Part 1
Einhard awoke with a start, blinking as warm sunlight filtered through the embroidered drapes that framed the tall windows of his expansive bedroom. His head felt clear—crystal clear in a way it hadn't for decades. He breathed in, marveling at how his lungs drew air without the slightest wheeze or complaint. Even the ever-present stiffness in his joints was gone, replaced by a buoyant energy humming through every fiber of his being.
He stretched, absently running a hand across his abdomen—and froze. Eight distinct ridges. He flexed, verifying the surreal state of his midsection. Gone was the softness of advancing age, replaced by rippling muscle that could've graced a bronze statue. His biceps, once proud but long faded, now felt pumped and firm, swelling beneath his skin with a youthful vigor. "Incredible," he muttered, voice echoing in the sunlit silence. He glanced toward the dresser mirror, catching sight of short blond hair that gleamed with vitality, and a face that looked no older than twenty-five, complete with a neatly trimmed beard giving him a roguish charm.
For a fleeting moment, Einhard was utterly delighted—until he recognized a familiar spark of restlessness in his veins, a long-forgotten impatience and ambition that had once driven him to conquer obstacles without a second thought. It wasn't just his body that had reversed in time; it was his temperament. All the old yearnings, the desire for achievement, the irrepressible confidence, and insatiable lust—they'd returned with a vengeance. A sudden realization flashed through his mind: So my "iron will" was really just me getting old.
As he tried to process this revelation, images of the previous night flooded his consciousness. He recalled passionate kisses, garments being tugged and ripped as he and his voluptuous companion descended the spiral staircase of the turret tower, breath ragged with lust. They had pressed each other against walls and corners in a feverish dance, her moans echoing in the moonlit corridors. But the guards and staff remained blissfully unaware—Aurelia, the Guardian of the Night, had lulled the entire castle into deep sleep with a silent wave of her power.
Heat crawled up Einhard's neck as more recollections flickered: memories of his newly invigorated lips trailing along the sensually curved nape of Aurelia. He remembered her back arching with a shiver of delight, her laughter laced with mischief. In those moments, all sense of decorum and restraint he had honed over the years had evaporated. It was intoxicating, exhilarating… and now, mortifying.
"Gah…" he groaned, covering his face with his hand in shame. What am I, a hormonal teenager? He couldn't hide from the truth: the "self-control" he had prided himself on was nothing more than diminished libido from an aging body. Resting the back of his head against the plump pillows, he let out a shaky sigh. "This is all Aurelia's doing," he muttered. "That blasted kiss reversed decades of my… everything."
Seeking an outlet for his frustration, Einhard smacked his palm against the mattress. Instead of the soft sheets, he encountered something else—something warm, pillowy, and very much alive. Immediately, a breathy "Ah…" resounded from beside him.
Heart pounding, Einhard jerked around to see Aurelia—nude with voluptuous curves illuminated by the early morning sun, her silver hair spilling across the bed in gleaming waves. She lay curled on her side, facing the window, presenting an enticing view of her shapely form. And his hand? Squarely on her bare, perfectly rounded rear.
Face flaming, Einhard snatched his hand away as though it had been burned. "I—I'm sorry!" he exclaimed. He grasped the blanket and hastily threw it over Aurelia, desperate to restore a shred of decency. His mind whirled with conflicting emotions: shock, embarrassment, the lingering echoes of last night's insatiable desire.
At his frantic gesture, Aurelia slowly turned. Her face—serenely beautiful with delicate features and soul-piercing red eyes—regarded him with a sleepy amusement. She appeared completely at ease with her own nudity, as though the concept of modesty was beneath her. "It's good to be young, isn't it?" she purred. "I take it that you didn't get enough of it last night?"
Einhard felt his cheeks burn. "No! I mean—last night was a mistake. An accident caused by… by my body's shock at being young again." The words tumbled from his mouth in a helpless blurt.
Without missing a beat, Aurelia's crimson gaze slid downward to Einhard's lower body, still half-exposed under the sheets. A wry smirk curved her lips. "Your body certainly disagrees, dear prince. It seems to be celebrating its newfound youth."
Einhard stared at her in dismay. Focus, man. Don't look at her… Don't. Summoning whatever remained of his composure, he forced out, "I—I'm fine. It was just a lapse… in judgment."
She gave an elegant shrug and rose in one fluid motion. With a casual snap of her fingers, wisps of black mist coalesced into a violet gown around her curves—short, accentuating her long legs and effortlessly regal. Aurelia's eyes sparkled with teasing delight as she turned back to the bed.
"Well, consider that a free trial," she said, an edge of seductive humor in her tone. "Before you form a pact with me, your youth will only last for twenty-four hours after each kiss. Once those hours pass…" She let her sentence dangle as she gestured at Einhard's impressively rejuvenated body. "All of this sexiness will fade back to that… old man persona you've grown so fond of."
Einhard's head spun. "Pact?" he echoed, voice hoarse.
Aurelia only offered a sultry, enigmatic smile. "The offer remains on the table as long as you live. Should you die before sealing the pact… well, I can't do anything about that." She paused, letting her gaze linger over Einhard's chiseled torso. "You will have plenty of time to think over whether you want to slowly wither and die or… enjoy an eternity of… us… and more…"
He could only stare, torn between indignation and a creeping sense of temptation. Old me, or this unstoppable young version? The thought fluttered in the back of his mind.
Holding his gaze, Aurelia gave him a parting wink and a slight tilt of her shapely leg—an elegant, sensual gesture that conveyed more mischief than words could. Then, with a final flourish of her fingers, she sent him a playful flying kiss before vanishing into a drifting plume of black smoke.
For a moment, Einhard remained motionless, his heart pounding. The curtains rustled in the morning breeze, and the golden sunlight spilled over the disheveled sheets where she had lain. How could he possibly return to his royal duties—much less face his own reflection—without acknowledging the raw truth of what he had done? Last night's passion was a reminder of just how easily he could lose control. But it also reminded him how good it was to be young.
Einhard exhaled, trying to focus on the immediate problem: he had mere hours left of this fleeting youth. What am I going to do? He had no answer—not yet. But for the first time in decades, he felt truly alive… and dangerously tempted.
Part 2
Philip stepped outside into a crisp Saturday evening, the final hints of daylight casting deep shadows across Redwood Estate's courtyard. Though March hinted at spring, a wintry chill lingered, and each of his breaths formed a faint cloud. Tonight was supposed to be the night—when he'd finally sever ties with the unwanted legacies the old Philip left him. He tried to remain calm, cautioning himself not to spark a scandal, but a persistent sense of dread clung to him.
He wore a simple black coat and vest—no gold-laced uniforms or flashy embellishments—yet he couldn't help remembering how he'd once turned heads as a dashing cavalry captain: a trim waist, a commanding stance, and an aristocratic aura. Now, he felt every extra pound squeezing under his vest. Nearby stood Lydia, his tireless governess, gazing at him with a mix of worry and disapproval. "Early March or not, it's still cold at night, my lord. And Yortinto can be unpredictable after dusk." He exhaled, nodding at the motor car parked just steps away. Its brass fittings glinted in the dimming sky, steam puffing out at intervals. "We'll stay enclosed. I'll manage."
Albert, his once-timid steward and accountant, arrived next, snapping shut a rune-engraved pocket watch. "If we don't depart soon, Winbergfield and Hemsfarm might finalize the contract on their own." He sounded half-joking, half-urgent, clutching a folder overloaded with receipts, ledgers, and the Vorak Hotel dissolution paperwork. The thought of a single overlooked clause robbing him of the funds he desperately needed for Redwood Estate Trust made Philip's stomach twist. "All right," he muttered. "Let's be off before I hide in my bedroom."
They climbed into the car, and the engine coughed out mana-infused exhaust as it roared to life. Gravel crunched beneath its wheels while they set off into the evening's cool hush. Philip tried not to dwell on the constriction around his waist—he'd once been a paragon of dashing masculinity, perched on a mighty charger. Now, well… not quite. But he waved politely whenever farmhands or wagon drivers paused to stare at the sputtering mechanical beast making its way under the moonlit sky.
Soon, farmland gave way to squat brick houses illuminated by lampposts topped with softly glowing mana-crystals. Here and there, icicles glistened under gaslight, the last grasp of winter. Shop signs advertised "Heated Managlass Windows" and "Arcana-Enhanced Sewing Machines," a curious meld of Victorian architecture and magical modernity. Horse-drawn carriages mingled with sporadic motor vehicles, the overhead telegraph and mana-conduit wires humming faintly in the evening air. Towering factory stacks and newly erected "mana towers" loomed against the sky.
By the time they reached the Grand Imperial Hotel, night had properly fallen. Its limestone façade glowed under strategically placed mana-lamps, revealing carved statues and elegant columns. A row of carriages waited by the entrance, along with two futuristic automotives, proving the signing ceremony was anything but low-profile.
Reporters hovered behind velvet ropes, their manacams flashing like fireworks in the dark. "Is that Captain Philip? He looks so different now!" Philip mustered a courteous smile, well aware this was his first major public appearance since the fiasco of his broken engagement with Rosetta. Gone was the immaculate cavalry uniform and perfectly sculpted jaw—replaced by a softer, subdued figure in an unremarkable suit. The whispers crackled through the crowd.
But the loudest reactions came from a small group of women who'd apparently worshipped him in his cavalry days. They practically shrieked as he exited the motor car, half in disbelief: "That can't be my dashing captain!" "Oh heavens, what happened to his trim physique?" One fainted right there, while another tugged his sleeve as if testing for illusions. "Let go, please," he murmured, prying her off him. A third gave a tragic sigh, wailing, "All is lost!" He could only grimace, torn between embarrassment and reluctant amusement.
Inside, the hotel lobby shone with a warm golden glow, thanks to hidden mana-lamps reflecting off polished marble floors. The air smelled of perfume, pipe smoke, and chocolate-infused drinks. Groups of elegantly dressed patrons conversed softly or sipped tea, while a lone musician strummed a magical harp on a raised platform. For a fleeting moment, Philip recalled the grand entrances he used to make—tall, lean, oozing confidence. That memory ended swiftly when a pair of reporters hurried over, pestering him about the upcoming signing. He deftly blocked their questions with a firm "No comment."
Spotting Harvey, his senior lawyer, Philip wove his way around a coffee table. Harvey stood in a charcoal suit that seemed impervious to wrinkles. Next to him was Laura, sporting a fitted skirt and a fur-trimmed overcoat which nicely emphasized her figure. She greeted Philip with a polite bow and a quick smile. "Master Philip, everything's nearly set. Let's head upstairs—Prince Einhard's representative is waiting, and we need to double-check the final pages."
He mustered a weary nod. "Yes, let's. Before I accidentally become a tabloid headline… again." They climbed a wide, carpeted staircase lined with flickering wall sconces until reaching the Magnolia Suite, an elegantly paneled conference room with tall windows that looked out onto the city's flickering lights. Emile Rittenberg, a man whose waxed mustache seemed capable of cutting paper, awaited them inside. Dressed in a dapper European suit, he bowed. "Shall we complete the Vorak Chain's dissolution?" A staff of clerks and servers busied themselves with late-night tea trays and pastries, while Laura and Harvey meticulously reviewed each contract line. Philip's share, about six hundred and thirty thousand dollars, felt so close—if only this night could remain calm.
They were nearing the end when a bellboy burst in, breathless. "Gunshot in the corridor!" he gasped, panic in his eyes. Before anyone could respond, the door slammed open a second time. That same grey-coated figure from earlier stormed in, bowler hat askew, brandishing a pistol. Rage burned in his gaze.
He pulled the trigger—pop-pop-pop!—spraying bullets across the ornate walls. A crystal sconce exploded, shards raining down, and a pastry tray crashed to the floor with a clatter. Everyone scrambled for cover, chairs tipping over in the chaos. Emile ducked behind a solid oak dresser, mustache quivering in horror, while Harvey and a startled waiter dove under the conference table.
Laura stood frozen near a corner, clutching her rune-staff. Philip, heart pounding, saw the intruder's sights pivot toward her. Without thinking, he lunged, tackling her out of the line of fire. More shots rang out—pop-pop—ricocheting off marble pillars. Laura ended up pinned beneath him with a forceful thud, her skirt riding high up her thighs. Her soft gasp mixed with his ragged breathing, and for a bizarre, fleeting instant, he caught the faint scent of lilac wafting from her hair. Cheeks flaming, he braced his arms to keep from crushing her, every curve of her body pressed against him in a way that sent a spike of mortification—and something else—through his chest. "Gah—are you all right?" he managed, voice cracking as he glanced down. Her eyes were wide, both gratitude and embarrassment evident.
"Y-yes," she whispered, cheeks flushed. She instinctively tried to tug her skirt lower, but the awkward angle only seemed to emphasize how intimately they were entangled. He gulped, face burning, acutely aware of his own chubby midsection and how it must feel compared to the old Philip's legendary physique. Yet, in that insane moment, all he could think about was how close they were, her breath mingling with his, the soft brush of her stockinged legs against his own. A flurry of gunshots and ricochets surrounded them, yet for one heartbeat, the world narrowed to just their startled gazes locked together.
Then, abruptly, the gunfire ceased. Ears ringing, Philip glanced around—only to see the shooter sprawled on the polished floor, wheezing in pain. Standing over him, pistol in hand, was Albert—the once-meek accountant. Somehow, he'd wrested the firearm away and pinned the attacker's arm behind his back. The man's bowler hat lay flattened beneath Albert's shoe. The entire fiasco had ended almost as quickly as it began.
Silence settled, broken only by ragged breathing. Philip, still half atop Laura, realized her face was flushed nearly as red as his. He tried to stammer an apology, shifting awkwardly to help her straighten her skirt. Before he could form a coherent sentence, a bright flash went off by the door—a paparazzo stood there, manacam capturing the scene of Philip sprawled over Laura in scandalous detail. Then he vanished back into the corridor, no doubt eager to deliver tomorrow's headline.