Part 1
Golden sunlight crept in beneath the heavy drapes, pooling across the polished bedroom floor until it touched the very foot of Philip's bed. He lay on his side, half-lidded eyes adjusting to the morning glow, his mind hovering between dreaming and being awake. The manor was quiet, almost reverent at this hour. That hush, however, soon gave way to a more pressing awareness: someone else was lying beside him.
Natalia.
Her back faced him, breathing in slow, peaceful rhythms. A barely-there nightgown of wispy white cloth clung to her body, hugging every contour of her fit, athletic build. In the gentle half-light, her form looked almost sculpted by an otherworldly artist: long legs shaped like a champion high-jumper's, toned arms resting near her pillowy bosom. Even with the gown covering her, the faint outline of her toned back, firm and round butt, and the graceful taper of her waist stood visible. He'd known Natalia was beautiful. But he'd never actually looked—really looked—at her. His usual approach was to shy away in embarrassment. Now, with the sun gilding her silhouette, he couldn't help but stare and marvel at the quiet perfection of her figure. Suddenly, memories of female high jumpers from a televised Olympic competition he watched with Tara came flashing back. Here Natalia was, an embodiment of that same healthy, dynamic beauty, dozing serenely beside him. He found himself thinking: If the men in Bortinto's corporate rat race could see me now, they'd never believe it.
A pang of memory made him flinch. Bortinto had once been his entire world: endless suits and ties, towering high-rises, and illusions of prestige. He'd spent years in meticulously pressed suits, day in and day out, toiling on the 30th floor of a gleaming glass monolith. At first, that vantage point had felt electrifying—like he was perched above the world, directing colossal sums of wealth with a few keystrokes. In reality, it was an unrelenting grind. He and the entire industry of professionals like him were merely cogs in the giant machine of the financial system, straining themselves to keep up the illusion of glory and success. But in reality, he was just a caretaker of other people's wealth, no more an owner of that power than a zookeeper is the owner of a rare panda. Once he stepped out of that building each evening, the illusions faded. He trudged back to a cramped apartment he shared with Tara, too small to hold either of their big ambitions. She'd eventually left, and the job was gone soon after. In one week, his entire reality had been turned upside down. Now, just a little over three months later, that life felt strangely distant—he might as well have dreamt it.
He exhaled, letting the lingering heaviness from those memories slip away. Turning his gaze back to Natalia's shapely back, he noticed his hand had absentmindedly drifted to her waist. It rested there, a warm press of palm against the curve where her gown rode up, baring the velvety skin just above her hips. Worse, he realized he'd unconsciously been stroking up and down her side while immersed in reminiscing about the past. His cheeks flashed hot. If she woke and found him exploring her body, he'd die of mortification.
At least she's wearing something, he thought, recalling that very first time when she took up the task of impersonating his mistress at the direction of Lydia so that no one gets suspicious about her identity. Only after a prolonged, awkward conversation involving the three of them, Philip finally convinced Lydia to tone down her perfectionist habits and settle for a lower level of authenticity. Natalia happily complied by putting on some filmy nightgowns. After a good few times of intentionally getting "caught" by Redwood staff seeing her waking up beside him in his room, everyone had come to accept her as his mistress, and with the conclusion foregone, there is no more rumours. Now they just had to keep up the façade. And Philip, much to his own scandalized surprise, started to adapt as well.
He was about to slip his hand from her waist when a swirl of old reflections crept in: the corporate madness of Bortinto, the illusions of "having it all," the suffocating rigors of those daily commutes in his stiffest suits, just to earn enough for an apartment that was never truly his. Now he owned an estate—albeit debt-ridden, threatened by assassins, and drowning in bureaucracy—but it was his domain. And he had people like Lydia and Albert who genuinely cared for him. Even Elora and Kendrick, in their wild ways, were loyal. Natalia, especially. A pang of gratitude made his heart ache.
He was about to ease his hand off her, but his mind strayed again, drifting through the swirl of memories—life in Bortinto's corporate machine, worthless illusions of power, never truly making a difference. Now he resided in an unpredictable realm, saddled with aristocratic drama, estate debt, and literal assassination attempts. Yet for all that, he felt more genuinely valued than ever. Lydia and Albert worried for his safety. Even the obsessive Elora and flamboyant Kendrick had proven loyal friends despite their eccentricities. And there is Natalia. People truly needed him here. The Redwood estate needed him. In this world, he had a shot at building something that mattered and maybe… just maybe… really making a difference.
A warm rush of gratitude coursed through him. Yes, his figure might not be as hot as his sculpted physique back in Bortinto, the product of ruthless discipline. And yes, he woke up nearly strangled by gossip daily. But there were real bonds here, real stakes. He ran his fingers absentmindedly across Natalia's hip—only to discover he was now palming the supple curve of her backside. He stiffened in horror, mid-grope. His entire face went scarlet at the realization.
In that instant came a crisp knock at the door. Instinct jolted him upright, heart pounding. He tried to yank his hand away, but before he could manage it, a sleepy, melodic voice spoke.
"Please give us a few seconds," Natalia called out, sounding sweet and composed. "We'll be right out."
Philip froze. We? She's awake? He snapped his gaze downward. Natalia had pivoted her head enough to peek at him over her shoulder, soft blonde waves spilling across the pillow. Big blue eyes met his, and her rosy lips curved into the most sheepish, half-guilty smile he'd ever seen.
"You—you were awake this whole time?" he asked, practically strangling on mortification.
She blushed, the pink tinge spreading across her cheeks. "I'm sorry, Master. I noticed your hand drifting, but you seemed so… focused. I was worried that if I moved, it might distract you from whatever you were pondering." A sheepish expression written all over her face.
He sputtered. "My hand—uh—it slipped." Heat scalded his face, and a part of him wanted to dissolve into the bed.
Natalia cast him a gentle, earnest look. "No need to sweat the small details. I didn't want to interrupt you, but since the knock already did, there was no point for me to keep quiet any longer." She bit her lip, fearful of upsetting Philip.
Then, her eyes darted toward the door. "Though I guess we must hurry. Lydia might be waiting for us downstairs."
He blinked. "Right. Right." His heart still hammered. Glad that Natalia had changed the topic. He tried to regain his composure. "Let's, uh… get ready."
She nodded in earnest, throwing him a tiny grin. With catlike grace, Natalia slid off the bed.
Part 2
They kept the trip discreet—no official Redwood carriage, no flamboyant crest. Just two travelers blending into the busy station at Yortinto's outskirts, each wearing plain overcoats. Magic-powered lanterns flickered overhead, revealing the wide platform where an intercity train was already puffing steam, its brassy fixtures gleaming in the early morning light.
It was a fascinating sight: a Victorian-era locomotive, reminiscent of old pictures Philip had once glimpsed in library archives, yet enhanced by swirling runic inscriptions on the boiler. Even the passenger coaches displayed a curious marriage of antique design and modern magical convenience. Rows of wooden seats lined each carriage, but overhead racks held crystal orbs that glowed softly, providing reading light for anyone paying the small mana-fee. Just beyond the platform, tall signboards flickered with illusions of departure times and arrival points, like some enchanted version of an LED schedule.
Philip took it all in with a mixture of wonder and nostalgia. The vintage wheels and wrought-iron railings reminded him of an old photograph, while the shimmering illusions overhead felt more like a modern commuter rail from his old city, Bortinto. Strange how this world merged the aesthetics of a century past with the comfort of future tech. When Lydia first suggested taking the public intercity train, Philip didn't complain. It was better than calling attention to themselves with a Redwood-crest motorcar, given how he wanted to stay out of public scrutiny for as long as fate allows.
Lydia tugged at his sleeve. "We should board before the rush."
They found seats in the second-class section. No private cabin, just a cozy bench near a window. Around them, other passengers sipped from tin cups or conversed about daily errands. A mild hum of mana powered the overhead cogs, reducing the usual jostling. Outside, the conductor ambled along, checking tickets. A low whistle sounded, and the train lurched forward, forging a path toward Yortinto's downtown core.
Philip leaned back, gazing through the window. "Hard to believe we're doing all this to handle a tax payment in person," he quipped, wryness creeping into his tone. "I suppose taxes couldn't be paid through those mirror devices."
Lydia raised an eyebrow. "That is an interesting suggestion. Master Philip, you are getting more creative by the day."
Philip smiled sheepishly.
The view beyond the glass soon transformed from farmland to dense neighborhoods. Finally, the train slowed as Yortinto's downtown skyline towered into sight: a cluster of impossibly tall buildings, some flaunting "unnatural engineering" that defied normal structural limits. Glowing runic pylons buttressed steel frames, letting these half-finished skyscrapers ascend to breathtaking heights.
When they reached Yortinto's grand station—a lofty edifice merging a classic vaulted design with floating illusions for timetables—Philip felt momentarily overwhelmed. Streams of well-dressed travelers flowed across polished floors. Brass fixtures framed each archway, while flickering orbs projected updated schedules. It was a curious time warp, combining Victorian grandeur with modern sorcery.
Lydia led him outside. The city center sprawled before them: wide boulevards teeming with motorcars, horse-drawn cabs, and a few advanced carriages running on glowing "levitation rails." Office towers rose overhead, wreathed in swirling mana-lights that displayed corporate logos. Far off, a ring of construction cranes hoisted metal beams onto yet another mega-tower. It reminded Philip of Bortinto's frantic downtown, just with more runes and fewer digital screens.
"Stay low-key," Lydia murmured. "Let's get these orchard back taxes settled quietly." Lydia had been so focused on minimizing potential media exposure that she had insisted Natalia stay behind at the estate, as her excessive beauty would have turned too many heads.
He nodded, letting her guide him along. Soon, they arrived at a broad city square ringed by government buildings. A large protest had gathered—people waving signs about rising rent, wage gaps, and anti-war slogans like "Stop Funding the Osgorreich War!" The swirl of voices chanted angrily at passing officials.
Philip frowned, tension rising in his chest. "Osgorreich is in a war?"
Lydia steered him around a knot of sign-bearers. "The Imperium and a few allies are engaged in a large-scale war with the Arussian Empire. The government kept the scale of the war hidden from the public by labeling it as skirmishes, but it just led to people deeming the heavy levies Avalondia implemented on the various Dominions to help fund their financial support for the Osgorreich Imperium as unreasonable. After all, supporting a foreign nation with minor border skirmishes should NOT lead to an 8% increase in sales tax across the Dominions."
He grimaced. "Wait, the letter regarding my deployment to Osgorreich Imperium's Arussian front said I will be responsible for overseeing the smooth delivery of Avalondian armaments to help Osgorreich Imperium troops reinforce their border security. They made it sound like some chill delivery job to some border patrols. Don't tell me it's an active war zone that I am delivering to?"
She gave him a grave nod. "Yes. It's actually an active war zone based on what the duke told me. It's basically a forced suicide mission planned by some unknown higher-ups in the military who want you dead for some reason."
A cold chill crawled up Philip's spine. "So it's a death sentence disguised as a mission." Oh great… now I get to know how it feels like to be Uriah… except… I don't even have an excessively beautiful significant other… oh wait… Natalia…
"Exactly. So we need to delay it for as long as possible."
They pressed on, stepping into the "Revenue House." Inside, a labyrinth of counters, surly clerks, and finicky stamps awaited them. For nearly an hour, they hopped from desk to desk, finally finishing the tedious process of paying the overdue taxes. Finally, they emerged onto a wide marble terrace overlooking another part of the city square. Philip released a weary groan, slumping onto a bench.
Lydia placed a neat stack of stamped receipts on her lap. "At least we can confirm Redwood's finances are in order. Only one or two disclaimers left to file with the archivist." She lowered her voice. "But about that War Office matter—there's a fallback plan if it truly comes to deployment."
He turned to her. "Meaning…?"
She sighed. "Meaning you might have to feign severe depression or some condition at your next psychiatric evaluation. Drag out your leave until either the war ends or when the urgency of the mission forces the military to pick someone else. But the downside is that your mental unfitness might lead to Redwood Estate getting placed under Crown trusteeship. You'd lose direct control, and provide access to Crown personnel to our private records and possibly… lead to accidental discovery of… you know… It would also impact your rights over your future inheritance from the duke."
His stomach sank. "So my choices are basically: go to war and get killed, or act mentally unfit and risk losing future control over the entire Redwood fortune?"
She gave a somber nod. "That's about right. But you only have to extend the leave for a short period of time. The Duke told me that the war might come to an end soon as the Continental Republic is forcing the Empire and the Imperium to negotiate a ceasefire with Arussia. It is fed up with supplying the Empire with weapons that the Empire stamps its logo on and then supply to Osgorreich Imperium, passing them off as their own financial assistance."
Philip blinked. "You must be joking!"
"Wish I were," Lydia said with a sarcastic chuckle. "But the truth is, the Empire's once fearsome military-industrial complex had long been completely hollowed out by years of peace and reliance on Celestica as a deterrent against enemy states. And with the outsourcing of almost all manufacturing jobs to the various eastern nations, the former manufacturing powerhouse of the Avalondian homeland had long been switched into providing so-called high-value tertiary industries. Though I don't see where the high is in the high-value. But given how Avalondia's military prowess combined with its former prestige for high-quality weaponry, any weaponry stamped with the Avalondia stamp would triple in price. Hence, the arrangement had greatly profited the Continental Republic's defense industry while it helped the Empire continue perpetrating the image of itself as a great military powerhouse."
"So why the sudden change of heart from the Continental Republic?" Philip asked with a genuine curiosity.
"Well, it's all great and all, except that all the money printed out of thin air by the Empire's central bank to finance the secret weapon purchase has led to rapid depreciation of the currency and skyrocketing inflation. In fact, the inflation is so bad that when the Continentals tried to purchase items from Avalondia with their hard-earned Avalondian currency, they found out that there are only financial services, real estate, and luxury items available for purchase—and all of them at inflated prices due to inflation. However, with the new administration in the Republic coming from a faction of extreme frugality, any non-necessary items, such as luxury products and financial services, are deemed… how shall I put it politely… rubbish."
He let out a disbelieving laugh. "So that's the grand scheme. We're effectively paying for a war by printing worthless notes, then funneling them to the Republic's arms dealers, while our own people riot over skyrocketing taxes."
"And the Yorgorians are furious about the high taxes levied on the common people, and that anger has since been diverted toward the establishment and, by association, the nobility. And that is another reason why, when we travel down to crowded places, we should try to stay low profile," Lydia added.
Philip let out a dry chuckle. "Woah, I don't know what to say. What? The Empire was quite creative… I guess."
She spread her hands in a theatrically sarcastic gesture. "Welcome to geopolitics. The Duke told me to be creative too in delaying your deployment. In fact, he told me to leverage my personal charms. But that ship sailed decades ago." She offered a rueful grin.
Philip blinked, letting out a surprised laugh. "Wait—he suggested you… seduce the War Office?"
Lydia rolled her eyes. "Yes. Thirty years back, perhaps I could have charmed them. But if I tried that now, we'd both just die of embarrassment."
Philip chuckled at the thought.
Lydia sniffed in mock offense. "Why are you laughing? Don't think I was once a real beauty?"
"No, no, I—sorry." He coughed awkwardly. "I didn't mean to offend you."
She rummaged in her handbag, pulling out a small "mirror phone." Powered by embedded mana crystals, these devices performed basic telecommunication and could access the so-called "Vortex of Knowledge," a high-end data service. Lydia typed in a few runic commands, rummaging for something, then turned the screen so Philip could see.
The device displayed a grainy color image: a younger Lydia—perhaps late twenties—poised in a fur-trimmed, formfitting coat beside the Duke Redwood, both of them standing on a snowy tarmac. Lydia's hair was pinned up elegantly, and her legs, bare from mid-thigh down, were surprisingly shapely and eye-catching, especially given the freezing environment. The contrast between her glamorous upper-body coat and her nearly bare legs gave the photo an almost comedic flair.
"This was me, traveling with the Duke on some diplomatic mission to Arussia."
Philip stared a bit too long, intrigued. "You… you were gorgeous!" he blurted, then realized he sounded downright shocked.
Lydia snapped the device shut. "That was then, and as I said, the ship has sailed. Let's not dwell."
A muted, distant boom interrupted their conversation, rattling the stones underfoot. Philip straightened, the hair on his neck prickling as he turned to see a stir in the crowd below—people were sprinting away, shouts rising in confusion. Lydia shot him a worried glance.
Before they could react, a second, sharper blast tore through the air, far closer this time. In an instant, Philip's instincts from his cavalry days flared to life: "Down!" he barked, snaking an arm around Lydia's waist and pulling her against him. A jagged piece of debris whizzed past, slamming into the marble balustrade with a deafening crack. Marble chips sprayed in every direction.
Heart hammering, Philip pressed Lydia back against the safety of the bench, dust and smoke eddying around them. She let out a small gasp, eyes wide as she braced her hands against his chest—and then a chunk of shattered masonry struck him from behind, jarring him forward with stunning force.
A sharp ache flared through his head and neck. His vision momentarily blurred, and he wavered, struggling to keep Lydia sheltered. For a second, the world felt distant, as if seen through tunnel vision. Lydia's face swam before him, her mouth forming a terrified "Philip!"
Her voice sounded muffled, as though coming from underwater. He tried to answer but managed only a strained rasp. Another patter of debris fell near them, echoing strangely in his ears. As his hold on Lydia loosened, a wave of dizziness washed over him, sapping the strength from his legs.
"Philip! No!" Lydia's voice cut through the haze. He sank to his knees, head spinning, the roar of alarms and screaming crowds fading into the background. Darkness crept in at the edges of his sight, and the last thing he saw was Lydia's frantic silhouette reaching for him before everything blinked out.