Exiled to a Foreign Land: Managing a Destitute Estate-Chapter 33: The Destiny of Liberty

Part 1

Screams rang out as many protestors bolted in fear, knocking into others as they fled the crack of gunfire. But others surged forward in fury. "They're shooting at us!" someone yelled. In the confusion, many protestors believed the estate's guards had opened fire, and that misconception turned the protest into a full riot.

Albert shouted for calm, but his voice was lost in the chaos. Another gunshot cracked from within the mob—then a few more. It was all the spark needed.

With a furious howl, dozens of rioters rushed the wrought‑iron Redwood orchard gates. Bodies slammed against the metal; booted feet began climbing the fence. By the wavering torchlight, Albert glimpsed faces twisted with rage and desperation. Projectiles flew—stones and bottles thrown over the gate, clattering on the drive.

This was exactly what he'd feared: genuine grievances exploding into mindless violence, likely egged on by hidden instigators. Albert tugged his horse back from the gate before the mob could reach him. "Fall back and regroup at the manor gates!" he barked to the Redwood staff nearby. They scrambled to obey.

A tremendous crash of iron behind him told Albert the gate had given way. The mob poured onto the grounds with a triumphant roar. At that same moment, three well‑dressed young men at the fringes of the crowd quietly slipped away into the darkness. These were no ordinary protestors but agents provocateurs—the ones who had fired the opening shots. With their work done, they melted into the night, unseen by the frenzied masses.

One of those instigators, a bespectacled man in a tailored overcoat, skillfully slipped through the large expanse of agricultural land to reach one of the rural roads running within the vast 10,000‑acre Redwood estate. There, a black motorcar waited with its lamps off. A tall, elegant woman stood beside it, rain glistening on her fur‑collared cloak. The young man pressed a folded note into her hand. "Text it to Josh," he whispered tersely. She nodded and drove off in the motorcar to send the clandestine message at once. Meanwhile, the man walked away in the other direction as if nothing had happened.

Back in the orchard grounds, Albert spurred his horse toward the manor gates. He leapt off at the foot of the front steps and quickly rallied a few dozen servants and guards. They formed defensive lines in front of the manor's main gate, weapons drawn. Though limited in number—many staff were still on their way back from guarding other parts of the orchard and its chokepoints—they stood firm under Albert's command with their pistols and rifles raised.

Through the driving cold rain, the mob surged across the vast orchard grounds toward the manor gates. Dozens of figures swarmed forward—laborers brandishing crowbars and scythes, women hurling rocks, even a few opportunists with knives glinting. Among them, Albert spotted agitators waving signs like "Nobles are Parasites!"

"Stand your ground!" Albert shouted, raising his cavalry sabre. For a moment the rioters hesitated, eyeing the line of defenders. Then a man in a coal‑stained cap charged with a sledgehammer, roaring, "Down with Redwood and the Avalondians!" A tide of rioters followed at his heels, and they crashed into the estate staff's thin lines.

Albert met the hammer‑man head‑on. He sidestepped the first wild swing and slammed his sabre's hilt into the man's jaw. The rioter crumpled into the mud. All around, chaos exploded as the two sides brawled.

Even while parrying blows, Albert remained focused and in control. "Hold the steps!" he barked to his staff, positioning them to block the narrow stairway up to the manor gate. At his direction, the staff used whatever they could find, including plant pots, to form a barricade against the oncoming attackers.

But there were simply too many assailants. Some rioters managed to puncture a hole in the defensive lines, climbed the fence, and crossed into the vast garden of the manor, on their way toward the mansion gates. Albert heard glass shatter in the distance—a few protestors had breached the greenhouse. If help didn't arrive soon, the estate would be overrun.

Inside the mansion, Philip watched the chaos in dismay. When he saw the manor gate breached in the distance and rioters flooding in, he knew he must act. Despite Lydia's pleas to stay in safety, he armed himself with the revolver Albert had given him and ran for the door, surprised to discover this side of himself. Natalia seized a decorative sabre from the wall and moved at his side, and Lydia reluctantly followed close behind.

After leaving the gates of the mansion behind, the trio stepped out into a nightmare. Under the flicker of torches and lightning, the manor's ornamental garden was a battlefield. Albert and a knot of staff had retreated from the manor gate to pick off the protestors who had swelled into the vast garden grounds. The air reeked of smoke and wet earth; a small fire smoldered in a flowerbed where a torch had fallen. Elegant statues were now makeshift barricades behind which shooters hid.

Philip's heart pounded, but he forced himself forward. He spotted one of his staff pinned under a rioter and choking. Philip raised his pistol and fired. The attacker yelped and rolled away, clutching his grazed arm. Philip's hands trembled—he was not used to injuring others with firearms—but there was no time to dwell on it. Another assailant, a burly man brandishing a chopper, charged straight at him.

Before Philip could react, Natalia was there. She slipped in front of him, her white nightgown plastered to her skin by the rain, ripped shorter above the knee to improve her ease of movement. With a dancer's grace, she brought up the sabre and deftly parried the incoming chopper. The rioter stumbled, off‑balance. Natalia followed with a swift kick of her boot to his chest that sent the man tumbling backward into the mud. He did not get up.

Philip gaped at her in amazement, but now a wiry youth with a metal chain was swinging at him. Philip ducked just in time—the chain whipped over his head. Acting on pure instinct, he drove the butt of his revolver into the youth's gut. The attacker collapsed, coughing. Philip blinked in surprise at his own swift reaction. It seemed his old fencing drills and riding lessons were coming back to him in his hour of need.

Lydia stayed close behind, appearing as nothing more than a frightened, middle‑aged housekeeper clinging to her master. In truth, her eyes missed nothing. When a knife‑wielding thug slipped past Natalia's guard and lunged at Philip, Lydia made her move. With a quick thrust, she "stumbled" forward and rammed the tip of her stout cane into the attacker's shin. The man cried out and pitched face‑first onto the pavement, his knife flying from his hand. By the time he realized what had tripped him, a Redwood staff member had pounced to knock him unconscious. "Oh my!" Lydia gasped, feigning shock at the man's fall. Philip barely registered that it was her timely intervention that had saved him yet again.

Across the courtyard, Albert was being overwhelmed. Philip saw his trusted steward go down under a pile of three or four rioters near the fountain. Albert's sabre was knocked from his grasp as he struggled beneath the dogpile. Philip started fighting his way toward him, dread twisting in his gut.

Suddenly, a cloaked figure darted out of the darkness toward Albert's attackers. The stranger, a cloaked female figure wearing a makeshift mask, moved like lightning. In a blink, the rescuer yanked one rioter off Albert and sent the man reeling with a well‑placed strike. A second attacker swung a pipe at the newcomer, but the hooded figure ducked and swept the man's legs out from under him. Two more assailants turned to face this unexpected foe, but after a flurry of precise punches and kicks, they too lay sprawled on the ground.

Within moments, all four rioters who had been on top of Albert were groaning or scrambling away in fear. The mysterious savior offered Albert a gloved hand and helped him stand. Rain and shadows concealed the person's face, but Albert caught a glimpse of steely eyes above a wet kerchief mask. Those eyes... they looked oddly familiar.

"Ly—!" Albert began, but the hooded figure only nodded once and then slipped away into the smoke and commotion before he could say more.

Albert shook his head in astonishment, but there was no time to question miracles. He retrieved his sabre from the mud and regrouped with Philip around the gate to the mansion's front garden. Lydia was suddenly beside Albert as well.

At last, the estate's defenders managed to pull back into a tight line in front of the gate to the mansion's garden. Philip and Natalia stood back‑to‑back with Albert and a few remaining staff, protecting the gate. They were bruised, soaked, and gasping for breath. The mob had taken losses and injuries, but they still vastly outnumbered the household staff.

Some rioters had begun looting in earnest; Philip spotted a pair of intruders hauling silver statues out the manor gate in the distance before darting away into the night. He found it bitterly ironic how quickly lofty slogans about justice had devolved into common theft. Others, however, continued to press toward the mansion gate, determined to force their way into the front yard garden. Not all looked entirely committed; Philip noticed a few faces in the crowd full of hesitation or fear. But, caught in the collective frenzy, even those unwilling were pushed along by the bolder agitators. A chant of "Justice! Justice!" started from somewhere in the throng.

Backed to the gate, Albert and Philip braced themselves. This was likely to be their last stand before the mansion was invaded. The mob roared and began another charge toward the gate.

Then, cutting through the cacophony, came a new sound—a clear, piercing bugle call from beyond the manor gates. It was followed by the rhythmic tramp of many boots marching in step.

Both the besieged and the rioters froze, turning toward the manor's entrance. Through the curtain of rain, dozens of lanterns appeared on the orchard road. The silhouette of a tightly formed column of soldiers emerged from the darkness, advancing with crisp, mechanical precision. At their head rode a figure on horseback beneath a fluttering banner.

Reinforcements—finally. But under whose authority had they come, and who was that imposing rider leading them through the mud and chaos?

Part 2

"Mirror, mirror, who is the most handsome man in the world?" A man asked, standing tall before a gilded mirror-screen, voice rich with practiced charm. Mana-powered light glowed softly along its ornate frame, highlighting his distinguished reflection. Though nearing seventy, he maintained the broad shoulders and athletic build of a man decades younger, filling out his tailored navy-blue frock coat impeccably. His long chestnut hair—expertly dyed to mask any hint of silver—fell in carefully arranged waves past his collar. A confident smile touched his lips as he tucked an errant strand into place, awaiting the mirror's flattering judgment as if it were gospel.

After a brief ripple of magical illumination, the mirror replied in a calm, genderless voice, "Kendrick Nernwick, the Colonel of Hearts."

The man's smile froze instantly, confusion flickering briefly in his intense, steel-blue eyes. He leaned forward as though straining to catch a misheard whisper. "Kendrick...who?" A wrinkle of disbelief creased his brow.

The mirror patiently repeated, "Kendrick Nernwick, Colonel of Hearts. According to global polls and metrics of pulchritude, he currently holds the title of the most handsome man in the world."

The man's composed expression collapsed into an exaggerated scowl. "Global polls? Metrics of pulchritude? Ridiculous!" He drew himself up, tightening his stomach in indignation. "I knew it—this artificial intelligence hype is a total farce. It can't even grasp the true essence of handsomeness! How can it even be called intelligence!"

His powerful voice echoed authoritatively off the marble and oak-paneled walls of his lavish presidential chamber, an opulent space illuminated by enchanted brass gaslights and adorned with steam radiators embossed with the Continental Republic's eagle-and-torch emblem. Overhead, a fresco depicting the Creator blessing the Continental Republic's founding glowed softly. Yet at this moment, the man's attention was locked firmly on the mirror before him.

Within the mirror, a subtle outline resembling an automaton's face flickered. "Handsome commonly denotes youthful symmetry and pleasing aesthetics. Colonel Nernwick currently demonstrates—"

"Oh, spare me your insipid analysis!" the President interjected irritably, rolling his eyes toward the fresco as though seeking divine patience. Straightening impressively, he angled his jaw sharply upward. "Listen carefully, you glorified vanity plate. Thirty years ago, I was undeniably the most handsome man alive. My smile alone could charm angels out of heaven." He placed his hands theatrically on his hips, striking a regal pose, the tails of his coat dramatically sweeping behind him. "In my prime, both mortal women and beings from beyond practically fainted at my charm! Poets crafted entire sonnets to my profile!"

Unfazed, the mirror calmly responded, "Historical archives do record that in your youth, The Republic Gazette named you 'Most Eligible Bachelor of the Republic.' Additionally, an ode entitled Ode to the Oaken Eagle was penned in your honor, although scholars debate its sincerity—"

"Sincerity?" The President bristled visibly, voice tightening defensively. "Utter nonsense. Clearly sincere!" He quickly composed himself, shifting tactics. "Surely this 'Colonel of Hearts' fellow is merely young, and possibly beautiful, but certainly not handsome. Handsomeness carries gravitas, dignity—a decisive aura. Something a youthful pretty-boy utterly lacks."

A subtle chime emanated from the mirror, suspiciously akin to muffled amusement. He shot the mirror a fierce warning glance, poised to reprimand its impertinence, when a discreet cough from behind interrupted.

"Ahem... Mr. President?" came a respectful, measured voice from the doorway.

The President whirled around, the tails of his coat swishing. Standing at the threshold of the dressing chamber was his senior aide, a tall, clean-cut man in his thirties with neatly combed sandy hair and a face some would call exceedingly handsome. The aide's expression was the picture of discretion, but there was a telltale hint of amusement in his hazel eyes, quickly suppressed as he bowed his head.

The President straightened at once, almost instinctively smoothing his face into a neutral, stately expression. It was as if a mask snapped into place—the vain, quibbling narcissist vanished, replaced by the confident gravitas of a world leader. "Yes?" he asked calmly, voice now deep and authoritative, without a trace of the petulance from moments before.

The aide stepped forward from the doorway, carrying a thin portfolio of documents embossed with a silver torch emblem. He cleared his throat, careful to keep his tone respectful. "Sir, pardon the interruption. I have the intelligence update you were awaiting. It's from Yorgoria." He kept his eyes respectfully lowered, though not before they flicked to the mirror-screen behind the President. The mirror, blessedly, had fallen silent, its surface now showing nothing more than an innocuous reflection of the opulent room.

The President gave a curt nod and brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve. "Of course. The report." With a final glare at the mirror, he strode past his aide into the adjoining office.

The Presidential Office in the House of Liberty was a grand space that managed to exude both solemnity and showmanship. A colossal desk of dark oak with marble inlays dominated the room's center, its legs carved into the shapes of roaring lions and soaring eagles. Behind it, a tall window of stained glass depicted the Continental Republic's emblem: an eagle clutching a torch in one talon and an olive branch in the other, backlit by the golden rays of dawn. Twin flagpoles flanked the window, draped with the Republic's banner of midnight-blue and white stripes. The air smelled faintly of old parchment, polished wood, and a whiff of magical ozone from the many enchanted devices humming quietly—telegraphic tubes along the walls, a vox-crystal for long-distance communication on a side table, and of course the ever-watchful mirror-screen now mounted on the wall.

The President took his high-backed leather chair—truly a throne in all but name—and gestured for his aide to approach. As the younger man stepped forward, the light from a crystal chandelier overhead illuminated him fully: broad shoulders, a fit physique, and an earnest face that might have given that cursed Colonel of Hearts some competition. If the President noticed the parallel, he didn't show it; his statesman persona was fully engaged now.

He steepled his fingers and regarded his aide with keen interest. "What news from Yorgoria?" he asked, the casual vanity of earlier completely absent from his clipped tone.

The aide opened the leather portfolio and withdrew a single sheet of parchment covered in neat cipher markings—freshly decoded. He began to read, speaking crisply: "Operational update from Yorgoria, just now: Stage One is complete. Our agent, Josh, reports that the plan to incite social awakening in Yorgoria against Avalondian control is proceeding on schedule."

At the mention of Stage One, the President leaned forward, eyes narrowing shrewdly. The lamp on his desk cast angular shadows across his face, highlighting the strong lines of his cheekbones and jaw. "Excellent. Details?"

The aide allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction and continued, referring to the report. "Multiple coordinated actions have ignited widespread public unrest. The rolling magical power outages occurring right now across key cities in Yorgoria provided perfect coverage for the operations. The imperial authorities are scrambling—their vaunted lightning-grid failed across 50% of the rural areas in the country."

"Did it now?" The President's lips curved into a sharp grin. He drummed his fingers on the desk, each tap echoing like a distant cannon. "Wonderful. Nothing stirs the soul of a downtrodden people quite like sudden darkness and the realization that their foreign rulers cannot even keep the lights on."

He glanced to one side of his desk, where a crystal globe etched with continental maps sat. Tiny motes of light glowed upon it, marking major cities. Over the landmass labelled Yorgoria, a few lights flickered uncertainly. The President tapped the globe where a light was winking out. "And the people's reaction?"

The aide's excitement was subdued but palpable in the quickness of his words. "As anticipated: outrage and panic. Crowds gathered in the streets against various noble estates. Our contacts spread rumors that the Avalondian Empire deliberately cut the power to punish dissent. Others helped to provide the escalatory push that ensured masses would carry out the necessary clashes."

He flipped to another page, eyes scanning quickly. "By late evening, spontaneous demonstrations erupted across various rural areas with large estates being the key targets. In Yortinto—the provincial capital—the protesting activities are especially common. Interestingly, some protesters even chanted slogans in support of the Republic."

At this, the President gave a pleased chuckle. "Is that so? Actual chants for us?"

The aide nodded, permitting himself a brief grin. "Yes, sir. According to Agent Josh, at one estate rally people waved placards reading, 'Yes to the Republic, No to Avalondia!' and 'Return Liberty to Yorgoria.'"

The President closed his eyes for a moment, as if savoring a delicious aroma. Those words were music to his ears. "The Creator's own truth on their tongues," he murmured piously. "They see the light of liberty, even in their anger."

He sat back, resting one elbow on the arm of his chair and touching his chin thoughtfully. "Go on."

The aide's tone grew more serious as he continued, "In other quarters, protests took different angles: some demanded the Empire restore old laws and end local corruption—"

"Imperial loyalists grasping at straws," the President interjected with a dismissive wave of his hand. His many rings—heavy gold bands set with rubies and sapphires—glittered in the lamplight. "They yearn for the 'good old days' under strong monarchs like George V or Edward VI, perhaps even Winston's era. Hah! Those days are long gone."

"Indeed," the aide agreed carefully. "There were also anti-noble riots. One notable incident occurred at a noble's manor—er, the Redwood estate in rural Yortinto. It appears to have become an unexpected focal point. Crowds from nearby villages, angry about ... almost everything..., marched on that estate, seeing it as a symbol of Avalondian oppression. They just breached the manor gates at the time of the most recent update."

At the mention of Redwood, the President arched an eyebrow. "Redwood estate... I recall that name. Wasn't him a businessman turned noble that is right now the leader of the progressive faction in the Empire?"

The aide referenced the report. "Yes, but this Redwood Estate isn't the main Redwood estate. This is 10,000 acre estate at the outskirt of Yortinto that is currently ran by his disgraced grandson. The one that harassed Empress Celestica in public. According to our agent, a mob stormed his estate's last night. They shouted a hodgepodge of demands—some pro-Republic, some for imperial reform, many simply anti-noble. The power outage in that area provided cover for a band of opportunists to infiltrate alongside genuine protesters. The estate's staff was better prepared than expected." He frowned slightly, as though annoyed at that detail.

The President snorted. "No matter. The key outcome is psychological: nowhere—not even a backwater manor—is secure under Avalondian rule. The common folk will see how weak the authority's grip on power are." His grin returned, wolfish and bright. "It will embolden them. It will add hope to their grievances. Soon, we will have all the ingredients we need for a revolution."

He stood up from his chair with a sudden burst of energy, beginning to pace behind the desk. On the wall hung a grand oil portrait of himself in his inauguration robes, one hand on a tablet of laws, the other raised as if bestowing a blessing. As he moved, the crystal chandelier's light danced across the painting's surface, making the painted President's eyes seem to flicker with life.

The aide closed the portfolio, watching his leader stride to and fro like a caged lion that smelled prey in the distance. "Agent Josh is to be commended," the President said emphatically. "Only a man of exceptional initiative could orchestrate such a multifaceted disturbance. To think, under stronger monarchs—George V, Edward VI, even old Winston—a talented fellow like that might've been poached by the Empire's intelligence service before we ever got to him."

He paused and placed his palms flat on the cool marble desktop, leaning forward. His dyed locks fell over his shoulder as he tilted his head in thought. "But the Empire today is blind and feeble. They let a gem like Josh slip right through their fingers and into our open hand. Truly, Providence favors the Republic." He saw in these events nothing less than the unfolding of the Republic's vaunted Destiny of Liberty.

At that, the President reached to a small bookshelf built into the side of the desk. From a velvet-lined recess, he drew out a weathered tome bound in cracked leather. Embossed on its cover was a faded sunburst sigil—the Holy Book. The ancient pages had yellowed to the color of old bone, and a few loose flakes of parchment drifted out as he handled it.

The aide straightened, his eyes flicking with curiosity. He had rarely seen the President take out that Holy Book—certainly not to actually read from it. More often it was displayed like a trophy or relic.

The President ran a callused thumb over the cover's peeling gold letters. "Do you know why I keep this here?" he asked suddenly, his tone conversational yet carrying an undercurrent of fervor.

"For guidance, sir?" the aide ventured. "As a reminder of the Creator's will?"

The President chuckled—a low, almost reverential laugh. "Once, yes. I studied these pages devoutly in my youth. Sought every ounce of wisdom, every parable about justice and duty." He tapped the book with a finger, a small puff of dust rising. "But now I keep it as a reminder that I've already passed the test."

The aide's brow knit in mild confusion. "The test, Mr. President?"

The older man looked up, meeting his aide's gaze with a zealot's intensity. "The test of faith. Of character. This—" he hefted the crumbling holy book, "was the study guide. But I have long since taken the exam of life and passed with full marks. The Creator and I—" he smiled almost indulgently, "we have an understanding. I no longer need to reread the instructions. Now I simply act."

He carefully set the book down atop the desk, as gently as a teacher setting aside a textbook, and straightened to his full height. In the silence that followed, a faint hiss of steam could be heard from the heating pipes in the walls, and the distant tick of a mechanical clock kept time with the Republic's heartbeat.

The aide broke the hush softly. "Sir, on the topic of acting... Stage Two?" He gestured to the portfolio. "Agent Josh inquires if he should proceed with the next phase of the plan."

Before he could finish, the President waved a hand. "In due time. I'll draft new directives for him." He seemed momentarily distracted, gaze drifting to the great window and the stormy night beyond. Raindrops had begun to patter against the glass, distorting the city lights outside into a blur of gold and white. "We must be measured. Stage One's fire is just lit; let it burn a bit, see how the Empire responds. We don't want them to be too alarmed. It would ... complicate things."

The aide nodded and slipped the paper back into the dossier. "Understood, Mr. President."

Emboldened by the President's introspective mood, the young man allowed himself a tiny quip. "One thing is certain: Avalondia is now Empire in name only while we, the Continental Republic, are the real Empire behind the scenes."

In an amused yet serious tone the older man spoke: "Empire is such an ugly word. We are not an empire." The President emphasized. "I prefer the word Patron State. A benefactor. We liberate and guide, we do not conquer and subjugate. Of course, we do occasionally seek some favourable terms to finance our aid to the client states. Just as how the Church is entitled to tithe, it is okay to receive some ... reciprocal benefits that are token of gratitude from client states."

Each phrase he uttered came out with the weight of doctrine, as if he were reciting a catechism. He truly believed this—or at least needed others to believe it.

The aide immediately dipped his head. "Of course, of course. We are just getting what we deserve. Nothing more." There was genuine contrition in his voice. He had served the President long enough to know the depths of that particular conviction.

The President took a long breath and straightened his coat, calming himself. He placed a hand over his heart, where a silver pin in the shape of a torch was affixed—a symbol of the Creator's light and the Republic's mission. "Our Republic is destined to be the guiding light, not some oppressor. The moment we start comparing ourselves to an empire, we're no better than the despots we topple."

He walked over to a sideboard where a cut-crystal decanter of amber liquor awaited. With a steadiness that belied his flash of anger, he poured two small glasses. He handed one to the aide—a gesture of forgiveness and camaraderie. The younger man accepted it gratefully.

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The President raised his glass slightly. "To our great mission."

The aide followed suit. "To liberty, sir," he said quietly. They drank. The liquor was a fine aged whiskey from the Republic's heartland, warming their throats.

Setting his empty glass down, the President continued in a calmer tone, "Sometimes," he said, "to bring true liberty, we must play the part of the puppeteer. We tug the strings now so that eventually, the people can stand on their own."

He glanced at his aide pointedly. "That's what distinguishes a patron from a conqueror."

The aide offered a dutiful nod.

Satisfied that his point was made, the President returned to stand behind his desk. His gaze drifted to a large map of the known world hanging on the wall. On it, the Continental Republic sprawled in one color across its vast landmass, while the various gigantic empires and their territories marked in various other colors.

The President's eyes fixed on the territories of the various world empires. "Our Republic already bankrolls most of the tottering empires," he said softly, almost to himself. The aide listened intently. "If not for the funds, weapons, and technologies we supplied them with, though for a great deal of compensation, all of these empires would have collapsed long ago. What are kings and nobles but mortals endowed with the glory of the divine through the foolishness of the masses? They steal from Creator the reverence of the masses that should be reserved for the Creator alone. Though it will come at a great cost to us to stop financing tyranny. But there is always a price for righteousness and we will just have to pay it ... with someone else's money."