Part 1
Philip pinched the bridge of his nose, skimming through the sprawling document on his desk. It was a hefty contract—pages upon pages of fine print and legal clauses—printed on thick, cream-colored paper. Thanks to the wonders of Yorgorian legalese, it might as well have been a cryptic puzzle in an alien language. Terms like indenture, force majeure, and fiduciary entrustment leapt out at him, each more baffling than the last.
He set the paper down with a sigh, mumbling, "Guess I'll have to wait for the lawyer to explain half of this." Truth be told, he knew some basics—like understanding that negotiable instruments meant something about finances, he thought—but beyond that, he was lost.
Leaning back, he let his weary shoulders sink into the plush office chair behind him. It was a magnificent piece of furniture, crafted from dark-stained oak and adorned with brass rivets. The high back curved in a regal arch, providing support to his neck and shoulders, while the padded armrests boasted smooth leather imported from the far reaches of Yorgoria's western territories. Despite his new identity as "Philip," the unhealthy noble, he could at least appreciate the taste of the old occupant who'd purchased such an expensive chair. The firm seat cushioning squeaked faintly as he shifted.
He tapped his fingers on the desk—an equally impressive oak piece with a glossy finish, large enough to accommodate piles of paperwork. Old Philip sure had expensive taste, he thought, glancing from the broad surface to the meticulous carving along the edges. If only he'd been as conscientious about his own health.
A new question gnawed at him: Why can't I access most of old Philip's memories? Shouldn't I inherit his memory? Isn't that how it goes in all those transmigration stories… Yet here he was, flipping through legal documents like a clueless intern.
He pressed his palm against his forehead, muttering, "Seriously? What is going on?"
A lilting voice floated from the glimmering spark. "Oh, I might be able to help with that."
As the light coalesced, Philip involuntarily braced himself for two long ears and fluffy fur. But to his shock, the figure that stepped through was not the giant bunny from before. Instead, a voluptuous woman with raven-black hair in a 1920s-style gown sashayed into view, a fur stole perched provocatively over one bare shoulder. The shimmering silk hugged every curve, the hemline shockingly high by local standards, allowing long, silky legs to peek out with each subtle move.
He swallowed hard, tearing his gaze from her plunging neckline. "You're… back to that form again?"
She flicked her hair with a theatrical flourish, the thick waves tumbling down her back. "Indeed. Madame System, at your service." A smirk played on her glossy lips. "I see you're not gushing blood this time—progress."
Philip felt warmth flood his face at the memory of their first official meeting, where he'd ended up with a nosebleed mere moments after she'd shown up in all her sensual glory. "Yes, well… I'm building up a tolerance," he lied, forcing composure.
She pursed her lips in exaggerated thought. "I decided giant bunny mode was too, hmm, unprofessional—and after seeing your, shall we say, close encounter with Natalia's thighs without bleeding out, I figured you can handle my human form just fine." She shot him a wink.
He fought a grimace. "Right…" In truth, he'd nearly fainted from the embarrassment of recalling that incident.
"Precisely," the System cooed, sashaying nearer. "And I wanted to look more professional for business matters." She smoothed her hands over the skintight fabric of her short gown. "You have serious philosophical questions, don't you? I can't be an effective secretary if I'm hopping around in bunny form."
Philip gulped, trying to avoid any unintended physiological reactions. She calls this professional? But he did notice the way her attire gave off a certain secretarial allure, like some glamorous assistant from an alternate reality—the smoky eye makeup, the curve-hugging dress, the fur stole accentuating her bare shoulders.
"Yeah, I was just wondering about my inability to access Philip's memories?" he managed, striving to keep his voice calm.
"Ah, yes, that's the reason I materialized." She placed a hand lightly on the oak desk, leaning forward just enough that her exposed cleavage hovered dangerously within Philip's peripheral vision. "You were wondering why you can't access the original Philip's memories, right?"
He nodded mutely, grateful for the sturdy desk obscuring the lower half of his body—especially since some blood seemed determined to rush somewhere other than his nose this time. He cleared his throat, forcing his attention onto her eyes, which glimmered with mischievous humor.
She tapped a manicured nail on the contract's cover page. "All right, let's talk laws of reality. This is the first time we're covering it, so pay attention." Her voice took on a wry edge. "They're enforced by the Supreme Something Entity—that cosmic overseer who insists every world stay plausible. Even if that sounds a bit rich, considering you woke up in someone else's soggy corpse."
He quirked a brow. "Plausible?" He snorted. "I woke up in a chubby noble's body with half my memories wiped. How is that plausible?"
She gave him a droll look. "Well, let's just say the Supreme Something Entity only allows certain leaps of logic—like you transmigrating at all—if they pass his cosmic sanity test. You can't just snap your fingers and magically gain all of old Philip's knowledge. That would be too… unrealistic. Especially given how his brain was dead before…"
Philip drummed his fingers on the desk. "So there's basically a cosmic threshold for how much nonsense can happen in one place at one time."
"Exactly." She tossed her hair over her shoulder in a lazy flourish. "Which means that since old Philip's brain technically died during the drowning, there's a real, physical limit on how fast it can recover. In short, your mental capacity starts off… suboptimal. Your new brain can only store and process so much at once. Even I can't break those rules without risking some cosmic meltdown."
He puffed a sigh. "Brilliant. So I'm an unfit noble with brain damage and zero memories of his own past…"
"Not zero," she cut in, pointing at the contract. "You clearly recognized some legal terms."
"I'm pretty sure old Philip studied in fancy universities. Pity that knowledge didn't transfer."
She patted the fur stole draped around her arms. "Relax. You'll get there—maybe not 100%, but at least 95%. Meanwhile, your local Yorgorian lawyer can handle the rest." Her lips twitched up in a smile. "Leave the work to the professionals. Someone's got to give them jobs, right?"
Philip rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. "Yes, I have one coming in tomorrow morning to explain this mess. The problem is it'd be a lot simpler if I just remembered old Philip's legal knowledge."
She leaned in further, pressing her bosom precariously close to his face—though still not actually touching him. "Relax," she teased. "We're going to walk through this contract, bit by bit, if you'd like. I happen to be well-versed in the basics of Yorgorian law."
Philip tried—and failed—to maintain a strictly businesslike demeanor. "I can read it myself," he said, though his voice came out lower than he intended. Focus, man.
"Suit yourself," she purred, running a finger lightly around the desk's polished edge. "But I'll be here if you want me." Her eyes locked onto his, and she arched an eyebrow.
He swallowed hard, heat burning at his collar. "No," he managed. "I focus better when alone."
She eyed him knowingly, flicking her gaze beneath the desk for a moment, then back up to his face. "Well, at least your body's still mostly healthy."
He let out a forced cough, shifting in his seat so the broad oak tabletop better concealed his reaction. Thank God for expensive craftsmanship, he thought wryly.
Philip cleared his throat, refusing to dignify that with a direct reply. "So, about old Philip's memory… any timeline for when I might get some of it back?"
She shrugged. "Gradual. Could be days for some parts, weeks or months for others. You'll recall fragments in dreams or sudden flashbacks—randomly triggered by places, objects, or even certain words."
He furrowed his brow. "Sounds… frustrating."
Part 2
A crisp waltz floated through the air, punctuated by the gentle clink of champagne flutes and the rustle of satin gowns. Polished marble floors gleamed under the glow of golden chandeliers, each crystal prism twinkling like a captive star. An opulent, late-19th-century ballroom stretched endlessly in every direction, packed with Yorgoria's high society. The atmosphere brimmed with grandeur.
Philip blinked, finding himself in the midst of it all. Wait, where am I? The scene played out with uncanny clarity yet felt oddly distant, like a memory that belonged to someone else. Which, of course, it did. Then, he heard the familiar voice of the System murmur somewhere at the edges of his consciousness: "This is one of those dreams that brings flashbacks of old Philip's memories."
He spun around, trying to locate the System, but to no avail.
Then he noticed the difference in his body. He—or rather, the original Philip—looked nothing like the overweight noble stuck in contracts and confusion. This version of Philip cut a dashing figure in a tailored cavalry captain's uniform: polished buttons, crisp epaulets, and a perfectly fitted waistcoat. He carried himself with effortless grace, exuding the confidence of a seasoned soldier. His posture was straight and proud, without an ounce of extra weight to mar the sharp lines of his physique.
All around, lavishly dressed ladies and gentlemen offered adoring smiles and half-curtsies. The ladies in pastel silk gowns fluttered their fans, sending coy glances his way. Applause and murmurs trailed him as he navigated the crowd, his boot heels tapping rhythmically on the polished floor.
Was I really this popular? the current Philip wondered from somewhere within this borrowed perspective. It seemed the original Philip was somewhat of a celebrity. Everywhere he turned, admirers practically swooned. Half a dozen young ladies giggled behind gloved hands, a few bolder souls venturing forward for an introduction.
"Captain! Over here!" a gentleman in a refined tailcoat hailed him from near a gilded pillar. "Splendid job in the Obtoria campaign—I dare say no cavalryman has been so revered in decades!"
"Oh, truly heroic," a young woman added, batting her eyelashes. "They say you charged headlong into enemy lines, saving half the regiment!"
Old Philip responded with a humble yet roguish grin. "Let's not exaggerate, dear lady. I was merely—"
"Merely a savior," she insisted, cutting him off with near reverence.
Current Philip, peering through the lens of this memory, could hardly believe his eyes. Savior? Obtoria campaign? He realized he must have been some kind of war hero. One aristocratic matron fanned herself so vigorously that her feathered hairpiece wobbled precariously. Another younger lady blushed whenever Philip's gaze landed on her.
A swirl of brilliant gowns and the susurration of hushed gossip rose and fell across the massive chamber. Near the center of the ballroom, a small orchestra played an elegant waltz, their violins and cellos weaving a tapestry of music that beckoned dancing couples to the floor.
Then, she arrived.
Like a wave of hush passing through the crowd, heads turned toward the tall double doors at the far end of the hall. A regal figure stepped inside, dressed in an exquisite evening gown of midnight blue. Raven hair cascaded down her back in soft curls, and a subtle glint of gemstones adorned her neck and wrists. Her face was delicate, almost doll-like, yet the aura she exuded was anything but fragile.
A hum of recognition swept through the assembly. People stepped back respectfully, some offering small bows, others nodding with a mixture of awe and caution. Every eye seemed to gravitate toward her as though drawn by an invisible magnet.
Philip felt his heart pound. Who is this? he wondered, though the original Philip clearly knew: Lady Rosetta. Regal, poised, and unapologetically commanding.
She glided across the marble floor, her gaze meeting Philip's. That single glance sent a jolt of electricity through him. He recalled the old Philip's heartbeat quickening. But more striking was the ripple effect of Rosetta's mere entrance. The ladies who had fawned over Philip suddenly scurried away like startled birds, casting Rosetta anxious sidelong glances. One let out a nervous giggle, seeking shelter behind a cluster of potted palms.
Is she that intimidating? the current Philip mused inwardly, marveling at the fear Lady Rosetta commanded. Indeed, a hush followed in her wake, parted only by the occasional whisper:
"I heard her grandfather was that foreign prince who built the first modern battleship for the Imperial Navy of Osgareich…"
"That's true aristocracy for you…"
"But I heard her father married into her mother's family."
"Ssh, keep your voice down—she might hear you!"
Rosetta walked toward Philip until she was just a few paces away, inclining her head to acknowledge the assorted onlookers. This subtle motion prompted a flurry of respectful nods and half-bows. Then, in a manner somehow both effortless and theatrical, she extended her hand toward old Philip.
"Captain," she said. Her voice carried a quiet confidence, each syllable clipped and precise. "I believe you owe me a dance."
Her words sent a prickle of excitement through the crowd. The onlookers hushed further, staring unabashedly. Philip cleared his throat, visibly composed yet inwardly thrumming with anticipation. So this is Rosetta? he wondered, as if eavesdropping on his former self's emotions. In the memory, he gave a graceful bow, pressing his lips lightly to the back of her gloved hand.
"Lady Rosetta," he replied in a smooth baritone, free of the awkward squeaks that plagued the current Philip. "An honor."
Rosetta's lips curved into a faint smile. "Shall we?" With that, she turned, leading him toward the center of the dance floor.
In the candlelit splendor of the ballroom, they began to waltz under the chandelier's glow. As they swirled across the polished marble, the orchestra subtly shifted tempo to match Lady Rosetta's commanding lead.
Was I truly some acclaimed hero? Or was she simply that powerful? the current Philip wondered. And how did I go from that handsome cavalry captain to… my current state?
He could practically feel old Philip's pride mingling with joy. Time seemed to slow, the memory crystallizing on the moment Rosetta placed one hand on his shoulder and her other hand in his, guiding him into the dance. Her expression was calm but intense, and he sensed respect—perhaps even admiration. Yet her commanding aura kept the rest of the crowd at a reverential distance.
From the sidelines came more hushed chatter.
"I heard her grandfather was that foreign prince who built the first modern battleship for the Imperial Navy of Osgareich…"
"That's true aristocracy for you…"
"But I heard her father married into her mother's family."
"Ssh, keep your voice down—she might hear you!"
Philip led Rosetta in smooth, graceful circles, a testament to his once-remarkable fitness and confidence. If only I had half that grace now… He couldn't help noticing how every muscle in the original Philip's body moved with ease—a far cry from his present-day waddle.
As the music soared, the onlookers gently applauded. Rosetta, poised as a queen, guided him to a final stop. A faint pink tinted her cheeks—though her composure never wavered. Then, with one last regal nod, she released his hands. The memory began to fade at the edges, the swirling gowns and murmuring crowd blurring like painted figures on a spinning top.
Before everything vanished, Rosetta shot old Philip a cryptic smile. "You've changed, Captain," she whispered, voice carrying a note of curiosity. "And I find it… intriguing."
The world swam, swirling into darkness.
Back in the present, Philip jolted upright, heart pounding in his chest. He was in his study again—overweight, unable to fit into a cavalry uniform. The memory left him with more questions than answers. So that was Lady Rosetta? he thought, recalling her delicate features and commanding presence. And that was me—lithe, strong, beloved by an entire ballroom.
He let out a shaky laugh. "How'd I go from that guy to this… doughy landlord?" he muttered. The recollection felt like a tantalizing glimpse of a lost life. One thing was certain: Lady Rosetta was no ordinary woman. And clearly, the original Philip had drawn her attention—an attention that sent lesser admirers scattering like pigeons before a lioness.
Mystery swirled in the back of his mind. What had the original Philip done to impress someone like that? More importantly, how did he lose it all?