The Age of Swords and Scarred Cheeks

I have alighted once again in the Weimar Republic, though this diversion—shall we say, this *colorful remix*—of German history leans heavily into a bewildering alteration of cultural rites. The major divergence, as I have pieced together from a few awkward conversations at a local Konditorei (between bites of what I maintain is a superior iteration of apple strudel), lies in the universalization of coming-of-age duels as the paramount rite of passage for young Germans. Yes, duels. Formal ones. With witnesses, judges, and an alarming amount of fanfare.

Here, at the tender age of eighteen, every youth—regardless of gender, class, or profession—is required by societal custom to challenge a "Significant Rival" to single combat. The rationale for this, I am told with a shrug and a slice of irony-laden cake, is that one cannot properly enter adulthood without proving their mettle... or at least their ability to take a light fencing wound with dignity. The duel itself is not to the death (thank goodness), nor even to severe injury (most times). It is merely to "first blood"—a charmingly vague way of insisting on superficial damage—and designed, ostensibly, to test composure, strategy, and personal discipline.

The minor differences this has wrought across Berlin's cultural landscape are striking if occasionally absurd. For one, dueling scars—traditionally confined to the aristocratic student fraternities of other histories—are here a sort of universal badge of adulthood. People wear them with pride: the small nick on a chin, the faint line across an eyebrow, each offering a story to tell at parties. Artists and photographers have even taken to editing such "marks of maturity" into official portraits for those who managed to avoid them altogether during their rite. An unblemished lawyer or engineer, I've learned, is whispered about with faint suspicion—they must surely have bribed an opponent to go easy on them. Can one truly trust an adult without a single scar? Most firmly believe not.

Naturally, the economy has adapted. Shops specializing in fencing equipment line Berlin’s streets, promoting the latest in elegant but reasonably-priced sabers. An entire micro-industry thrives on pre-duel training for nervous debutantes, offering everything from swordsmanship tutorials to breathing exercises meant to prevent fainting before the first strike. Perhaps the oddest development is the rise of "duel choreography coaches," whose job is to ensure each match plays out with an acceptable level of drama, flair, and faux-danger—not unlike professional wrestling in my home timeline.

And yet, beneath the charm of this blood-touched ritual lies a darker irony. I've noticed, for instance, that this obsession with proving oneself through conflict has begun to bleed (pun intended) into Germany’s broader political psyche. At cafes and bars, impassioned debates about socialism or national governance often turn— alarmingly quickly, I must note—into impromptu challenges to "settle it properly, like adults." Even parliamentary sessions, I regret to report, have been known to occasionally devolve into chaotic bouts of swordplay. It’s all extraordinarily dignified until someone loses state secrets over a miscalculated riposte.

I couldn’t help but think, though, how increasingly fitting this ethos is for a nation dancing precariously on the edge of economic collapse and political extremism. They already view adulthood as a battlefield; one wonders if the lessons of scarred cheeks and ceremonial blades might someday extrapolate into national-scale duels—a terrifying and yet predictably Germanic expansion of this rite.

Before departing this timeline, I entertained the thought of challenging someone myself—purely for research, of course. But the proprietor at Café Kranzler, noticing my unblistered hands and general air of "foreign softness," strongly advised against it. "Better to skip straight to the cake," he said. I listened.