Part 1
Philip stood at the threshold of his bedroom, hair still damp from his shower, a towel clinging perilously around his waist. The last thing he expected upon opening the door was Natalia—dressed in a semi-sheer nightgown—waiting for him. Her wide eyes shone with concern, her bare toes curling shyly against the rug. For a moment, he wondered if he'd stumbled into some surreal, feverish dream.
"Natalia?" he managed, voice catching in his throat. Without warning, she stepped forward and slipped her arms around him in a gentle embrace.
He froze, cheeks aflame. Only a filmy towel on his side and her gossamer nightgown stood between them, and a single careless movement threatened to send his towel tumbling. His mind screamed at the precarious knot, but Natalia's hold felt warm and sincere—completely lacking the self-consciousness a human might have in such a situation.
Sensing his startled jolt, she eased her grip and peered up at him curiously. "You're… distressed," she said softly. "I sensed it all evening, and you seemed even more anxious after your shower. Are you in pain? Or… trouble?"
His heart thundered less from stress, more from awkwardness and a roil of emotions. "N-no," he stammered. "I am just tense. You can… sense my mood? From a distance?"
She nodded, letting her arms drop, and took a step back to give Philip the much-needed space. "Not your exact thoughts, but I can feel your turmoil—like a heavy cloud. Tonight, it felt especially strong." She cast him a concerned look, as though waiting for confirmation.
He swallowed hard. "I'm… sorry. I guess you're picking up on my worries about this duel." He forced a weak smile. "A baron's son wants to fight me over the incident from the other night—one that was partly my fault."
"Duel?" She tilted her head, prompting him to explain further. As Philip explained his situation in detail, Natalia's gaze remained both compassionate and incisive. Occasionally, she reached out to comfort him, then quickly retracted her hand, mindful of his obvious discomfort with the precarious towel.
Finally, Philip exhaled a heavy sigh after his long explanation, his eyes darkening with worry as he ran a hand over his damp towel. "I can't just refuse this duel—that would dishonor the Redwood name and bring down the duke's wrath. And the baron's side can't back down without disgrace. But I really don't want to kill—or be killed—over a misunderstanding."
Natalia inclined her head in understanding, her calm expression never wavering as she folded her arms gently. "In Yorgoria's noble customs, a duel isn't merely a fight. It's a public ritual meant to defend honor when someone's reputation is thought to be slighted. Your task is twofold: you must prove to both the other party and the public that the incident was a misunderstanding, not an intentional insult, and at the same time, subtly remind your opponent that challenging you carries significant risks."
She paused for a moment, letting her words settle between them, then stepped a fraction closer so that the soft lace of her nightgown brushed against his forearm—a reassuring, almost conspiratorial gesture. "Here's the plan: use your media enterprise, and even enlist other outlets, to spark public conversations among all strata of society suggesting that the photographed incident might not be what it appeared to be on the surface and should be taken in context of the broader circumstances of that night. Have Lydia and Albert, under different aliases, quietly start online discussions that cast doubt on the existing perception among the public. That would open up the topic for further discussion."
Natalia's eyes flickered with a mix of strategic calculation and empathy. "Next, leverage Laura to nudge the baron's family into conducting their own investigation. Remind Laura that if her fiancé does not uncover the truth for himself, there will always be a lingering doubt at the back of his mind regarding the incident and her devotion to him. And don't stop there: through your trusted delegates, reach out to eyewitnesses, offering them untraceable benefits, like job opportunities, in exchange for coming forward with their testimonies to the printed media. Once the public is convinced that your intentions were honorable, issue a public statement apologizing for the unfortunate incident while clarifying that your aim was to protect, not to assault, his fiancée. This way, everyone's honor remains intact."
Philip shifted uncomfortably, patting his round midsection beneath the towel as if to physically dismiss the notion. "The plan is brilliant. However, I might not be able to convince the other party that I am a force to be reckoned with."
Natalia's gaze softened as she reached out and lightly touched his arm, her voice lowering to a confidential murmur. "That's where your past comes in. Remember, you were once a public hero. Your reputation for valor isn't something that's easily forgotten. You don't need to shout it from the rooftops—doing so might hurt their pride—but you can subtly remind everyone, perhaps through covertly stirring up public speculations regarding who might win the duel. These discussions are bound to bring up words of your past daring feats."
Philip raised an eyebrow, a mixture of skepticism and hope in his eyes. "So, I need to prove that what happened was a misunderstanding, yet hint that any further challenge would be a risk they can't afford?"
"Exactly," Natalia replied, her tone crisp and determined. "You build the narrative that your intention was to save, not to assault. Simultaneously, you force the other party to recalibrate their risk calculus. This way, when given an off-ramp in the form of a public apology from you, they will take it."
"That's brilliant," Philip breathed, rubbing his jaw in thought. "I never realized you had such a grasp of human society."
She shrugged, a slight blush coloring her cheeks. "I had been reading while you were busy. But a lot of it I just know somehow."
Just then, the System's voice hummed by Philip's ear, "She's evolving fast, Host. Emotion and logic, she's got it all."
Philip jerked his head reflexively at the System's sudden comment. With that startled jerk, he lost his grip on the towel. It dropped to his ankles, leaving him starkly exposed. Natalia's eyes went round, and her cheeks flared scarlet. Still, she moved with quick grace, bending her knees in a ladylike crouch and retrieving the errant towel. Philip stood there, stunned, too shocked to react.
"U…uh…thank…" he stammered, face roasting. Natalia said nothing but calmly wrapped the cloth back around his waist, hands moving with surprising dexterity. In seconds, she'd secured it with an intricate knot near his hip.
Unfortunately, that knot revealed… a certain enthusiastic reaction beneath the fabric. Natalia's gaze flicked there once, then away, her cheeks pink.
"S-sorry," he croaked. She must think me a deviant.
"Don't be," she said, voice matter-of-fact, as if quoting from a medical text. "I understand the human body can be… spontaneous." She stood, smoothing the towel's edge with a final, efficient tug. "At least your mana isn't drained. You seem more… energized than earlier."
He cleared his throat, heart hammering. "Yeah, weirdly enough… I feel fine now."
A soft smile touched her lips. "But you should still rest. You'll need your strength to carry out the plan." Her eyes flicked momentarily to his belly—as if acknowledging both his physical shape and the upcoming challenges—before she stepped back. "If you need me, I'll be ready."
She gave a polite bow and left, nightgown whispering around her ankles.
After Natalia left, Philip slumped against the bedpost, pressing a hand to his chubby midsection. The warm humiliation still churned through his veins. "What must she think of me now…"
He inhaled slowly, recalling how seamlessly she'd guided that conversation about the duel. She was growing, not just repeating some theoretical knowledge, but truly applying it. His racing heart calmed slightly at the thought of their interactions.
Then, as if on cue, the System's voice chimed in behind him. "If you're wondering how you suddenly feel so spry, you can thank me. I converted some of your wealth into raw mana, keeping your interaction longer than it would otherwise be sustainable…"
He turned, exasperation mingling with amusement. "You… turned money into mana?"
The System shrugged in her snug running outfit. "It's a perk of having me around. Just think: next time you're about to faint from exhaustion, you can literally burn your banknotes. You are literally paying money for more action. Hey, what do you know, if you are willing to burn enough money, you might be able to sustain some real action with Natalia tonight. But I still recommend getting fit; there are additional social benefits that you critically need for your future tasks."
Rubbing his temples, Philip sighed. "Well… I really have no time for action of any type tonight."
Part 2
Morning light filtered through the curtains of Philip's bedroom, casting a soft glow on the neatly arranged furniture. He blinked awake, vaguely stunned to find he felt rested—a rarity after the anxious nights he'd grown used to. When he stretched, it was almost luxurious, his limbs free of the usual tension. He glanced at the clock on his nightstand and felt his heart jolt: nearly ten! That explained why the sun had such a comfortable warmth. He couldn't recall the last time he'd slept this well—or this late—without Lydia knocking at dawn to remind him of pressing tasks.
Hastily pulling on a simple shirt and trousers, he hurried downstairs, mentally bracing for Lydia's inevitable scolding. Instead, he found her in the dining room, calmly setting out a lavish breakfast: crisp bacon, fruit-filled pastries, fresh bread, scrambled eggs that glistened in the morning light. The enticing smell reminded him of simpler times, back when he still had the leisure to indulge his appetite.
Lydia looked up from arranging cutlery and offered a quiet smile. "Good morning, Master Philip. No need to apologize for sleeping in—I thought you deserved it." She gestured toward a chair.
Unsure if someone would pop out and accuse him of laziness, he sat, half-embarrassed, half-delighted by the unexpected feast. "Thank you, Lydia," he murmured, picking up a fork. "What's the occasion? We won a lottery I wasn't aware of?"
She gave a faint shrug. "With the estate's debts cleared and other uncertainties on the horizon, I decided it wouldn't hurt to have a better breakfast. You need a good start if you're to handle what's coming." There was a subdued finality in her tone. Philip felt an uneasy twist in his gut, remembering that both a duel and a possible wartime assignment loomed over him.
Still, he savored every bite. "I appreciate this," he said, swallowing a mouthful of eggs. "Feels like forever since I've had time just to… eat well."
Soon enough, Albert arrived, looking frazzled with a stack of papers tucked under his arm. Between sips of strong coffee, Philip explained his plan to avert the duel. Of course, he didn't mention Natalia's involvement—he remembered all too well the System's warning about keeping her role secret. He described it as his own stroke of genius, a carefully contrived approach to letting the baron's side save face while clearing his name.
Albert's eyebrows shot up in genuine admiration. "Remarkable, Master Philip—truly cunning. If executed carefully, this might smooth everything over. We simply have to coordinate how we release information, so they feel it's their choice, not ours."
Lydia, setting down a fresh teapot, nodded briskly. "Yes, it should work, provided events don't spiral beyond our control. I'll contact those who need to know. Albert can handle the more… delicate tasks."
Albert made a few swift notes. "I'll start at once." Then, taking a small bow, he marched off to arrange hush-hush phone calls, letter deliveries, and all manner of clandestine negotiations.
After he was gone, Lydia lingered. "One more matter, Master Philip—your publishing company." She paused, watching him over the rim of her glasses. "It's a key piece of your plan to shape public opinion. You'll want an in-person meeting with them to ensure they handle your spin exactly how you need."
Philip froze, mid-sip of tea. "My… publishing company?"
She almost smiled. "Yes. Redwood Publishing Incorporated. You purchased it years ago, though you rarely visited. They produce a major newspaper called Yortinto Bleu—printed editions, plus a magical online version for those with mirror-devices or magical tabs. There's also a small magazine division, but that's less prominent."
He raked a hand through his hair. "I see. Yortinto Bleu… well, I guess I'd better make an appearance, if I want them on board." A fleeting memory of the assassin who'd once posed as staff made his stomach clench. "But you're sure it's safe to go in person?"
Lydia's expression grew grim. "Safer than meeting them here at the estate. You recall that woman who nearly shot you last time. So we'll go directly, limit infiltration."
Philip's pulse gave a nervous flutter. "Agreed."
They set off in the estate's modest motorcar not long after, the brisk spring air ruffling Philip's hair as the vehicle chugged along uneven roads. Beyond the city proper lay Richmendale, a growing suburb on Yortinto's outskirts. Despite the old-fashioned gas lamps and horse-drawn cabs, signs of magical tech were everywhere—flickering mana streetlights, occasional steam-powered carriages, and pedestrians wearing runic-lens glasses.
After winding through lanes of tidy houses, they arrived at a modest two-story brick building labeled "Redwood Publishing: Yortinto Bleu Headquarters." Painted in bold strokes above the front windows, the sign glinted in the sun. For a firm whose overhead ran about a thousand dollars a year, it looked lively—far from luxurious, but buzzing with creative energy. Another window displayed the day's top headlines, next to an enchanted mirror that updated "Breaking Stories" at half-hour intervals.
Stepping inside, Philip was greeted by a flurry of activity: skirts swished, petticoats rustled, and a backdrop of inkwell scratching mixed with mechanical typewriter clacks. A handful of "mirror tab"—mana-powered devices shaped like sleek panels—blinked with digital lines of text. The workforce was predominantly women, likely seventy percent or more.
A bespectacled young woman noticed him first. "Captain Redwood?" she exclaimed, nearly dropping a tray of typeset blocks. A hush fell across the desks in seconds, staff whispering or bowing their heads. A few stared up, eyes widening with curiosity, caution, even mild fear.
He gave them a small, reassuring smile, feeling oddly self-conscious. "As you were," he managed, trying not to sound like he was playing at being a general. They must see me as some distant bigwig. He wasn't used to commanding such deference.
An older woman with a stern but kindly gaze approached, probably a senior editor. She dipped her head. "Welcome, Master Philip. We weren't told you were coming, or we'd have prepared a formal greeting. Would you like a quick tour, or shall we head straight to the editorial circle?"
Philip glanced at Lydia, who nodded discreetly. "A quick look around first," he said. "I'd like to meet some of our staff. Then we can talk editorial strategy."
He passed rows of tightly packed desks where women in simple cotton dresses busied themselves with layout sketches, advertisement placements, and "magical comment boards" for the paper's online content. Occasionally, someone would glance up from a magical tablet, see Philip, then hurriedly look down again, as though afraid of drawing too much attention.
Rounding a corner stacked high with printed proofs, he was caught off guard by a flurry of motion from the adjoining hallway. A young woman, maybe twenty at most, rushed out carrying a tall stack of documents and a lidded mug of coffee. Her raven hair was piled into a messy bun, partially concealing a timid face. Her blouse and skirt appeared too snug, as if they were secondhand or inherited from someone smaller, hugging her generous curves in ways that didn't seem intentional.
She collided with Philip before either realized what was happening. "Gah—!" she yelped, wide-eyed. The mug tipped, and cold coffee sloshed over Philip's coat, leaving a dark stain.
Instantly, every nearby staffer froze and stared, some with hands over their mouths. Lydia's face darkened, but Philip raised a hand, signaling her to let him handle this. The woman let out a mortified squeak, her cheeks going red as she tried to bow while juggling scattered pages. "I—I'm so sorry!" she stammered, each word trembling with panic. "I didn't see you, I— oh no— this is dreadful—"
She looked ready to burst into tears, pale face contorted in fear that she'd just ruined her entire livelihood. Given her shaky posture and worn clothes, she already seemed on edge, as if struggling financially.