Part 1
Philip awoke to a dull, rhythmic throbbing in his temples. He blinked against the soft midday sunlight filtering through the half‑drawn curtains, striping the silk canopy above with gold and shadow. His memories felt hazy—the last clear recollection was of chaos, shouting, and the stinging lash of rain against his skin. Now he lay wrapped in fine linens, wondering how he'd returned safely to his bed.
If this were a proper isekai story, he thought groggily, I'd wake to a beautiful maiden dabbing my forehead with a cloth. Instead, I feel like I've been trampled by the entire Avalondian cavalry.
He tried to sit up only to feel a firm hand pressing him back into the pillows.
"Easy there, Lord Redwood," came a stern voice. Philip's vision focused on a medic standing over him, spectacles glinting beneath neatly combed gray hair. The doctor wore a tailored Victorian‑era waistcoat, but around his neck hung a surprisingly modern‑looking stethoscope. "You're finally awake," he continued, checking Philip's pulse with a wrist chronometer pulled from his pocket. "Honestly, you had no business rushing about last night with that earlier concussion."
Philip offered a weak smile. "I didn't realize—"
"No, you clearly didn't," the doctor interrupted, shining a small light enchanted with mana into Philip's eyes, intensifying his headache. Philip winced. "Pupils responsive, at least. Could've been far worse, considering your reckless activity."
"Is that why my head feels like it's hosting the Continental Republic's drum corps competition?" Philip joked hoarsely.
"Precisely," the doctor answered. "Moderate concussion. I explicitly instructed strict bed rest, not heroics. Moving around so robustly after a blow to the head—you're fortunate you didn't collapse and fracture something vital." The doctor paused, his professional demeanor briefly giving way to a flash of admiration. "Though I must say, even in your diminished state, you still demonstrate the fortitude that made you legendary in the cavalry. I followed your exploits, you know—that charge at the Battle of Highcrest Pass was nothing short of brilliant."
Philip blinked in surprise at the doctor's sudden shift from stern medical professional to fawning admirer. Before he could respond, the doctor cleared his throat, embarrassed at his own display, and quickly returned to his examination.
A gentle gasp drew Philip's attention. Lydia stepped into view, eyes red‑rimmed but flooded with relief. Behind her, Albert stood, his tall frame rigid yet visibly eased by Philip's awakening.
"Thank heavens, Master Philip," Lydia said softly. "We feared you might never wake. The doctor had to magically induce sleep to prevent further damage."
Philip's chest tightened at their worried faces. "I'm sorry for causing trouble," he murmured. "Seems I can't even get knocked unconscious properly."
At that moment, a soft weight shifted on his left side. "You were having nightmares," came a gentle, lilting voice. Natalia sat perched on the edge of his mattress, her delicate hand enveloping his. Her blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders in loose waves; even in her dirtied gown, her otherworldly beauty remained striking. "I tried to calm you, Ma… my love," she corrected herself with an innocent blush, remembering her role as his mistress. "You kept murmuring in your sleep."
She leaned forward to adjust his pillow, inadvertently pressing against him. Philip's cheeks warmed as her soft bosom pressed against his shoulder, practically cradling his head. It was both comforting and terribly embarrassing.
She's still playing the devoted mistress role like a professional, the System whispered in his mind. She deserves an Oscar.
Behind her, Lydia raised an eyebrow and coughed to hide a budding smile. Even Albert's stoic mask cracked slightly.
A low chuckle came from the foot of the bed. "Careful, my dear, you'll smother him," drawled Kendrick. The aristocrat had been observing quietly, his chiseled features and golden hair gleaming in the sunlight. His white uniform was impeccable as always, though faint shadows beneath his eyes betrayed his lack of sleep. His gaze lingered appreciatively on Natalia for a moment, assessing her with a mixture of admiration and aristocratic calculation.
She's exquisite, Kendrick thought to himself. Perhaps even a match for Elora in pure appearance. A pity her station in life places her firmly in the realm of temporary pleasure rather than permanent alliance. Still, Philip deserves this small comfort after all he's endured.
"Then again," he added with a playful smirk, "there are worse ways to die than in the arms of a beautiful woman."
Natalia squeaked and straightened immediately, her face flushed. "I—I would never harm him! I—I was simply helping with his pillow! I am just doing what a loving mistress should do."
Philip couldn't help but laugh softly, which sent a throb through his skull. He squeezed Natalia's hand reassuringly.
"That's enough jostling my patient," the medic interjected firmly, packing his instruments into a worn leather bag. "He needs calm. That means no sudden movements, loud noises, or overly enthusiastic… ah… physical exertion, both in and out of bed."
"Yes, I will make sure my love stays in bed," Natalia said confidently, her cheeks flushed with determination.
The doctor's eyebrows shot up, while Philip nearly choked suppressing a laugh. Kendrick made no such effort, letting out a hearty chuckle that filled the room.
"Yes, I am sure she is very good at that," Kendrick said, eyes twinkling with mischief.
Natalia tilted her head, slightly confused.
Albert coughed loudly, struggling to maintain composure, while Lydia quickly changed the subject. "Perhaps some tea would help Master Philip regain his strength." She gestured to a young maid standing quietly against the wall, who hurriedly set down her serving tray and scurried out to fetch the requested refreshment.
A brief, fond silence fell as everyone absorbed the relief of seeing Philip awake. In this quiet moment, Philip gradually became aware of how the staff—from Lydia to the maid who had just departed—carried themselves with a newfound tension, their shoulders slightly hunched, eyes occasionally darting to the floor when Kendrick spoke. It was subtle, but unmistakable: last night's violence had reinforced their place in the social hierarchy, reminding them of their insignificance in the Avalondian hierarchy.
The peaceful atmosphere shattered as muffled shouts echoed from beyond the door and boots clattered in the hall. Philip's memories sharpened. The riot. The mob. Gunfire and screams. In a rush, last night's images flooded back—lightning flashing on bayonets… bodies on the flooded grass… Kendrick astride a white horse, sabre raised high.
He cleared his throat. "What of… the others? The staff of the estate?" he asked, voice strained. "Are they safe now?"
The atmosphere shifted instantly. Lydia lowered her gaze, fingers fidgeting with her apron. Albert's jaw tightened as he stared at the floorboards. Kendrick, however, remained outwardly nonchalant, exchanging a glance with Albert before answering evenly: "The estate is secure. The staff were treated for their wounds. Only five casualties. The uprising has been calmed."
Philip swallowed, his mouth bitter. Calmed. Such a neat way to describe carnage. It reminded him of corporate doublespeak from his old world—"workforce optimization" instead of "mass layoffs."
"Casualties?" he pressed softly.
After a heavy pause, Albert spoke in an unusually tentative tone. "Three of the household staff were killed, sir. Our insurance shall cover the payout to their families. The rest of us here made it through, though two with severe injuries, also covered by our insurance policy." He glanced sidelong at Lydia, who gave a tiny nod of confirmation. The mention of insurance payouts—reducing human lives to financial transactions—made Philip's stomach churn.
"And the rioters?" Philip asked, though he already knew. He had seen the courtyard littered with fallen shapes.
Albert hesitated, eyes flitting to Kendrick. With the colonel's subtle nod, the steward answered, "The, ah, rioters… took heavy losses, Master Philip."
"How heavy?" Each word came out like glass.
"By the reports, fifty‑three dead," Kendrick replied matter‑of‑factly, as if reciting crop yields or rainfall measurements. "Several more escaped with grave wounds…and may not survive. The rest scattered. It was a rout."
Philip shut his eyes. A soft gasp escaped Natalia—perhaps she hadn't realized the slaughter's scale until now. The numbers hung in the air like a noose. These weren't faceless enemies, but Yorgorian citizens. Poor farmers and laborers protesting their conditions, taken advantage of by opportunistic looters.
"All this… to save me?" he murmured, voice thick with dismay. "To save the estate?"
Kendrick's expression flickered with surprise at Philip's questioning tone. He drew himself up stiffly, like a cavalry officer preparing for inspection. "They stormed your home with violence and, in doing so, disregarded the law, which is the foundation of order. We gave them every chance to flee." He swept a gloved hand in a dismissive gesture. "Those who stayed chose their fate."
"Was it truly necessary?" The words slipped out unbidden.
Silence followed, heavy and suffocating. Lydia turned away, dabbing discreetly at her eye. Albert looked as if he wanted to vanish into the wallpaper. A young maid who had returned with tea trembled so violently that the porcelain cups clinked against their saucers, her eyes fixed firmly on the floor as if afraid to witness this rare questioning of nobility. Natalia's hand trembled in Philip's grasp; she placed her other hand atop his in comfort.
Kendrick's lips pressed into a thin line. For a moment, hurt flashed across his delicate features before being replaced by aristocratic certainty. He stepped closer, meeting Philip's gaze with intensity, his voice lowered as if sharing a truth too profound for common ears. "You know the answer," he said quietly. "You knew the price of order."
His next words fell like ice: "Civilization must be preserved against barbarity, at any cost. Otherwise, the chaotic impetus of the masses will snuff out the light of civilization."
The phrase struck Philip like a physical blow. A memory of old Philip surfaced: a firelit study years ago, crystal glasses of brandy in hand. A younger Kendrick, fresh from suppressing a peasant protest, had been plagued by guilt over the bloodshed. And the old Philip, with a confidence fermented from the excessive adulation of women, had comforted his conscience with words of validation: "This is the burden of nobility, Kendrick. We are but the instrument of the state. Better some blood on our hands than our nation falling to anarchy. If we falter, the chaotic impetus of the masses will snuff out the light of civilization."
Hearing his own maxim parroted back sent a chill down Philip's spine. His vision tunneled. The greatest irony, he thought bitterly, was facing the ghost of old Philip's philosophy—words he'd once uttered with such conviction now turned against him like a blade.
"I remember," Philip whispered shakily, each syllable weighted with realization. "Perhaps I did believe that… once."
"Once?" Kendrick asked guardedly, genuine confusion wrinkling his perfect brow. The question carried layers of meaning—confusion, suspicion, perhaps even hurt that Philip might be straying from their shared principles.
Before Philip could answer, pain lanced through his skull like white‑hot lightning. He clutched his temple with a sharp gasp as the room tilted sickeningly, nausea rising in his throat.
Instantly, everyone sprang into action. "Philip!" Natalia cried, moving quicker than thought. She slipped an arm behind his shoulders, guiding him back onto the pillows. In her haste, she ended up half‑cradling him, his cheek brushing softly against her bosom. "I'm here…it's all right," she whispered, stroking his hair with feverish concern.
You have somehow managed to end up in her embrace again, the System quipped in his mind. I am starting to see the wisdom in getting these concussions.
Kendrick was by his bedside instantly, aristocratic aloofness vanishing in the face of genuine concern. "Steady, old friend," he urged, alarm threading his voice. "Breathe."
"It's…fine," Philip managed between breaths. "Just moved too quickly. Or maybe it's my brain's way of telling me not to think too hard while concussed."
Lydia appeared with a cool cloth for his forehead. "Easy, Master Philip," she soothed. "Deep breaths."
Under their combined care, Philip's breathing steadied. Natalia still hovered close, practically entwined with him. Philip realized one arm had ended up around her waist; he flushed and started to withdraw it. She, however, simply adjusted to lay him back and then planted a light, tender kiss on his forehead. "Please, no more straining yourself," she whispered. "I couldn't bear it if you hurt yourself worse."
Philip sank into the mattress, exhausted. Natalia shifted to sit beside him, never letting go of his hand. Albert murmured something about fetching fresh water and quietly slipped out, taking the still‑trembling maid with him.
Kendrick remained at the foot of the bed, composed again but visibly uneasy. When their eyes met, he offered a tentative smile. "You gave us all a fright," he said quietly. "I'm glad you're all right."
"I am all right," Philip assured him softly, eyelids growing heavy. "Thanks to all of you. Truly…I owe you my life."
Natalia answered by caressing his hand with her thumb. Kendrick simply nodded, "Always, old friend."
Philip studied his friend in the silence that followed. Kendrick's beautiful face, usually so carefree, now looked troubled. His gaze slid away, unable to hold Philip's. Seeing the cracks in Kendrick's certainty, Philip felt empathy despite everything. Kendrick had been following the very ethos Philip himself had instilled; he likely expected gratitude for decisive action. He was elitist, infuriatingly so, but also like a brother who had risked much to save him—simply a good man tainted by the Empire's social customs.
Isn't that true of all of us? Philip thought wearily. Products of the systems we inhabit, acting out the philosophies we're fed.
Lydia returned with water. Natalia helped Philip drink, her arm supporting him. The cool water soothed his throat.
As Philip settled back, fatigue pulling him under, Lydia drew the curtains further. "Try to rest, Master Philip. We'll be right outside if you need anything."
Natalia clutched Philip's hand possessively. "I'll stay," she insisted softly. "I'll be quiet, I promise."
Philip nearly choked but managed to turn it into a cough. She's learning, he thought with mixed amusement and alarm.
"You can stay," he murmured, eyes already closing. "It's fine." Natalia's delighted smile and gentle pat of his knuckles were the last things he registered before starting to drift into sleep again. But something lingered at the back of his mind. Just how different the cultural norm of this world was from his old. What he thought was common sense was rather uncommon. He must do something somehow, else he might end up on the wrong side of history, in an isekai world.
Part 2Kendrick stepped into the corridor, easing the door shut behind him. He paused, letting out a slow breath, his mind churning with conflicted thoughts.
He was relieved beyond measure that Philip was safe—the thought of losing his childhood friend had filled him with terror he scarcely admitted. And yet… Kendrick frowned, recalling the subtle change in Philip's demeanor. The man who questioned whether the price of order had been too high felt like a stranger. When had Philip grown so soft‑hearted, so hesitant to accept the necessary evils of maintaining order? The old Philip—the brilliant cavalry tactician, the loyal second son of the noble Redwood line—had embraced their shared duty without reservation.
Was it the brush with death? The engagement's collapse? Or something deeper?
Kendrick's thoughts flashed to Natalia's tearful face hovering over Philip, her unabashed affection. It must be the influence of the commoner mistress. He had assumed she was just a temporary rebound from the Rosetta heartbreak, a passing fancy to soothe wounded pride. Any nobleman might seek such comfort without consequences—that was the privilege of rank, after all.
It struck him how comfortable Philip had been with Natalia's intimate caretaking, even before others. The Philip he grew up with would have been mortified to show such vulnerability, even with Rosetta. Yet now he not only allowed it but seemed to draw strength from Natalia's presence. Kendrick had seen it in his eyes, in the way Philip calmed when she stroked his hair, the way he spoke of the commoners as if he were one of them.
Has he forgotten who he is? Kendrick mused, straightening his uniform absently.
He wandered down the hallway, lost in thought. Kendrick ran a gloved hand through his golden hair, suddenly exhausted. The night's battle, followed by hours of anxious vigil at Philip's bedside, had taken their toll. His muscles ached from tension, and his mind desperately craved rest.
And yet, he couldn't shake his concern. He appreciated Natalia—she was skilled, sweet, endearing, and clearly devoted. But devotion was not the same as wisdom. She was a commoner, naive to the brutal calculus that came with power. Would she plant the seed of weakness in Philip's mind? Could he risk his friend, his likely future brother‑in‑law, being led astray by an unsophisticated nobody?
As he stood alone in the corridor, Kendrick became increasingly concerned about the influence that Natalia held over Philip. Memories of his classical education surfaced—cautionary tales of great men undone by love for the wrong woman. Being well‑versed in history, Kendrick knew how many great heroes were undone by love. He's changing because of her, Kendrick thought with growing alarm. He straightened his shoulders, resolve hardening. He really didn't want Philip to become a modern Marcus Anthony.
I must do something, Kendrick decided as he reached the grand staircase. Various schemes flickered through his mind—separating them subtly, assisting Elora in her seduction attempts, perhaps even arranging for Natalia to receive an offer too tempting to refuse. A position far away, with compensations too high to refuse.
Yes, something must be done, Kendrick thought as he descended the stairs and headed toward the manor's entrance. For Philip's own good.