spirit in your heart, that's enough."
The old man pressed a hand to his chest, his voice firm.
Hans couldn't believe it. A die-hard German Empire fan?
He'd heard Germans rarely showed patriotism because of their war-torn history, but clearly, that was nonsense.
Sure, compared to the absolute disaster of Nazi Germany, the German Empire was slightly better, but it still had its share of imperialist sins—like the Herero and Nama genocide.
To Hans, it was six of one, half a dozen of the other.
"Even the mighty German Empire fell in the end," Hans said, his tone cooling.
The old man caught his shift in mood, glanced at him, and sighed.
"Wilhelm II… he led the Empire to its doom."
Wilhelm II.
The last emperor, the final Kaiser, whose terrible diplomacy and judgment drove the Empire to ruin.
The old man's face darkened—not with anger, but with regret and sorrow.
"If the Kaiser had a friend like you by his side, maybe the Empire wouldn't have ended like that. Such a pity."
"Pfft! Me? Come on, old man, you're joking. You make it sound like I'm Bismarck or something."
"Who knows? I think you've got the potential."
"Oh, your face-reading mumbo jumbo again? That's just superstition."
Hans had heard Germans had a terrible sense of humor, but this guy was proving that wrong.
Comparing a random shop clerk to Bismarck, the iron chancellor who built the German Empire? What a ridiculous joke.
Even Bismarck got sacked by Wilhelm II in the end.
No matter how talented someone was, if the leader was a mess, it didn't matter.
"Believe what you want," the old man said with a carefree chuckle. "It's up to you."
Thud.
"Ring these up for me."
He placed two cans of soda on the counter.
"Fanta?"
"A taste of nostalgia."
Nostalgia, huh?
Fanta was created during World War II when Coca-Cola's German branch couldn't get ingredients due to American embargoes, so they made it as a substitute.
In Germany, it was a drink with history. The old man's comment made sense.
But wait—when did he grab those cans? Hans hadn't seen him near the fridge.
Maybe he'd zoned out during their chat.
"One's for you. Thanks for humoring an old man's ramblings."
"Oh, no way, you don't have to—"
"Get back to work."
"Alright, take care!"
Ding-dong.
The shop door closed.
"Not such a bad guy after all," Hans muttered.
At first, he'd pegged him as some con artist who'd picked up weird tricks in China, but he'd misjudged him.
Sure, the guy talked a lot, but in this cold, cutthroat world, someone who'd treat a random worker to a drink was rare.
Click.
Hiss.
The can's tab popped, and bubbles fizzed out.
Hans chugged it, the sweet orange tang of Fanta flooding his mouth.
It'd been a while since he'd had soda—the carbonation stung his throat, but it felt oddly refreshing.
"Man, that hits the spot."
He set the can down, wiping his mouth.
"Urgh?!"
Thud.
What the hell?
His body gave out, and he collapsed forward.
No time to scream—just blinding, unbearable pain, like his entire body had been slammed by a truck.
"Was it the drink?"
But the register had scanned it fine.
Even if it was expired, it wouldn't make him feel like he was dying, right?
"Urgh… cough, cough…"
His throat felt blocked, his breathing labored.
He fought to stay conscious, but it was no use.
As seconds ticked by, his vision blurred.
"Am I really gonna die like this? Over a can of Fanta?"
Forget the embarrassment—it was just absurd.
All the struggles of his life, for what?
"You make it sound like I'm Bismarck or something."
"Who knows? I think you've got the potential."
The old man's words echoed in his ears.
If only that were true.
If there was a next life, Hans didn't want to die this pathetically, with nothing to show for it.
-----------------
When Hans was a kid, his mother used to half-force him to listen to Buddhist scriptures. She'd always say,
"Hans, be kind to others. Do evil, and you'll end up in hell!"
Looking back, who doesn't do a little wrong in their life? But her words stuck with him.
So, was this hell?
"Oh, you're finally awake."
Guess not.
"Urgh…"
"Speechless from shock?"
More like dazed and confused.
When Hans opened his eyes, the fact that he wasn't dead brought tears to his eyes.
"Understandable."
Then he appeared—a man trying way too hard to look serious, nervously stroking his distinctive W-shaped mustache.
The one and only Wilhelm II.
"Thanks to you, I'm alive."
The last emperor of the German Empire.
"Wait, what?"
Who saved who?
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