Part 1
Philip paced the length of the manor's grand study, stomping divots into the plush carpet as though each step were a punctuation mark in his ongoing internal crisis. The elaborate oak shelves and gold-frad portraits of glaring forebears seed to reproach him for daring to be so anxious. Yet he couldn't help it—an oppressive realization was gnawing at him like a hungry rat.
anwhile, perched on the edge of Philip's desk was the smartly dressed private tutor with a scandalously snug blouse and pencil skirt. She, the System, watched Philip with a maddeningly smug smile, crossing one shapely leg over the other in perfect confidence.
"All right," Philip said at last, halting mid-stride. He spoke in a tone halfway between incredulity and panic. "Let's see if I've got this right: Summoning a sentient being in Yorgoria—like, say, my Familiar Natalia—is considered capital-level forbidden magic. Because through that ritual, any summoner could accidentally stumble upon a super-powerful creature that bent to their will alone, and that would not only undermine global stability, but also the very social fabric of the empire as one could even topple the governnt with that kind of power?
"And with Natalia in the picture," the System added, her tone dripping with teasing irony, "you're basically fancying a nuke." She made a boom gesture with her slender hands. "Kablooey. The monarchy won't take kindly to that."
Philip grimaced, eyes darting to the ceiling as if expecting Natalia to drop down from the rafters. "So Lydia's big panic the other day makes perfect sense. If word gets out, we're done for. Great. Absolutely fantastic. As if the orchard, the polluted factory site, and assassinations weren't enough. Now I have to worry about a cosmic-level scandal that could label a rebel in the making."
"You're not just any potential rebel in the making," the System said brightly. "You're also a rich boy with an officially recognized aristocratic lineage, aning if you ever harness Natalia's power—"
"Let's not even finish that thought," Philip said, waving a hand in mild horror. "I'm not interested in conquering the world. I just want to pay off debts and not die of sha or mana exhaustion."
The System said, "I believe you, Host. But not everyone else would. People in power have paranoid imaginations. So yes, we must keep Natalia a secret."
With a small sigh, Philip sank into a plush leather chair, the squeak of the cushions betraying his heavier fra. He recalled how old Philip had once been a dashing cavalry hero with eight-pack abs, the sort of man for whom a plush seat never squeaked. Now he was just... well, this. "All right. That's the new priority: Survive by living discreetly. No ntion of the summoned Familiar. No flashy demonstrations of power. Keep a low profile while we sort out the estate's finances."
The System nodded in mock seriousness. "A brilliant plan. Very zen. That said, you're going to love this next piece of news."
Philip looked up, dread pooling in his gut. "There's more?"
Lydia twisted her apron anxiously. "It pertains to your... scandal at the imperial banquet. You rember—your, er, fifteen minutes of passionately kissing the Empress's hand while calling her 'Rosetta.' In front of the entire court. Livestread to the entire world."
Philip flinched, cheeks heating at the ntal image. "Yes, that fiasco. No thanks to old Philip's drunken ltdown. Don't remind ."
"Well," the System said carefully, "the Avalondian military disliked that. Embarrassing the Empress, who also happens to be the empire's Realm Guardian, left them livid. They can't officially demote you—that'd risk a feud with your grandfather, a Duke of the Empire—but they found a workaround."
"A... workaround?" Philip said, his voice heavy with foreboding.
The System kicked her legs playfully. "Congratulations. You've been permanently re-stationed from your post at the imperial capital to, ahem, Yortinto. In other words, you're banished from the center of power. No more frolicking at the imperial palace or cavalry parades. They want you far from the dia and the capital's prying eyes, so that you stop embarrassing the empire."
Philip's jaw fell open. "They're burying out here so no one sees —like tossing a scandalous cousin into a distant estate to hush everything up."
"Exactly," the System chid. "But it's not all that bad, you don't have to worry about the capital's paparazzi snapping photos of your every move. It also ans you have more ti to spend with Natalia rather than your old once-in-a-while visits to this estate."
"This is so humiliating," Philip groaned, massaging his temples. "I went from 'heroic cavalry captain with a bright future' to 'obscure dominion grandson of a noble with a monstrous debt and a walking nuke hidden in the attic.' At least I don't ever have to face the Empress again. Good grief."
"Look on the bright side, Host," the System said gently, her face soft with sympathy. "This demotion offers a chance to rebuild your reputation without constant scrutiny. Perhaps, once the estate is financially stable, you can return to the capital on your own terms."
Philip exhaled, arms slumping over the desk. "Fine. Let's call that the plan. Step one: Fix the estate. Step two: Don't blow up the world by accident. Step three: Reclaim lost honor—maybe. If we have ti between outrunning assassins and paying off creditors."
But then Philip thought: If the governnt does not know about Natalia's existence, then who is trying to murder him? Also, is Natalia even going to be that powerful? She's nothing like Celestica, who started off the charts.
Just as he was about to ask more questions, the System beat him to it. The System applauded quietly. "Good, good. Now, we've handled the big worry about Natalia's illegal summoning. Next, we tackle a more mundane but still crucial worry: your finances. Specifically—" She tapped an invisible ledger. "Your absurdly overpriced VIP banking package that's leeching an entire worker's yearly salary from your pockets."
Part 2
Philip's brows knitted in confusion. "What VIP package? Old Philip left with a million headaches, so this must be one I haven't discovered yet."
"The Platinum Royal VIP mbership at the Imperial Dominion Bank of Yorgoria," the System replied, conjuring a ghostly slip of parchnt that read Annual Fee: 360 Continental Dollars. She flicked it toward him. "Costing you roughly one entire average Yorgorian worker's yearly inco. Per year. Just so you can attend so fancy banquets and enjoy questionable 'benefits.'"
Philip nearly choked on air. "That's—what?"
Lydia cleared her throat. "Yes, Master. The estate's ledgers list a recurring withdrawal to the tune of 360 Continental dollars. It's labeled as a 'VIP Maintenance Fee.' For context: a typical city worker might earn around 350 or so Continental dollars a year. This mbership is basically devouring a normal person's entire annual salary."
"That's insane," Philip muttered. "All for so bank mbership? Like, do I get to swim in a pool of gold coins or sothing?"
The System cackled. "Actually, you get sothing much more scandalous. Here's a quick rundown of your 'benefits,' as summarized by . I feel my summary is brief and to the point and skips the long, boring jargon." She snapped her fingers, and a half-translucent brochure materialized in midair, bullet points glimring in golden script:
Extravagant Monthly Banquet:
Hosted by the Imperial Dominion Bank for its top 0.1% clients. Expect towers of exotic fruit, absurd amounts of wasted food, and an orchestra playing waltzes all evening. Beautiful attendants—so male, so female—prepared to offer... flexible social arrangents.
Exclusive Networking Opportunities:
Mingle with bored aristocrats, scions of industrial empires, and other filthy rich folks who spend more on a single party than so villages see in a decade. Drunken extramarital encounters are not uncommon. In fact, it's borderline endorsed by the bank to keep wealthy clients "entertained" and "interconnected" in both mind and body. Consider it next level networking helping to shape a tightly-knit VIP client base.
Opulent Spa Sessions:
Multiple luscious private suites hidden in the bank's main building in downtown Yortinto, featuring gilded massage tables, imported oils, and highly trained staff ready to pamper you from head to toe, and occasionally so more private parts too. If you get bored with the usual "masseuses," you can request fresh faces—of either gender, or both.
Dedicated Private Banker:
On call for every whim, financial or otherwise. Should the VIP fancy, a "private banker" might double as a personal concierge, lover, or discreet problem-solver.
"And, bonus perk," the System added with a raised brow, "the bank supposedly waived the monthly fees in the old days, because your previous body was a legendary hottie—eight-pack abs, unstoppable cavalry hero vibe. They wanted your star power at their parties. They also secretly knew it served as a benefit for so of their female employees and helped with talent retention."
Philip rubbed a hand over the slight paunch straining his vest. "So they used to sponsor old Philip's presence at these events, because he was... so hot..."
"That's what it looks like. Then you pulled the Empress scandal, crashed your once-golden reputation, bloated up your body, and the bank decided you're no longer worthy of freebies. So now you're paying through the nose for a mbership you apparently don't use nowadays."
"Unbelievable," Philip muttered, although a tiny voice in his head was alard by how typical this was for old Philip. "We're drowning in debt, we have a half-dead orchard, and I'm hemorrhaging money on so twisted aristocrats' fetish club?"
Lydia's lips twitched, torn between amusent and horror. "We can... absolutely cancel that mbership, Master. Goodness knows we have no spare funds for... questionable banquets or scandalous spa sessions."
Philip barked a laugh. "Yes, let's do that. Right now."
The System offered him a conspiratorial grin. "Now that is a wise move. Let's unsub from that little slice of decadent madness. This is when you ring Lydia in."
Part 3
Within an hour, Lydia had commandeered one of the estate's motorcars—a black-lacquered marvel of early 1900s engineering, complete with brass accents and spoked wheels. Though many Yorgorian nobles still used carriages, old Philip had insisted on keeping up with modern tis. At least it's good for sothing, the new Philip thought.
They drove along the cobblestone roads just outside Yortinto, passing red-brick buildings, lampposts still lit with gas, and sidewalks bustling with n in bowler hats and won in ankle-length dresses. The city's architecture resembled a mingling of Victorian influences with Yorgoria's unique magical flair: the occasional glow of mana crystals adorned shop windows advertising everything from "Mirror Phones" to "Mana-Fused Ovens."
When the motorcar chugged to a stop in front of the Imperial Dominion Bank – Yortinto Suburban Branch 25, a doorman in a sharp uniform sprang forward, practically saluting upon spotting the ducal crest on the vehicle. "Welco, Master Philip," the doorman intoned, eyes shining with faux reverence. "An honor, sir."
"Thank you," Philip returned, trying not to cringe at the mory that he was no longer the capital's beloved hero but a disgraced figure. The doorman probably recognized the crest more than the man.
Inside, a wave of perfud air greeted them, alongside the hushed chatter of bank clerks and well-heeled patrons. Ornate wood paneling, marble floors, and gilded cornices gave the interior a lavish feel. Painted portraits of Imperial Dominion's founders hung on the walls, gazing down with a mixture of pride and mild snootiness.
A petite woman in a fashionable skirt and high-collar blouse approached. She was Miss Clara Verdkon, Philip's assigned Private Banker. She offered a curtsy, long lashes blinking in a carefully choreographed show of deference. She had an hourglass figure beneath her modest attire, her dark hair styled in a neat bob—1900s chic. A whiff of violet perfu accompanied her, enhancing an understated allure.
"Master Philip," Clara said, her voice sweet as syrup. "How wonderful to see you again. To what do we owe the pleasure? Perhaps you'd like to schedule a private spa session?" She fluttered her lashes, pointedly ignoring Lydia, who stood discreetly at Philip's shoulder.
Philip cleared his throat, summoning all his nerve. "Actually, I'm here to cancel my Platinum Royal VIP mbership."
Clara's face lost color. "C-cancel?" She repeated the word like it was an alien concept. "But... you can't be serious, sir! You're the Duke's grandson. Our VIP mbership is tailored to your unique status."
"Indeed, but it's not sothing I need," Philip said firmly. "I want out. The fee is unsustainable."
Clara's panic sparked. She lowered her voice, her eyes darting around as if worried about eavesdroppers. "Master Philip, is it the ladies? Because if your tastes have changed, we can offer a variety of... novel and perhaps manlier alternatives." She offered a conspiratorial wink that sent heat rushing to Philip's cheeks, while Lydia stiffened in outrage behind him.
Philip forced a polite smile. "No, no. This is purely a financial decision."
Clara's eyes glimred with desperation. "We can reduce your fees if you, let's say, show up at the monthly banquets again. With your na, your image—frankly, many of our other VIP clients would be ecstatic to see you grace our events. We'd be happy to waive the mbership fee entirely if that's your concern."
"'Concern' is putting it lightly," Philip muttered, tapping his foot impatiently. "I'm hemorrhaging money and not using any of your so-called perks. So I'm done."
She winced. "B-but Master Philip, if it's the spa staff you found lacking, we can bring in new staff from downtown Yortinto. Fresh faces, or if you prefer n—"
"Stop!" Philip raised a hand, trying not to blush further. "That's not the point. Enough with these scandalous offers, Miss Verdant. Let's finalize the cancellation."
Clara swallowed, glancing quickly at Lydia. The latter gave her a blandly polite stare. Realizing there'd be no salvaging this mbership, Clara finally sighed and offered a faint, trembling smile. "Very well, sir. Please follow to my office to sign the forms."
The System's airy laugh echoed in Philip's mind. She's really going all out. Gotta admire her devotion to her job, huh?
Part 4
A few minutes later, Philip found himself in a cozy, well-appointed office tucked behind the bank's main lobby. The windows faced out onto a busy Yortinto street, revealing a patchwork of carriages and motorcars, plus pedestrians hurrying about their day. Gas lamps and overhead mana-crystal lamps offered gentle lighting, reflecting off the polished surfaces of Clara's mahogany desk.
"I'll need your signature on each of these lines, Master Philip," Clara said, sliding a stack of official docunts toward him. Her voice was tinged with regret, as if she were signing away her own treasured bonus. "Once completed, your Platinum Royal VIP mbership will be canceled imdiately, along with all associated privileges."
"Good," Philip said with genuine relief. He uncapped the pen and began scribbling away. Every signature lifted a weight off him—like purging old Philip's irresponsible extravagances. Goodbye, scandalous spa entanglents. Goodbye, ridiculous banquets teeming with bored aristocratic philanderers. Hello, a semblance of responsible adulthood.
Mid-signature, he shot a glance at Lydia. She remained composed, though a slight smile curled her lips. Clearly, she approved of this cost-cutting asure. anwhile, the System, visible only to Philip, paced ghost-like by the window, occasionally sending him ntal quips about how the previous Philip might have used the spa.
He tried not to smirk at the System's comntary: "Bet old Philip's rippling abs made quite the impression on the spa staff... Good thing you're overweight now—less temptation."
Finally, the last flourish of the pen concluded the process. Clara gathered the docunts, a pained look in her eyes. "All right, Master Philip. It's done. I... If you ever change your mind, we'd be thrilled to welco you back. No questions asked."
He mustered a conciliatory nod, feeling a twinge of sympathy. "Thank you, Miss Verdant. I appreciate all the support you've provided, but my priorities have changed."
She dipped her head. "Of course, sir." Pausing, she fluttered those dark lashes one last ti. "Should you wish to... discuss your finances in a more intimate setting, simply let know. I'd be happy to customize a plan—"
Philip coughed loudly into his fist, and Lydia shot Clara a disapproving glare. "N-no, that won't be necessary. Farewell."
Clara curtsied, letting him step out. As Philip left the office, the corners of her mouth drooped, as though she'd lost an essential client—and possibly the perks that ca with it. The bank's main lobby felt colder on the way out, though the marble floors and gilded arches glead just as lavishly. Outside, the doorman nearly tripped in his haste to salute Philip, flustering himself thoroughly in the process.
"Have a splendid day, Master Philip!" the doorman called, his voice cracking. "We... we hope to see you soon!"
Philip rely nodded, not trusting himself to respond without sarcasm. He offered Lydia his arm, and they walked down the marble steps.
Once safely inside the estate's motorcar, he exhaled in relief. "That's one burden off my shoulders. No more funneling entire salaries for random banquets and suspect spa services."
Lydia's proud smile finally broke free. "I daresay that was an excellent step, Master Philip."
The System materialized in the passenger seat in a blink, crossing her legs. "And you got a front-row glimpse at how far the bank would go to keep a good-looking, well-connected noble around. Let's just say old Philip enjoyed the... fruits of that arrangent."
Philip wrinkled his nose. "No wonder the family finances are in tatters. I had zero self-control before."
Lydia let out a ladylike chuckle. "That may be the understatent of the century."
They sped off onto Yortinto's bustling streets, passing storefronts hawking everything from vintage waistcoats to the latest in mana-powered lighting. Horse-drawn carriages mingled with motor vehicles, and the occasional towering building hinted at the city's modernizing ambitions.
They drove in companionable silence, turning onto the main boulevard as gas lamps flickered over the motorcar's polished paint. Relief ward Philip's chest—but then a chilling thought crept into his mind. The monarchy was clueless about Natalia's existence, or they'd have unleashed armies, not hired hapless assassins. So who was behind these attempts on his life?
If the governnt doesn't even know about Natalia, he thought, then who hired the assassins trying to kill ?
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