Part 1
A dull, throbbing ache pulsed through Philip's head, enough to make him groan. He struggled to open his eyes, blinking blearily at a ceiling of pristine white arches. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant—sharp, antiseptic, yet oddly floral. Where am I?
He shifted on the bed, taking stock of his surroundings. Soft beams of sunlight streamed in from tall glass windows. Crisp linen sheets covered him, and to his left stood a metal stand with multiple tubes of glimmering fluid running into a glass cylinder. It resembled some high-tech IV pump from Bortinto—yet the cylinder hummed with a faint mana glow, silver runes shimmering on the surface.
A wave of dizziness prompted him to lie back. His neck throbbed, reminding him he had definitely come off worse in some big fiasco. He tried to remember: There'd been an explosion, or a shock wave, and then…darkness.
"This must be…a hospital?" he mumbled.
Indeed, the sign over the door read: "Emperor Winston Hospital." Ornate steel letters had been set into a marble plaque. Emperor Winston Hospital? Why does it sound so familiar? The room, though, looked every bit as sleek and modern as a hospital from his old world.
A gentle rap on the door startled him from his musings. Lydia stepped in, wearing a neat, slate-gray traveling coat. She carried a small folder of papers, her face a mix of worry and relief.
"You're awake, Master Philip," she said, crossing the polished floor in quick, purposeful strides. "Thank heavens."
Philip tried to sit up, wincing as the room spun. "Ugh…Lydia? What…happened?"
She set the folder down on a side table—similar to a modern hospital's rolling bed-table but fitted with brass knobs and a small mana battery. "You suffered a mild concussion in that terrorist attack yesterday," she explained, pressing a hand to his shoulder so he wouldn't rise too quickly. "Apparently, a local terrorist group pushing for Yorgorian independence from Avalondia set off some sort of explosive device near the city square. You got caught in the blast wave."
Philip stared at her, mind sluggish. "Terrorists…? I recall an explosion, but I was sure it was just an industrial accident or something."
Lydia let out a short sigh. "Only if we had any industries left in downtown." She looked around, lowering her voice. "It wasn't just random violence—these extremists are pushing for Yorgoria's independence from Avalondia. They're protesting 'no taxation without representation' and blaming Avalondia for siphoning Yorgoria's resources to fund foreign wars."
Philip's forehead wrinkled. "So they're angry about… taxes?" he asked, gingerly shifting on his pillow.
Lydia nodded. "And not just taxes. Multiple issues. Severe inflation coupled with spikes in unemployment. The nouveau riche from Eastern manufacturing powerhouses, escaping environmental degradation, and European elites, fearing spreading war, channeled huge amounts into Yorgoria stocks and real estate. This foreign capital drove up wealth inequality and housing costs. As many were forced out of the housing market into renting, the rents skyrocketed in cities with dense populations such as Yortinto. Coupled with spiraling inflation and unemployment due to escalating global trade wars and quantitative easing, it has pushed many ordinary Yorgorians into hardship."
Philip blinked, processing her words. "And on top of all these problems, Avalondia slaps Yorgoria with heavy taxes to support some supposed trivial 'border skirmish' overseas between the Osgorreich Imperium and the Arussian Empire. I guess that is the spark setting off an entire haystack."
"Exactly," Lydia said, arms folding. "Ordinary Yorgorians don't understand how the tax bills can be so massive for some minor foreign peacekeeping mission. They suspect graft, that the rich and powerful appointed by Avalondia are siphoning off huge sums in the process, or that Avalondia itself isn't paying its fair share. They view it as imperial oppression. That fear and anger unite once-fringe independence groups with populists and leftists. The terrorist cell behind this attack likely sees bombs as the only way to be heard."
Philip let out a weary sigh, pressing a hand to his bandaged temple. "A political problem on the surface, but an economic one at the core," he muttered.
Lydia gave him a wry smile. "Isn't that always the way? Most problems boil down to money."
He exhaled in weary agreement. "But…who sets a bomb in the middle of town? That's insane."
Her gaze dropped. "Desperate folks do desperate things." Then her tone brightened slightly. "But enough gloom. How bad's the injury, Master Philip?"
He shifted, only for a stab of pain to make him lie back again. "I'm not sure. You tell me?"
She brightened further. "The doctor says it's minor—a small concussion. Congratulations!"
He blinked. "Er…congratulations? I'd rather not have a brain injury in the first place."
She chuckled, adjusting the collar of her traveling coat. "Well, from a practical standpoint, it means you're automatically excused from returning to active service for quite some time. This is an official diagnosis—no one can force you into the battlefield now!"
"Oh. So you're happy I got a concussion because it saves me from the front?" he asked, half-indignant, half-amused.
Lydia shrugged. "In a way. Far better to have an actual doc's note than, say, forging depression or something less reliable. A real brain injury on the record spares you from a few dozen expected concussions that would have arisen from being assaulted by bombs, artillery, and…summoned birdies."
Philip blinked. "Wait, did you say summoned birdies?"
A shadow flickered over Lydia's face. "Yes. Unlike the Empire, most other nations are open to summoning living creatures. The Arussian Empire has begun deploying summoned creatures across their battle lines. One variety is an avian conjuration with a metallic exoskeleton—extremely agile, loaded with tiny camera feeds. Mages controlling them can see targets through a mirror-tab's live image, then command the birdies to incinerate said targets. They're practically unstoppable once airborne."
Philip tried to process this, but his vision swam and he slumped back against the pillows. Lydia quickly leaned in, helping him recline properly. "Steady, Master," she said softly. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have rattled off war horrors while you're still recovering."
She guided him gently onto the pillows. He let out a ragged breath, head spinning from both the news and the actual concussion.
Suddenly, another voice—high-pitched and urgent—broke the quiet of the hospital room. The door banged open, and in swept Elora Nernwick, hair in a dramatic half-up style with ribbons fluttering about, her pastel day-dress swirling around her ankles. Her ribbons flew in an artful swirl as she beelined to Philip's bed.
"Oh, Philip, my beloved!" she wailed, flinging herself toward him in a swirl of lace and drama. "You can't die on me yet! We haven't even—haven't even consummated our love! This can't be the end!"
Eyes wide, Philip quickly raised a hand. "Elora—what are you—"
But she was already half-lying across his torso, ignoring Lydia's mild protest. "My poor captain, struck down before we could share our destiny!" She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead in a theatrical flourish. "Alas, you lie here, unresponsive, and my heart shatters."
He groaned, attempting to sit. "I'm literally responding. I have a concussion, not a bullet in the chest."
Elora blinked, noticing Lydia's mildly exasperated expression. Her sorrowful facade slipped for a beat, replaced by sheepishness. Then she launched back into wailing. "You call it 'just a concussion,' but in my heart it's a mortal wound!" She tossed her ribbons dramatically, loud enough that two passing nurses peered in, startled by the fuss.
Philip tried to placate her while gingerly rubbing his temples. "I appreciate the…concern. But I'm not dying."
She paused, lips quivering. Then, unexpectedly, she pivoted: "Oh! So you aren't that close to dying?"
He sighed. "I promise. The doc said minor. With rest, I'll be fine."
Her face lit with swift relief. "Then… splendid!" She promptly fussed with the ruffles on her dress, cheeks pink. "Ahem. I mean, I only dreaded the worst because—some war movies show men with head wounds never returning. So, I came to…well…see you off so that I have no regrets in my life." She coughed behind her hand, suddenly feeling self-conscious.
Lydia, arms crossed, hid a smile behind her glove. "Yes, well, Master Philip's under observation but will be fine."
Just then, a nurse in a crisp white apron appeared at the threshold, giving a polite knock on the door frame. "Pardon me, Master Redwood," she said. "We have another visitor waiting outside. She…states she is Master Philip's mistress. Shall I show her in?"
The room fell silent. Lydia's posture went rigid. Elora froze, ribbons mid-swirl. Philip's heart dropped into the pit of his stomach. Mistress? They must mean Natalia—or who knows?
Elora snapped out of her pose and spun around, eyes narrowing. Lydia tensed as well, her brow furrowing in alarm. "Wait," Lydia said carefully. "Mistress…are you sure?"
"Yes, ma'am," the nurse replied, politely oblivious to the tension. "Her exact words were that she was the official mistress, and not wife, of Master Philip Redwood. Would you like me to lead her in?"
Philip swallowed, exchanging a nervous look with Lydia. He could only imagine the scandal if Natalia breezed in, dressed in some flimsy gown, especially with Elora here. Elora was rumored to have thrown a tantrum over Natalia's mistress status once before. She'd hinted at indifference at the duel, but they'd never directly tackled the topic. Honestly, he wanted no more trouble right now.
Finally, he mustered a voice. "I guess…yes, nurse, please, let her in." Mind reeling, he braced for chaos. Refusing to see the self-proclaimed mistress might only raise more questions. Well, he thought bleakly, no rest for the concussed.
The nurse nodded and slipped out.
A hush fell. Elora pressed a hand to her chest, lips drawn into a polite but taut smile. Lydia edged closer to Philip's pillows, as though ready to intercept any oncoming scandal.
Leaning in, Lydia murmured something into Elora's ear—too low for Philip to catch.
To his surprise, Elora merely inclined her head, then spoke in a measured tone. "No need to explain, Lydia. Of course, Master Philip can have a mistress, so long as she truly suits him and knows her place. In fact…" Her gaze flicked toward the door. "I think it's important I see her for myself—so we can determine if we can work together…for the long term."
Part 2
A tense hush lingered in the hospital room. Lydia sat near Philip's bedside, fingers anxiously twisting together, while Elora attempted—and mostly failed—to conceal her nervousness by fussing with the delicate lace at her sleeves. All three braced themselves for the arrival of this mysterious "mistress" who claimed such bold familiarity with Philip. Meanwhile, Philip silently fought off dizziness, praying desperately for some calm amid the steady pulse of pain throbbing in his head.
Then, the door swung open with theatrical flair, as though awaiting a spotlight cue. Natalia stepped inside, a breathtaking vision—immediately dominating the room, towering elegantly above Elora thanks to a pair of exquisite high heels that made her already remarkable height positively statuesque. Her gown was pure sensuality rendered in silky fabric and soft drapes, strategically cut to reveal toned arms, a slender waist, and an invitingly high slit that displayed an impossibly long stretch of sculpted leg. The neckline dipped enticingly, confidently accentuating the firm fullness of her ample bosom. Gone was the naïve charm of a natural beauty; Natalia now embodied the polished allure of a seasoned seductress. Behind her, snippets of the hallway revealed one or two male staff members frozen mid-step, mouths agape and utterly mesmerized.
At first, Natalia opened her mouth, eyes lighting up at the sight of Philip. She began enthusiastically, "Master Phi—" but abruptly stopped, catching sight of Elora. Remembering Albert's stern advice—Play it up whenever there's an outsider… especially if she's an aristocratic lady who could spread gossip—she quickly shifted gears.
"My love!" Natalia declared breathlessly, sweeping a delicate hand dramatically over her heart. "Oh, my dear, dear Philip! I was so unbearably lonely last night when you didn't come home!"
Philip's face heated rapidly. His gaze drifted involuntarily to Natalia's sinfully high heels, his brain momentarily stalling as he admired her shapely calves and endless thighs. Was his sudden fascination genuine, he wondered, or merely his concussed mind playing tricks?
Lydia gave a discreet but pointed cough, trying unsuccessfully to snap Philip back to reality. Elora stood frozen, caught between intrigue and mounting anxiety. Examining Natalia more closely—her flawlessly exquisite face, subtle yet defined abs beneath the clingy gown, and the generous bosom any dress would struggle to fully contain—Elora felt an unfamiliar spark of excitement mingled with an uncomfortable pang of insecurity. She had never before encountered someone who so effortlessly matched, and perhaps surpassed, her own beauty.
Oblivious to the tension she was creating, Natalia glided gracefully toward Philip's bedside, one slender hand lightly settling on his shoulder. "Oh, my love," she cooed, eyes sparkling innocently, "I simply couldn't sleep a wink! Ever since you disappeared into this dreadful hospital, I've been utterly distraught. Albert reassured me you were safe, but my poor heart fluttered with agony all night!"
Elora's delicate brows arched sharply. Albert? she thought. So, Albert brought her here? And where, precisely, had Natalia found such provocative attire? Suspicion shifted swiftly toward Lydia, who studiously avoided Elora's questioning glance, feigning sudden intense interest in the buttons on her traveling coat. Lydia silently hoped no one would realize the similarity of Natalia's spectacular new wardrobe and her old wardrobe.
Philip swallowed, attempting to regain his composure. "R-right, Natalia, that's very…thoughtful of you," he stammered, hyper-aware of Elora's scrutinizing gaze darting back and forth between them. He grew increasingly uncomfortable as Natalia leaned closer, her generous bosom nearly eye level, and a swirl of perfume clouding his already muddled senses.
"Of course I had to come, my love," Natalia insisted sweetly, apparently convinced that repeating "my love" would solidify their cover as passionate lovers. Her voice dropped to a playful whisper, half sincere affection, half calculated seduction. "I would've rushed here immediately, but Albert spoke with Lydia, and they agreed I might cause you more trouble by showing up right away. Albert insisted I wait until morning. But the moment I could, I came straight here—I couldn't stand being away from you a moment longer!"
Lydia's eyes widened urgently, silently pleading with Natalia to halt her overly enthusiastic revelations, while Elora's carefully maintained expression grew increasingly taut, clearly trying to decipher Natalia's true intent.
With a practiced swish of her silky skirt—perhaps accidentally, perhaps entirely on purpose—Natalia revealed even more of her toned, alluring legs. Philip coughed awkwardly, desperate to hide the warmth rapidly rising in various parts of his body. He couldn't help but wonder if Natalia was deliberately provoking Elora or simply embracing her new role with over-the-top enthusiasm.
Natalia fixed Philip with a gaze of utter adoration, her voice theatrically emotional. "All that matters is seeing you safe…I mean, seeing you," she corrected swiftly, adding, "I simply cannot bear another lonely night in that big, empty bed without you!"
Lydia immediately broke into a sudden coughing fit as she tried desperately to stop Natalia's act, noticing the unmistakable shift in Elora's previously composed expression.