Part 1
Kendrick's carriage rattled along the cobblestone streets of Hightown Yortinto, finally turning down a quieter lane lined with stylish row houses and vintage shops. A pair of mana-powered streetlamps sputtered overhead, casting a gentle, pearly glow across the twilight sky. It bore little resemblance to older quarters of Yortinto; it was pricier, flashier, and home to fashionable young aristocrats chasing a blend of refined living and modern convenience. Had any real estate broker from Avalondia's capital seen the deals here, they might have balked at the cost—some estates sold for upwards of 150,000 Continental dollars. That alone, for a mere 10-acre plot, would seem staggering to most commoners, but for the noble House of Nernwick, it was business as usual.
Nevertheless, this was where the Nernwicks maintained their city estate. At the heart of the property stood the main mansion: 3,400 square feet of classic Avalondian architecture, set behind wrought-iron gates that bore the golden falcon crest. Manicured gardens and a row of smaller residences for staff surrounded the mansion, while a glittering fountain welcomed visitors in the courtyard. Its flowing waters shimmered under discreet mana-crystals, replacing the usual gas lanterns. Rumor had it the place was worth a jaw-dropping $150,000—an unimaginable sum to the average Yortinto resident.
That night, Kendrick's carriage clattered over the courtyard's stones, sending echoes that alerted the staff of his return. Footmen and maids assembled in neat lines, bowing the moment the vehicle arrived. A pair of butlers stood at the forefront, heads lowered in respect, while a few younger maids exchanged excited glances; Colonel Kendrick's arrivals never failed to entertain. Soft-glowing orbs of mana perched on tall pillars, granting the estate a faintly enchanted atmosphere.
At last, the carriage drew up beside the fountain. The doorman hopped down to open the door with a flourish. Kendrick Nernwick emerged like an actor taking center stage, still resplendent in his crisp white uniform. His gleaming golden hair caught the mana-light perfectly, giving him an almost celestial glow. The lined-up staff parted like an appreciative audience.
"I'm home," he declared breezily, half-foppish and entirely confident. Every servant sank into bows or curtsies.
The mansion's grand double doors flew open, and out swept a figure in mauve silk skirts that shimmered in the courtyard lights. She was tall and poised, moving with the grace of a meticulously trained noblewoman. Her gown—an exquisite Avalondian-inspired creation—had just the right amount of lace and ribbon to balance modesty with elegance. Her face was breathtakingly lovely, reminiscent of Kendrick's refined features yet softer and more introverted. This was Elora Nernwick, his twin sister.
Staff members on both sides of the cobblestone path stepped aside, forming two perfect lines that led from the carriage to the fountain. Kendrick approached with a friendly half-smile.
"My most lovely sister," he greeted in a teasing flourish, "you could've stayed inside. It's damp out tonight."
Elora's cheeks flushed a delicate pink, yet she dipped her head in polite deference before speaking in a gentle voice. "I heard your carriage turning in and simply had to come out. I… well, I worried you might not return tonight." She paused, gathering herself. "But never mind that—did you see Philip?"
Kendrick raised a brow. "You greet your darling brother by fixating on another man? Should I be mortally offended?"
Her blush deepened. "You know I love you both," she said earnestly. "I can't help feeling… anxious for news of Philip. So, did you see him?"
Kendrick released a mild chuckle and gestured for the staff to stand down. Though they retreated politely, they lingered nearby in the courtyard, ready to help if called. "Yes, yes, I did. He's alive, though not quite the same as before." He removed his white gloves, studying Elora carefully for any flicker of disappointment. "He, ah… has changed. Put on weight, lost a bit of that old swagger. Let's just say he isn't the dashing cavalry hero you once adored."
A hint of sadness clouded Elora's large eyes, and her face fell. Kendrick instinctively prepared to console her for dashed illusions—maybe she'd awakened to the fact that Philip was no longer some shining paragon. But her next words caught him off guard.
"I… I'm so sorry for him," she murmured, voice laden with genuine sorrow. "He must have gone through so much to end up like that. My heart aches, imagining all his lonely moments." Her hand rose to her chest, trembling slightly. "I wish I could have been there, to hold him… to warm him in my embrace until every last sadness drained away."
Kendrick blinked in surprise. "So you're upset because he's hurting, not because he looks different?" he repeated, half incredulous. He'd expected at least a splash of vanity.
She lowered her gaze, carefully tucking a loose golden curl behind her ear. "Why would his looks matter to me, Kendrick? No one can look better than us anyways. I love him completely. Thin or thick, broken or triumphant, nothing changes my devotion." A modest smile curved on her lips. "I only want him happy. Even if he never returns my feelings, I just want to stay in his life to see him at peace."
A small, awkward laugh escaped Kendrick. "You're far too dedicated, Elora. But you know he once loved Rosetta like no man's ever loved a woman. Even though it's canceled, I doubt he's free of her memory. You're risking heartbreak."
Elora's eyes flitted with an old sorrow but settled into a tranquil resolve. "I've accepted that. Years ago, when I recognized the depth of his love for Lady Rosetta, I decided if I couldn't be the one he loved, I'd be the one who loves him. That's all I need." Her voice wavered with quiet certainty. "He's never obliged to pick me. I'll just be there, in whatever form he allows."
Kendrick felt torn. He'd fully intended to lecture her on letting this go, but her unwavering devotion unsettled him. He recalled vividly how fiercely old Philip had adored Rosetta—once that man decided on someone, no other woman existed in his eyes. And yet here was Elora, prepared to stand by him regardless.
An unbidden thought slipped out: "Remember how serious he was about Brianna back in the day? He parted ways with her, sure, but he was intense about that relationship, too—right before Rosetta overshadowed everything." Kendrick gave a half-shrug. "Old Philip invests deeply when he cares. He's not the type to just… shift targets."
"I know." Elora breathed a sigh, then squared her shoulders, as though bracing herself for heartbreak. "But I can't give up. If he'll let me be near him, that's enough."
Kendrick exhaled, momentarily at a loss. Could such devotion exist among the women he played around with? Was he unknowingly trampling on someone's heart? For years, he had believed that love was a fleeting arrangement, a performance built on looks, status, or fleeting passion—a beautiful illusion hiding the transactional reality underneath. Yet his sister's pure, single-minded devotion again raised doubts in his mind.
He shook off the looming doubt. "Let's take a walk," he suggested softly, extending his arm. "The garden's lovely at this hour."
She nodded, slipping her hand onto his arm. They strolled deeper into the ten-acre estate grounds, past carefully shaped hedgerows and faintly glowing topiaries powered by mana crystals. They spoke in gentle tones about benign topics—gardening improvements and greenhouse additions—yet under the surface, both wrestled with heavy thoughts. Elora yearned to find a way to get back into Philip's life; Kendrick reflected on what "love" truly meant.
They passed a marble statue of some ancient Nernwick knight and arrived at a clearing brightened by rosebushes, their petals tinged purple in the mana-lights. Abruptly, the air shook with a bizarre ripple of mana. The estate's glowing orbs flickered. Kendrick froze, his hand on his pistol in an instant. Elora gasped. The household staff milling in the distance stiffened in alarm.
A blinding radiance sliced through the night. It seemed as though the sky itself tore open. Before they could register the sight, a majestic figure plummeted from the heavens—tall, winged, emanating a soft luminescence. Ceremonial armor clung to her, highlighting generous curves and impossibly sensual legs, her hair a cascade of golden light even in the dark. Empress Celestica, the Realm Guardian of the Avalondian Empire, had landed among them.
Or more precisely, she attempted to land. With a deafening CRASH, Celestica splashed straight into the fountain in front of them. An explosion of water shot outward, drenching the neatly manicured courtyard. Servants cried out and scrambled to avoid the spray. Kendrick yanked Elora aside just in time, though their boots and hems still got soaked. The mana orbs flickered madly, destabilized by her raw presence.
"S-she's the Empress!" stuttered a butler, eyes wide as saucers. Celestica's carefully crafted public image of serene perfection was undone by her ungraceful tumble.
Soaked but seemingly unhurt, Celestica rose from the fountain. Her angelic wings spread behind her, droplets glistening like diamonds in the dim light. Water dripped from her smooth skin and half-revealed legs, giving her an odd mixture of comedic and divine. Everyone in sight was too stunned or frightened to speak. Then, like a single organism, the entire household fell to their knees, bowing in reverence—and perhaps in fear of her colossal power.
Kendrick and Elora stared at each other, hearts thudding, then sank to their knees as well. Legends said that Celestica could wipe out an entire city if provoked, although she was rumored to be gentle when calm. Carefully, Kendrick addressed her, "Y-Your Imperial Majesty… we're honored by your presence. May we—may we ask the reason for… such an unexpected visit?"
Celestica stepped out of the fountain with near-supernatural poise, wings lowered slightly. She flicked water droplets away from her cheek, visibly clueless yet still exuding an otherworldly aura. Her eyes glowed faintly with mana as she gazed at the kneeling siblings.
Finally, her lips parted. In a sweet but measured voice, she spoke: "You… are…"
Kendrick, misunderstanding her pause, bowed deeper. "Kendrick Nernwick, at your service, Your Majesty."
Celestica blinked slowly. "…beautiful."
An awkward silence crashed over the courtyard. Kendrick felt his jaw drop; Elora glanced at him in confusion. In the background, a maid whispered, "Did the Empress just…?" and trailed off, too dumbstruck for decorum.
Part 2
Philip awoke to a glorious din of bells echoing through the hallway—glorious, that is, until he noticed the clock read half past ten. Two full hours late. With a frustrated groan, he glowered at the ornate ceiling, cursing this 1900s world for its lack of modern alarms.
Perfect, he thought. I'm late for the lawyers—my day just keeps getting better.
A timid knock broke his self-pity. "Master Philip?" came Marie's soft voice. "Miss Lydia asked me to bring your breakfast. It's… already mid-morning, sir."
Her tone was polite, but that "already mid-morning" still stung. "C-come in," he muttered, silently praying for mercy on his dignity. A broke, overweight noble with abysmal time management was hardly dignified.
Marie wheeled in a breakfast trolley laden with silver trays. The scent of bacon, eggs, and fresh bread bathed the room like a comforting cloud. Behind her strode Lydia, crisp and resolute, radiating disapproval.
"Good morning," Lydia said, her tone akin to a blacksmith's hammer. "We have half an hour, Master Philip. Would you like a cold-water wake-up instead?"
He plastered on a weak grin. "No, no… I'm awake, thanks."
She exhaled, as though lamenting how this was her daily life. "Eat quickly, sir, then dress. The lawyers arrive at eleven. With luck, we might seem somewhat competent."
"Great," he mumbled, rising. Marie's worried eyes flicked to him, so he tried to smile. "Thank you, Marie. It all looks wonderful."
"Please enjoy," she murmured, cheeks pink as she bowed and left him to the meal.
Philip devoured the scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, and sweet fruit compote like a man determined not to keel over mid-meeting. Soft, warm bread rolls provided the final flourish, while Lydia hovered, making sure he didn't lose himself daydreaming about pastries.
"S-so… the lawyer meeting," he said between bites, trying not to choke. "Right after I get dressed?"
"Precisely," Lydia confirmed, arms crossed. "Your outfit awaits. Might I suggest moving faster than a sloth?" She shot him a pointed look and swept out to prepare the study.
Swallowing the last bite, Philip forced down a groan. No rest for the wicked, he told himself.
After a frantic dressing session—during which he found his vest far tighter than his pride would admit—he lurched into the corridor, hustling toward the main staircase. Halfway down, he realized he was already panting. A single flight felt like climbing a cliff.
Seriously? he scolded himself. Am I that unfit?
A smug voice cooed in his head. "Tsk, tsk, Host. Such a sight."
He spun around to see the System—visible only to him—manifested as a voluptuous gym trainer: tight spandex shorts, a crop top, a whistle dangling between her cleavage, and a gleaming barbell resting on her shoulder. Against the refined 1900s backdrop, it was scandalously out of place.
"What the—!" he hissed, blushing.
She tapped the barbell with a teasing smirk. "Chill, lazybones. You need real exercise before you destroy more illusions. Also, you'll want to be healthy enough to 'perform' for two in the future."
He scowled, trying to speak quietly. "Yes, yes, but I have urgent matters. And what do you mean 'perform for two'?"
Her grin widened. "Don't pretend you never imagined being intimate with Natalia. If you can't handle a short flight of stairs, how do you plan on more… vigorous activities to keep a long-term relationship interesting?"
Philip's cheeks flamed. "You're a pervert system?"
She rolled her eyes theatrically. "Natural urges are part of life, Host. Suppressing them is the real perversion. So who's the real deviant?"
He gaped, speechless. "I… just—stop!"
Unfazed, the System wiggled her hips in an absurd dance. "We'll finalize your workout plan soon, sweet Host. Maybe spandex dancing… or something more hands-on?"
"Stop, just stop," Philip hissed, mortified. "I have a meeting!"
She vanished with a mocking chuckle, leaving him breathless both from the stairs and her infuriating presence.
Still gasping, Philip arrived at the study doors. Lydia stood guard, arms folded. "Master Philip, your face is scarlet, and you look… unsettled."
He coughed. "It's, uh, warm. Furnace might be cranked?"
She eyed him suspiciously. "Anyway, Albert and the lawyers are waiting. Try to appear calm."
Nodding, he attempted to straighten his vest—which strangled him mercilessly—and slipped inside.
A familiar scent of old parchment and leather greeted him. Two figures, once facing the crackling fireplace, turned. One was an older man with a precise mustache; the other, a younger woman with a keen gaze and hair in a tight bun. Albert hovered by the window, juggling papers and tension.
Lydia closed the door softly. "Everyone, this is Master Philip."
Albert bowed. "Welcome, sir. This is Mister Harvey Winbergfield, senior partner of Winbergfield & Associates, and Ms. Laura Hemsfarm, his associate. They're here for your withdrawal from the Vorak Hotel Chain."
Harvey advanced with a polite smile and an offered handshake. "Good morning, Master Philip. A pleasure."
Laura inclined her head. "We have everything prepped, sir. Hopefully, this'll be straightforward."
"R-right," Philip managed, silently begging his vest to quit pinching. Stay calm, appear noble, he reminded himself.
What followed was a four-hour marathon of legalese, share values, and Yortinto corporate statutes. Laura occasionally employed a "portable library"—a short, rune-carved staff projecting holographic files, basically a magical laptop. Philip found it oddly fascinating that a 1900s-like setting boasted such advanced wizardry.
Harvey provided the overview, clarifying that Philip would lose all claims to Vorak Hotels but gain substantial funds—provided the final signing happened at the Grand Imperial Hotel. They also mentioned Lady Rosetta's presence, assuring Philip that their firm could defend him if any issues arose.
During this, Lydia and Marie flitted in with teapots, pastries, and fruit tarts. Philip drank more tea than his vest allowed, half lulled by the warmth, half choked by cloth. He tried focusing on the labyrinth of old Philip's finances, but the complexity made his head spin. The System occasionally whispered that better fitness might help him concentrate, but he shoved it aside.
Eventually, Harvey shut an especially thick binder. "Master Philip, once you sign at the formal ceremony this weekend, you relinquish your entire Vorak Hotel stake and, in return, should receive six hundred thirty to six hundred fifty thousand Continental dollars, depending on exchange rates."
Laura set aside her staff. "Lady Rosetta will attend, along with other major investors. We recommend you be there personally, and we'll stand by to protect your interests."
The mention of "Lady Rosetta" coiled a knot in Philip's stomach. He avoided Lydia's pointed look. "Yes," he said stiffly. "I understand."
Lydia leaned close and whispered, "We really need this money, Master Philip—orchard upkeep, estate bills, and… other matters."
He inhaled, as though jumping into an abyss. "Yes. Let's sign."
Harvey and Laura slid the representation contract forward, a silver-nibbed quill perched on top like a symbolic blade. Philip gripped it, scrawling his name wherever directed. Each stroke felt like burying old Philip's grand aspirations.
When finished, Laura and Harvey affixed their own signatures. Handshakes, relieved smiles, and the documents vanished into a sleek leather case.
"Excellent," Harvey said, rising. "We'll finalize details with Mr. Albert Fundro and see you at the weekend ceremony, Master Philip."
Laura gathered her notes with a nod. "And please let us know if you need anything else."
Philip forced a polite smile. "Thank you." He stood, ignoring the vest's relentless grip.
Albert escorted the pair out, leaving Lydia to tidy stray cups and plates. Philip slumped into his chair, exhaling as though he'd run ten miles.
"Four hours," he moaned, shutting his eyes. "My brain's mush."
Lydia set a half-finished teacup aside, regarding him with a calm stare. "Necessary, sir. Now we can unlock a large portion of funds. Think of it as discarding old baggage."
He let out a shaky laugh. "I hope ditching that baggage was worth it. It weighed a ton." Memories of his morning meltdown flickered, making him squirm. "Guess I should also handle my… personal baggage."
An amused glint crossed Lydia's face. "At least you realize it, Master Philip. Progress indeed."
She poured him one last cup of tea, faint jasmine scent curling in the steam. He drank it, shoulders relaxing. Sunlight poured through tall windows, highlighting the freshly signed contracts—proof of moving forward. Maybe, he dared hope, I'm not doomed after all.
Suddenly, from the corner of his vision, a flicker: the System again. Now she wore a flamboyant belly-dancer outfit, ankle weights jingling as she winked, mouthing, "Workout tomorrow, Host! Or else you would never have abs as sexy as mine," before disappearing in a mocking swirl.
He nearly spat out his tea. So much for peace.
Lydia frowned. "Master Philip, are you all right?"
He coughed. "Y-yeah, the tea's just… hot. Let's… take a walk."
She cast him a measured look—suspicion and mild amusement mingling. "Certainly," she said, as if silently conveying, I know you're up to something, but I'll humor you.
Just as Lydia left for other chores, a jolt of guilt struck Philip: He hadn't visited Natalia in days. Appalled at his own neglect, he hurried along the corridors toward the estate's quieter wing where Natalia's suite lay. The high, ornate ceilings and striped wallpaper gave the hall a stately air. At the far end, a lavish door opened to Natalia's space, replete with an ensuite bathroom boasting a grand granite tub.
He eased inside the dimly lit bedroom. "Natalia?" he whispered, but no reply. The faint glow under the bathroom door drew him like a beacon.
Heart pounding, he slipped in. Steam billowed softly, carrying the scent of expensive soap. The granite floor shimmered under subtle mana-lamps. At the center, an opulent bathtub carved from polished stone, water sloshing gently at the rim. There, submerged to her shoulders, lay Natalia—long blond hair spread like a halo, her eyes shut. Only a froth of bubbles covered her otherwise naked form.
Philip's breath seized. Is she okay? She was so still it evoked a tragic bathtub scene from some grim drama. Thoughts spiraled: Was she depressed? Did my absence hurt her?
Without thinking, he rushed forward. "Natalia!" he cried, leaning over the tub. She didn't stir, eyes remaining closed. Fear spiked in his mind—had she passed out? CPR, that's how you do it, right?
In a surge of adrenaline, Philip climbed into the tub, water splashing across the granite. His vest popped a button from the strain, but he ignored it. If she was in danger, he had to save her.
He half-knelt in the warm water, heedless of his soaked clothes. She wasn't responding. Panic roiled in his gut: I need to make sure she's breathing…
As he reached for her shoulder, one frantic thought hijacked his mind: I hope I remember mouth-to-mouth.
Just then, he dipped lower, ready to check her pulse or place his lips on hers—only to hear a sharp gasp from the doorway. He looked up to see Lydia, wide-eyed, standing there in total shock.