Part 1
Monday morning arrived wrapped in golden sunlight and the kind of pristine serenity that seemed almost aggressive in its beauty.
Philip watched Albecaster's inner city glide past the carriage window with growing unease—though not all of his heightened awareness stemmed from anxiety about the War Office summons.
Natalia sat pressed against his side in a way that had become habitual since their interrupted tennis court encounter. Pressed didn't quite capture it. She had arranged herself so that every possible inch of her body maintained contact with his—thigh against thigh, shoulder tucked beneath his arm, hip nestled into the curve of his waist. Her head rested against his shoulder with the casual intimacy of someone who had forgotten personal boundaries existed.
She wasn't even conscious of it. Her attention remained fixed on the passing scenery, those sapphire eyes cataloguing storefronts with analytical precision. But her body had made its own decisions, gravitating toward him with an instinct that bypassed her formidable intellect entirely.
She's the one.
The thought surfaced with surprising certainty. Not desperate rationalization, but something deeper—crystallized over the past few nights.
After the tennis court, Natalia had been unsettled. Philip had seen it in the furrow of her brow, the way her fingers kept finding excuses to touch him, the unusual quietness replacing her typical observations.
That first night, she had appeared in one of those gossamer-thin nightgowns, but instead of serene composure, there was something almost frantic in her movements. Her cheeks were flushed, her breathing uneven, her blue eyes holding a desperate quality he'd never seen.
"Master, I require assistance." Her voice bordered on pleading. "I have attempted to stop the agitated feelings for three hours. I cannot. My body refuses to cooperate."
She had moved toward his bed with determined steps. "The books say there is only one remedy. We must complete the love ritual. I have researched extensively—"
"Natalia, stop."
Hurt flickered across her features. "You do not want to?"
"God, no—I mean, yes—" Philip had dragged a hand through his hair, his body screaming to let her continue while his mind fought for control. "I want to. More than anything. But not like this."
"I do not understand. You are aroused. I am too. The logical course—"
"Isn't always right." He had cupped her face, forcing her to meet his eyes. "When we take that step, I want it to be because you understand what you want. Not because your body is overwhelmed by sensations you can't process."
Her lower lip had trembled. "Then what am I supposed to do? I cannot think straight. All I focus on is the memory of your touch. It is... most inconvenient."
Philip had made a decision then.
"Come here. Lie down with your back to me."
"That is the opposite of our usual configuration," she had observed, complying with obvious confusion.
"Tonight, let me hold you."
She had settled against him, her back pressing to his chest. Philip wrapped his arms around her waist, feeling the tension vibrating through her like a plucked string.
"This is pleasant," she admitted, "but I fail to see how it addresses my—oh."
He had tightened his arms, one hand splaying across her stomach, the other resting below her collarbone—possessive and protective without being provocative. He pressed his lips to her hair.
"Just breathe. Focus on being held. On feeling safe."
Gradually, the tension drained from her body. Her breathing deepened into something peaceful.
"Master, the stress is... fading," she whispered with wonder.
"That's the idea."
"The books never mentioned this technique."
"Not everything can be learnt from books."
They had stayed like that all night—her body cradled against his. Philip barely slept, too aware of her warmth, how easy it would have been to give in. But watching her sleep, feeling the trust in her relaxed body—he'd known he'd made the right choice.
She deserved more than frantic coupling driven by overwhelming sensation. She deserved tenderness. Time.
Even if his body had spent the past few nights protesting his restraint.
Now, in the carriage, she shifted against him, her hand finding his, fingers threading through with casual possessiveness.
She is definitely the one.
Outside, the same streets that had thundered with protest chants last week now lay quiet. Merchants swept their stoops. Children hurried toward school. It was as if nothing had happened.
As if weeks of chaos had been nothing more than a fever dream.
What struck Philip most profoundly was the silence. Unlike the trip to visit Lilianna at the hospital just days ago—when distant sounds of chaos had provided constant reminder of the city's unrest, when the rumble of cannons and roar of crowds had formed an ominous soundtrack to their journey—now there was nothing. No distant shouts. No thunder of boots on cobblestones. No crack of gunfire echoing from neighboring districts.
Just birdsong. Just the ordinary clatter of commerce. Just life proceeding as if it was all just a dream.
"Beautiful day," Margaret observed from across the carriage. She looked resplendent in dove gray, every hair in place, radiating the serene confidence of someone who had watched countless civil disobedience exercises from comfortable drawing rooms.
"The atmospheric conditions are indeed optimal," Natalia agreed. "However, something does not add up."
"Oh?" Margaret's eyes sparkled with interest.
"The IBC morning broadcast reported that the civil unrest was resolved with 'minimal disruption' and 'widespread public approval of the military's efficiency.'" Natalia's brow furrowed delicately. "They featured footage of crowds applauding as military units withdrew. Multiple interviews confirmed 'relief' and 'gratitude' among the citizenry."
She paused, her head tilting at that characteristic angle that indicated deep processing.
"Yet based on my prior observations—the scale of mobilization, the crowd density, the intensity of opposition—I assess the probability of voluntary dispersal without significant confrontation at approximately three percent." Her sapphire eyes met Margaret's with guileless confusion. "The logical incongruence is... troubling."
Margaret's lips curved into a smile of genuine delight—the expression of a grandmother watching a particularly clever grandchild solve a puzzle. "My dear girl, you possess a remarkably logical mind. It's quite refreshing."
She reached across to pat Natalia's hand with genuine warmth. "Tell me, what specifically struck you as inconsistent?"
"The interview distribution," Natalia replied promptly. "I catalogued the broadcast content. Approximately fifteen percent featured protesters or their sympathizers explaining grievances. The remaining eighty-five percent..." She tilted her head. "Eighty-five percent consisted of what they termed 'ordinary citizens' whose livelihoods had been disrupted."
"Go on," Margaret encouraged, clearly delighted.
"There was a shop owner—Mr. Hendricks, I believe—standing before his vandalized storefront. His voice was..." Natalia paused, searching for the word. "Pleading. He said: 'Please, just make it end. Give them what they need if it's reasonable. If not, just do something, anything. Our livelihoods are ruined.' His eyes were..." Another pause. "Red. From crying."
Philip felt his stomach twist.
"There were many similar interviews," Natalia continued. "A woman whose husband was a postal worker, injured by something thrown from a protesting crowd. She held their infant while speaking to the camera, saying the family couldn't afford medical bills if his condition worsens. A truck driver explaining how transport disruptions cost him three weeks of wages—wages he needed to pay for his daughter's education. Factory workers expressing fear of permanent furloughs."
She looked at Margaret with genuine confusion. "The progression of public sentiment appeared to shift dramatically. Initial sympathy for protesters' grievances seemed to... evaporate. Replaced by what the broadcasts characterized as 'frustration with disruption.'"
Margaret leaned forward slightly, her voice taking on the patient, instructive tone of a governess preparing a young lady for her debut into society.
"You see, Natalia, the Empire has developed a rather... sophisticated approach to communication over the centuries. When official reports describe events as 'orderly' and 'minimal,' one must apply certain interpretive frameworks."
"Interpretive frameworks?" Natalia repeated.
"Indeed. 'Orderly resolution' typically indicates the outcome was achieved through overwhelming force applied with sufficient coordination to ensure resolution before any negative media coverage. 'Minimal disruption' suggests the disruption was contained to acceptable geographic, demographic, and temporal limits. And 'widespread approval'..." Margaret's smile never wavered. "Well, that simply means media coverage of whatever public approval they could get were widely broadcast."
Margaret examined her gloves with apparent fascination. "The interviews you saw weren't random, my dear. They were carefully selected. The shop owner with the vandalized storefront? Very real damage, I'm sure. The wife of the injured bus driver? Genuinely distressed. The truck driver losing wages? All quite authentic."
"But the distribution was calculated," Philip said slowly, understanding beginning to dawn.
"Precisely. You see, Philip, one of the Imperial Princes addressed the nation last week—a rare occurrence, which itself signaled the gravity of the situation. He stood before the cameras and delivered a masterclass in seeming reasonable while saying very little of substance."
She adopted a slightly pompous tone, clearly mimicking: "'We stand at a crossroads, my fellow citizens of the Empire. As the beacon of civilization in an increasingly chaotic world, we must demonstrate to the watching nations how enlightened peoples resolve their differences. We must show that the traditions which made us great—order, reason, mutual respect—can still guide us through modern challenges. Avalondians must never forget our identity as the proud guardians of civilization and order itself.'"
Philip recognized the cadence—that particular aristocratic hauteur that suggested everything wrong with the world stemmed from people forgetting their proper places.
"He spoke of grand futures and shared prosperity," Margaret continued in her normal voice. "He appealed to Avalondian pride—how the world watches us, how if we fail, civilization itself might collapse into the chaos already consuming other nations with their wars and inequality. Very stirring. Very patriotic. Very... empty of actual commitment."
"And the public believed it?" Philip asked.
"Oh, belief had little to do with it." Margaret's voice turned sharp. "He positioned himself as the reasonable voice advocating for peaceful dialogue between the current administration and the protesters. Called on both sides to step back from the brink. Suggested that the government should seriously consider the protesters' concerns." Her smile grew cold. "And then, almost as an afterthought, he mentioned that criminal elements had begun using the protests as cover for theft and violence. Expressed his deep regret that such opportunism was tarnishing legitimate grievances."
"Deflecting blame," Philip murmured.
"Offering the actual protesters an off-ramp—'you're not the problem, those criminals hiding among you are the problem.' Very masterful political maneuvering."
Natalia's eyes widened slightly, but Margaret pressed on.
"But here's the true brilliance of the operation: they managed to genuinely turn the population against the protesters by magnifying in the population's awareness of how the protests might be against the general public's interest."
Margaret's voice took on a cutting edge. "You see, my dear, there's a rather important principle of human nature one must understand: sympathy extends precisely as far as one's own interests remain unaffected. The moment it begins to cost something tangible? Most people abandon morality and compassion faster than a pickpocket abandons a marked billfold."
"That's rather cynical," Philip said quietly.
"Cynical? Perhaps. But it's empirically tested." Margaret gestured to the window. "The middle-class professionals who initially supported the protests because they knew intellectually the causes were justified? They grew rather less sympathetic when their favorite shops were vandalized and their morning commutes disrupted. The workers who agreed wages were too low? They became decidedly less enthusiastic when the factory where they worked announced temporary closures due to protest-related disruptions."
She paused, her expression growing thoughtful. "In fact, before Friday's speech, the protests were already losing momentum. Crowds were thinning in the smaller cities. My sources reported people simply... drifting back to work."
"Why?" Natalia asked.
"Because, my dear, the people most desperate enough to risk protesting are precisely the people who can least afford to sustain it." Margaret's voice held something almost like sympathy. "The factory worker who protests low wages still needs those low wages to feed his family. He can't afford to protest for the weeks it might take to force real concessions—he needs tomorrow's paycheck. The shop clerk demanding better conditions still needs to pay rent. Children need to eat and landlords don't accept revolutionary fervor in lieu of payment."
"A natural barrier," Philip said.
"The philosophical tragedy of grassroots movements. To have leverage in negotiations, protesters must be willing to sustain disruption. But sustaining that action requires resources they don't have precisely because they're in circumstances requiring protest. They protest when they can, for as long as they can, and then... they go back to work. Not because they've won. Not because they've changed their minds. But because revolution is a luxury sustained by resources most ordinary people don't possess."
Philip felt the weight of that truth settle in his chest.
"Which brings us to Friday evening," Margaret continued, her voice dropping slightly. "First Minister Arthur's address."
"Another speech about unity?" Philip asked.
"Oh, far more than that." Margaret's expression suggested grudging admiration. "If the Prince provided the reasonable appeal to better natures, Arthur provided the iron fist inside the velvet glove."
She leaned forward. "Arthur opened with passion—a stirring speech about the Empire's glorious future, of unity and progress and righteousness. He praised Avalondian traditions of civil discourse—how we must make a good role model for the world, lest civilization itself collapse into the chaos already plaguing other nations with their wars and drug problems and extreme inequality." Margaret's voice took on a mocking quality. "Very much in the tradition of the Empire's finest: refined manners concealing the inherent arrogant assumption that if Avalondia fails, the world fails."
"And then?"
"He acknowledged the protesters' grievances—really quite magnanimous, promising formal review of their concerns. He offered full clemency to any actual protesters who chose to disperse immediately—no legal consequences, complete amnesty." Margaret paused. "And then, almost casually, he mentioned that criminal elements had been using the protests as cover for theft and violence. That the government's patience, while great, was not infinite."
Her voice dropped further. "And then, in that same calm, reasonable tone one might use to discuss dinner arrangements, he announced that military clearing operations would commence Saturday morning at precisely nine o'clock. He cited the Wartime Emergency Powers Act, giving military personnel full legal immunity for any actions taken in the course of restoring order. Any injuries or damages resulting from the clearing would be considered the legal responsibility of those who chose to remain."
The carriage suddenly felt very cold.
"He gave them less than twelve hours," Philip said hollowly. "Friday evening to Saturday morning."
"Complete dispersal deadline was Sunday night, but the clearing would begin Saturday at nine. And he was very clear: the soldiers would have full legal protection. Whatever force they deemed necessary to restore order—no investigations, no prosecutions, complete immunity."
Margaret examined her gloves again. "My sources suggest the actual casualty figure approaches ten thousand injuries across the weekend operations. Though I'm told the hospitals have been asked to classify many as 'accident-related' for statistical purposes."
"Ten thousand?" Philip's voice emerged strangled.
"Give or take." Margaret's tone suggested she was discussing weather statistics. "The clearing operations were remarkably efficient, I'm told. The First Minister's deadline of Sunday night was met with hours to spare."
Through the window, Philip watched a newsboy hawking papers on a corner, the headlines visible even at distance: "ORDER RESTORED—EMPIRE CELEBRATES PEACEFUL RESOLUTION."
The disconnect was nauseating.
"The morning report did mention 'some regrettable casualties due to the roughness of certain encounters,'" Margaret added conversationally. "'Some regrettable casualties.' Ten thousand injuries. The Empire's gift for euphemism never ceases to impress."
"But wait," Philip said slowly, memories surfacing of news coverage from the Yorgorian suppression—coverage that had been almost celebratory in its depiction of military force crushing dissent. "During the Yorgorian unrest, the Empire didn't even attempt to hide the casualties. They practically paraded the military's brutality. Why is this different?"
Before Margaret could respond, the System materialized on the seat beside her, having traded her usual provocative attire for a mockery of military dress—an elaborate uniform that replaced the pants with a miniskirt, complete with medals that read "Just Do."
"Oh, darling," the System purred. "Welcome to the wonderful world of political optics. Allow me to illuminate."
She leaned forward conspiratorially.
"You see, a protest in the homeland versus a protest in a colonial territory is as different as a stroke and a flu. Even though they are both illnesses." She wagged her finger. "Let's just say a man suffering from a nasty flu might make quite the dramatic production of it—moaning, demanding soup, extracting maximum sympathy from his dear girlfriend. Look at me, I'm suffering so terribly! Aren't you impressed by how I endure?"
She shifted position with feline grace, extending one leg in a stretch that would have caused scandalized gasps if she weren't a metaphysical manifestation visible only to Philip's increasingly warm face.
"But that same man, if suffering from a stroke?" Her voice dropped, taking on mock seriousness. "He might try desperately to downplay its impact, terrified she will lose faith in their potential future and leave him entirely. 'Oh, this? It's nothing, darling. Just a minor spell. I'm fine. Everything's fine.'"
Philip opened his mouth to protest, but memories flickered unbidden—fragments of news coverage, casual dinner conversations, the way colonial unrest was discussed versus homeland disruption. The way Yorgorian protesters were dismissed as "agitators stirred by foreign elements" while Avalondian protesters were "citizens with legitimate grievances." The way Kendrick's suppression had been framed as "necessary firmness with unstable populations" while this weekend's operation was carefully wrapped in euphemisms and understatement.
The words died in his throat.
Then, he heard Margaret's explanation. "Because colonial suppression is a demonstration of imperial power. Homeland suppression is an admission of imperial fragility. One you broadcast proudly to instill confidence in your supporters. The other you bury under euphemisms and hope no one remembers."
The carriage continued through peaceful streets where people went about their morning routines, blissfully unaware—or deliberately ignorant—of the violence that had purchased their return to normalcy.
"So everyone loses," Philip said quietly, the pieces falling into place with sickening clarity. "The protesters couldn't sustain their movement long enough to force real change. The government's just alienated everyone with genuine grievances. And ordinary people—their shops vandalized, their savings gone, their lives turned upside down—all for nothing."
"Not everyone. If needed, the entrenched elites can always replace the current administration and the political liabilities associated with it," Margaret countered with practiced ease. "The infrastructure endures—institutions, resources, mechanisms of control. Politicians, after all, are eminently fungible." She gestured dismissively. "The protesters, however, have spent irreplaceable capital. Marked themselves in permanent records. Earned reputations that will follow them through every job application, every credit inquiry. Many of those ten thousand injured will find medical debt remarkably persistent and potential employers remarkably... discerning about hiring known agitators."
She looked directly at Philip. "That's the real tragedy of failed movements. The powerful retreat to comfort and safety. The protesters retreat to even greater precarity than before."
Philip looked at the peaceful streets—the pristine facade of a city that had seen desperate protests just days ago. Life proceeding as if nothing had happened.
"It's obscene," he said quietly. "How quickly we move on. How easily we forget."
"Forget?" Margaret's smile was sad. "Oh, Philip. We don't forget. We simply agree not to remember. There's a difference. That's why countless people are investing in … backups…."
Part 2
After a long ride, the carriage turned onto a broader avenue, and the view opened to reveal the approaching bulk of the Imperial War Office of Avalondia.
Philip's breath caught.
He had seen impressive buildings before. The Duke's estate. The hospital. Various aristocratic manors. But this... this was something else entirely.
The structure rose from perfectly manicured grounds like a monument to organized violence, its neo-classical facade stretching hundreds of feet in either direction. Massive columns of white marble supported a pediment carved with scenes of imperial triumph—cavalry charges, naval victories, the submission of conquered peoples rendered in heroic relief. The dome that crowned the central section gleamed with gilt that caught the morning sun, throwing golden light across the approaching carriages and pedestrians like a benediction.
Or a warning.
Armed guards in ceremonial red stood at attention along the entrance stairs, their rifles held at perfect angles, their faces blank as carved stone. Flags bearing the imperial sign snapped in the breeze from poles that seemed to pierce the very sky.
For the first time since arriving in this world, Philip truly felt the grandeur of empire pressing down upon him. Not the faded glory of declining aristocracy or the hollow pretension of many other government buildings he came across. It was a relic to the once genuine, crushing power of a system that had conquered a quarter of the world and maintained its grip through centuries of calculated shrewdness.
This was where that power once lived. Where it was directed and deployed. Where men in polished boots decided the fates of millions with fountain pens and sealed orders.
And he was walking into it wearing the uniform of an officer who had thoroughly embarrassed himself before the Empress herself.
"Nervous?" Margaret asked, her voice gentle.
"Terrified," Philip admitted.
"Good." Her smile carried warmth beneath the aristocratic polish. "Fear keeps us appropriately cautious. Just remember—they summoned you, which means they want something. That gives you leverage, however slight."
The carriage rolled to a stop before the main entrance. A footman moved to open the door, and Philip found himself stepping onto cobblestones that had been tread by generals and admirals, war heroes and war criminals, the architects of triumph and tragedy alike.
Everyone else remained inside the carriage.
Philip started ascending the stairs, and with each step, fragments of old Philip's memories surfaced unbidden. Countless ascents and descents of these same marble steps. The excitement, the sense of glory—emotions from a different life flooding back with unexpected intensity.
Halfway up, Philip spotted a familiar figure waiting at the top of the stairs.
Major Keir Jackson stood with the perfectly calibrated posture of a man who had spent his entire career ensuring he gave offense to no one of importance. Brown hair shot through with distinguished gray, a face that managed to be pleasant without being memorable, and eyes that constantly assessed the relative status of everyone around him.
Philip knew him. Or rather, old Philip's memories knew him.
Keir Jackson: son of a prosperous merchant family, lacking the aristocratic connections that guaranteed swift advancement but possessing just enough competence—and sufficient deference—to climb one careful rung at a time. He'd been assigned as Philip's immediate superior after the Empress incident, when Philip had been quietly shuffled away from headquarters.
Before that, Philip had reported directly to a colonel at headquarters. A prestigious posting that spoke to the Philip's own promise as a young officer.
Now...
This is the first time I've been directly summoned by a colonel since the incident, Philip realized with sudden clarity. Whatever this is, it can't be good.
Then, movement on the top of the staircase caught his attention—a party just started descending with the synchronized precision of a military formation. Officers in red dress uniforms, aides carrying document cases, and at their center...
Philip's first impression was of a short cape.
Crimson fabric swept behind the figure at the formation's heart. The short cape's golden trim caught the sun, creating an almost theatrical effect that seemed designed to draw every eye in the building.
His second impression was of power.
The woman beneath that cape moved with the coiled grace of a predator—each step deliberate, economical, radiating barely contained energy. Her frame was substantial in a way that spoke not of softness but of strength: broad shoulders that filled her crimson uniform jacket, arms that strained slightly against tailored sleeves, a physicality that seemed almost too much for her surroundings to contain. She looked like she could break a man in half without significantly elevating her heart rate.
Philip's body reacted before his mind could process what it was seeing.
His spine straightened. His breath caught. Something deep in his hindbrain screamed threat and power and danger with such intensity that his hands trembled despite his best efforts to control them.
Only then did his gaze travel upward to her face—and the contrast stunned him beyond words.
Above that warrior's physique sat features of almost ethereal delicacy. A face far younger than her bearing suggested, with a soft oval shape framed by those impossible raven curls. Her skin was porcelain-fair with the faintest flush of rose across high cheekbones. Large dark eyes, framed by thick lashes that seemed almost painted on, held depths that shifted between sharp intelligence and something older, more knowing. Her nose was elegant and refined, leading down to lips the color of ripe cherries—full, perfectly shaped, carrying a natural pout that seemed designed to command attention.
Her appearance speaking to the diverse heritage that was increasingly common within the Avalondia military but is rarely acknowledged in media and public perception. Raven hair fell in waves that seemed almost rebellious for a military setting—the kind of curls that regulations should have forbidden.
How is hair like that even allowed in the army? Philip wondered distantly.
The System's voice whispered through his consciousness, amused: "Oh darling, there are always exceptions for those with sufficient power. Remember Kendrick's magnificent locks? The military certainly knows which battles are worth fighting."
Her left hand rested on the hilt of her ceremonial sabre—the weapon's pommel fashioned into a roaring lion's head, its eyes inlaid with what appeared to be actual rubies, the golden guard engraved with patterns that suggested eastern influence.
Philip found himself unable to look away, trying to reconcile the pieces that didn't quite fit: that youthful, refined face atop that powerfully built frame, wrapped in a short cape that belonged on a conquering hero, all of it descending the stairs with the casual authority of someone who had earned every medal gleaming across her bosom.
Who is—
The thought fragmented as the woman's entourage drew closer towards Philip's position—still frozen halfway up the stairs. Her gaze swept across the various personnel on the stairs with casual dismissal while soldiers lining the stairs snapped to attention in silent salute as she passed by.
And then, for just a heartbeat, her eyes found his as she passed by his level.
Philip saw something flicker in those dark depths. Not certain recognition—more the ghost of familiarity, a half-formed question. Her perfectly sculpted brows drew together for the briefest instant, her stride faltering almost imperceptibly before she caught herself and continued past.
The moment lasted perhaps half a second.
It felt like an eternity.
Then her entourage was gone, descending the remaining stairs and striding towards the convoy that waited below. Philip turned to watch despite himself, observing the precision of her departure—an open-topped staff car for her and her aide-de-camp, two more vehicles carrying staff officers and signals personnel, mounted escorts taking position behind.
Her short cape billowed as she stepped into the lead vehicle, that crimson fabric catching the morning light one final time before settling around her shoulders like folded wings.
A proper command departure. The kind of thing he'd only seen in video games.
This is serious business, Philip realized with sudden, gut-deep certainty. Not the bureaucratic sinecure I'd imagined. These people are dangerous. Too rigid. Too dedicated. I need out. Retirement at all costs.
His nervousness crystallized into something sharper. Something closer to fear.
"Captain Redwood?" Major Jackson's voice cut through his paralysis, carrying a note of poorly concealed bewilderment. "Are you quite all right? You look as though you've seen a ghost."
He had already descended a few steps towards Philip.
"I'm fine," Philip managed. "I just... that woman. Who was she?"
Jackson's expression shifted to something approaching confusion—the look of a man who had just been asked to identify the sun. "You didn't recognize General Dugu?"
Dugu.
The name hit Philip like a physical blow.
General Dugu. The face on every news broadcast this past weekend. The youngest female general in the Empire's history. The woman the First Minister had personally summoned and tasked with ensuring the "quick and orderly" resolution of the protests.
He had seen her image dozens of times over the past days—in newspapers, on broadcast mirrors, always shown from a distance or in formal portraiture that emphasized her authority rather than her features. The coverage had focused on her record, her efficiency, her reputation for achieving results regardless of obstacles.
The media had called her "General Lonely" due to her supposed record of invincibility. They praised her mixed heritage as proof of imperial meritocracy—daughter of an immigrant father from the Far East who had risen to high-ranking civil service, and an Avalondian mother whose family boasted six generations of distinguished military service in Yorgoria. She was wildly celebrated as the Empire's symbol of diversity, of shattered glass ceilings—the proof, however manufactured, that talent could triumph over gender, ethnicity, and birth.
"General Dugu," Philip repeated slowly. "Of course. I simply... didn't recognize her from the news coverage. She looks different in person."
Jackson's confusion deepened. "Oh man, you must had it bad."
Philip barely heard him. His mind was stuck on a single, terrible realization.
Fragments surfaced like debris from a shipwreck—disjointed, incomplete, refusing to coalesce into coherent narrative.
Beatrice.
The name unlocked something.
More memories surged forward now—no longer fragments but whole images, complete with sounds and scents and the ghost of emotions that weren't quite his own.
Cherry blossoms.
Then, his heart started racing—racing with emotions that weren't his, memories of warmth and softness and a promise made beneath falling petals that he couldn't quite recall. He could still feel the phantom pressure of a lady's body against his chest, still hear the echo of her voice whispering something that he can't quite recall.
"Captain Redwood?"
Philip blinked, suddenly aware that he was standing frozen on the marble stairs.
Major Jackson was staring at him with undisguised concern.
Did I just... did I just have a mini daydream?
His face flushed with a heat that had nothing to do with the morning sun.
"Captain, are you quite all right?"
"I'm fine," Philip managed, though his voice came out strangled. "Just... momentarily dizzy. The stairs. Many stairs."
Jackson's expression suggested he didn't believe a word of it, but military propriety prevented him from pressing further. "Perhaps we should proceed, sir. The Colonel doesn't appreciate tardiness."
Philip nodded mechanically, forcing his legs to carry him forward while his mind reeled.
What the hell was that? Was that a memory fragment from old Philip?
The System materialized beside him as they climbed, her expression one of amusement. She had changed costumes again—now wearing a provocative business dress. She clutched a clipboard in her hands.
"That, my dear Host, was the liability side of old Philip's life." The System's smile could have curdled milk. "Beatrice Dugu. Rising star. Military prodigy. The woman that Philip dumped in the Land of A Thousand Suns."
Philip's mind went into shock.
"Now, now." The System wagged a finger at him, her spectacles glinting in the morning light. "Don't be shocked."
"After all," the System leaned in by his ear, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "acquiring a new life is just like acquiring a business. On one hand, you get the assets." She gestured at his form with exaggerated appreciation. "But on the other hand. You also get the liabilities."
Philip's mind went completely blank, overwhelmed by the revelation and its implication and the growing certainty that old Philip's romantic troubles was far worse than he had previously assumed.
And then, slowly, three letters began to form in the white void of his consciousness.
F...M...L...