Exiled to a Foreign Land: Managing a Destitute Estate-Chapter 42: The Envoy of Peace

Part 1

The morning after his revelatory meeting with his grandfather, Philip sat within the eastern garden pavilion, contemplating the surreal events of the previous evening. Sunlight streamed through the ornate lattice roof, casting honeycomb shadows across his financial ledgers. From his vantage point, the lush May landscape of Redwood Estate stretched before him—meticulously maintained topiary, vibrant flower beds, and prismatic fountains showed no trace of the violence that had erupted just weeks before. freeweɓnovel.cѳm

The grand dinner, following his private conversation with the Duke, still played vividly in Philip's mind. The grand hall had been transformed into a scene worthy of imperial celebration, far beyond what Philip would have expected for a simple family dinner. Footmen in burgundy livery had stood at perfect attention along the perimeter, while the massive oak table.

Philip recalled how every detail had been executed with military precision. Silver salvers bearing delicacies from across the globe—Francimonian pâté, Arussian caviar, glazed quail from the Spice Islands—arrived in perfect succession. Each course was paired with wines from the Duke's legendary cellar, some bottles dating back to the previous century. The Duke had installed his latest acquisition, a Harmonic Resonance System—an elaborate magical contraption using crystalline amplifiers to fill the hall with orchestral recordings from the Imperial Philharmonic. The music varied with each course, selected by the Duke's obvious expertise in both cuisine and composition.

Throughout the meal, the Duke had maintained his aristocratic façade without a single slip. Every gesture, every pronouncement on the Empire's politics or the quality of the vintage, had been delivered with the practiced ease of a man born to privilege—though Philip now knew this to be a carefully constructed illusion. Most impressive had been the Duke's ability to speak to Philip with subtle double meanings, maintaining their private understanding while appearing merely cordial to others.

Lydia had stood at perfect attention behind the Duke's chair throughout the marathon meal, occasionally stepping forward to refill his crystal goblet or offer a precisely folded handkerchief when needed. Her transformation from practical housekeeper to refined female assistant had been remarkable—even her posture seemed to have altered, her movements possessing a grace that spoke of rigorous training in aristocratic service.

Philip had found himself wondering how exhausting it must be to maintain such elaborate performances day after day, year after year. The Duke had spent decades perfecting his aristocratic persona, never once revealing his true thoughts in public. The sheer discipline required was staggering.

Most fascinating had been the carefully orchestrated rumors already circulating among the staff by breakfast. Somehow, whispers had spread that Philip had boldly defied the Duke regarding Natalia, leading to a dramatic declaration that Philip might be removed from the line of succession. The story went that the Duke had threatened to place the rest of his personal fortune in a separate trust "until a worthy descendant from any of the Redwood lines becomes ready for the task."

Yet no such conversation had occurred. The Duke had, in fact, fully accepted Natalia's presence after their private discussion. Philip marveled at his grandfather's mastery of information manipulation—the manufactured "conflict" simultaneously explained Natalia's continued presence while creating a perfect smokescreen for their actual collaboration. It was propaganda craftsmanship of the highest order.

"Master, look!" Natalia's melodic voice pulled him from his reminiscence. She stood several yards away, her graceful arm extended as a vibrant blue butterfly perched delicately on her fingertip. Sunlight caught in her golden hair, creating a halo effect that made her appear almost angelic. Her face bore an expression of such pure wonder that Philip felt an unexpected tightness in his chest.

She wore a simple day dress of periwinkle blue, its modest cut somehow accentuating rather than concealing her extraordinary figure. She was perfect in a contradictory way—exquisitely delicate in the refined elegance of her features, yet statuesque and shapely, well-endowed in a manner that drew the eye irresistibly. Against the backdrop of classical marble nymphs and dryads decorating the garden, Natalia's beauty rendered the statues crude and lifeless by comparison. Her harmonious proportions, impossibly flawless skin, and the gentle, graceful curves that defied ordinariness combined into something almost supernaturally beautiful—so perfect that she seemed unreal, a figment of imagination given form.

"It's attracted by my body temperature," she explained with childlike enthusiasm, her sapphire eyes wide with delight. "Its sensory organs can detect the minimal heat differential between my skin and the ambient air."

The Familiars are meant to be a manifestation of the ideal woman in the summoner's subconscious mind at the moments leading up to the moment of summoning; his grandfather's words echoed in Philip's thoughts. Was this truly old Philip's idealized woman—this impossible combination of physical perfection, childlike wonder, and unquestioning devotion?

"I guess they were right," the System's voice chimed in his head, materializing beside him as a caricatured 1950s secretary complete with exaggerated hourglass figure and cat-eye glasses. "Gentlemen prefer blondes."

"That's a bit stereotypical, don't you think?" Philip mentally responded, frowning slightly.

The System rolled her eyes dramatically. "Get cultured, host. It's the name of a movie from your world, one of the more recent ones, too."

"By 'recent' you mean...?"

"1950s?" the System offered with a shrug.

"I rest my case," Philip retorted.

Sighing, he returned his attention to the financial ledgers spread before him. His financial prospects remained concerning, and Philip knew he couldn't delay addressing them any longer. The previous night's opulent dinner—with imported delicacies that cost more than a laborer's monthly wage—had only highlighted the difference between his situation and what was expected of an aristocrat.

He was determined to implement the change, starting with the media company. He studied the breakdown of expenses again, focusing particularly on the media company's drain on resources. Something would have to change, and soon.

"The operation is hemorrhaging money," Philip murmured, mostly to himself. "Seventeen thousand two hundred and eighty Continental dollars annually... completely unsustainable."

Natalia approached, the butterfly having departed, and peered over his shoulder with genuine interest. "Is that a significant sum in the context of the estate's finances?" she asked, her analytical mind engaging with the problem.

"Well, not in the estate's finances, but it's a big deal for my personal finances," Philip explained. "The estate itself is asset-rich but cash-poor—most of the wealth is tied up in property, investments, and non-redeemable financial instruments. So, I can't expect continuous infusion of cash from the estate trust."

Philip spread out the ledger sheets, organizing them methodically as he explained the situation to Natalia. "The media company costs 1,440 Continental dollars monthly. Most of that—1,300—is actually overtime pay for estate staff handling distribution and printing. The core operational deficit is only 140 Continental dollars. In other words, most of the operational costs are covered by the revenues from the online publishing. The paper publishing, aimed at the masses, is more of a charity project meant for giving voice to the people, and, for a time, to help rehabilitate my image among the common people after the scandals."

Natalia's brow furrowed adorably as she processed this information. "So the primary expense is not the production of the content but the distribution of the physical newspaper?"

"Exactly," Philip nodded, impressed by her quick comprehension. "And that's where I see an opportunity for restructuring."

He sketched a rough organizational chart on a blank sheet of paper. "The current model is inefficient. We're paying estate staff—who already have full-time positions—overtime rates to distribute newspapers for my media company. They'd probably prefer time with their families, and we're paying premium rates for a task that doesn't require their specialized skills."

"What's your proposed solution?" Natalia asked, settling gracefully onto the bench beside him, close enough that the subtle floral scent of her hair teased his senses.

Philip forced himself to focus on the financial challenge rather than her proximity. "I'm considering creating an Authorized Distributor network," he explained, sketching as he spoke. "We provide the newspapers for free to approved distributors who can then charge whatever price the market will bear."

"But doesn't that risk the price of the paper newspaper skyrocketing as the distributors try to maximize profit?" Natalia asked, displaying surprising insight into the social implications.

"That's where the vetting process comes in," Philip continued, warming to the subject. "We established a thorough vetting process that includes clear specifications on the cap of the prices to be charged, and we will strategically select potential distributors based on their geographical location to ensure maximum coverage. Two or three current estate staff members would take on the role of Distribution Quality Managers, overseeing the vetting process and conducting weekly audits of the contracted distributors to ensure compliance."

Natalia considered this thoughtfully. "So, you are eliminating 1,300 Continental dollars in overtime costs, while adding perhaps 200 for quality control administration. That's... 1,100 Continental dollars saved monthly."

Philip nodded, once again impressed by her quick calculations. "Exactly. But that's just the beginning. I'm also considering a content restructuring."

He sketched another diagram, this one showing the newspaper's layout. "We will dedicate 30% to 40% of the panes in the newspaper to vetted community submissions. We create themed sections for common concerns—labor conditions, housing costs, food prices. We establish a rotating 'Community Editor' position for talented contributors from different backgrounds."

"This gives authentic voice to the people while reducing content creation costs," Natalia observed.

"Yes, and it better fulfills my original mission of 'giving voice to the common people.' We reassign three to four current writers to submission curation and editing. It will significantly increase community engagement while ensuring we can still direct the overall narrative. Most importantly, it will reduce the number of dedicated writers needed for the newspaper portion of the operations."

Philip flipped to a fresh page, now fully engrossed in his planning. "The extra writers can then be moved over to the online portion to power our continuous expansion in the Collective Space, which is the segment where most of our profit came from and whose opinion we are trying to influence."

Philip sat back, surveying his projections with satisfaction. "Within three months, we could reduce the monthly deficit from 1,440 to approximately 190 Continental dollars. By six months, perhaps 100. Once the deficit is eliminated, we can plan the next step."

Natalia studied the numbers carefully, her analytical mind processing the data. "The financial improvement is impressive," she acknowledged. "But I find the strategic benefits even more compelling. This enhances your public influence through broader distribution while giving authentic voice to common people. It creates political capital for you across class divides."

Philip smiled, surprised and pleased by her perceptiveness. "That's exactly right. It's not just about eliminating the financial drain, but reducing it without compromising the original mission."

The System materialized again, this time in the form of a voluptuous female business executive with an exaggerated pompadour and oversized cigar. "Not bad, kid," she commented, examining Philip's calculations. "You're starting to think like a proper businessman instead of just another trust fund baby burning through daddy's money."

Philip ignored the jibe, continuing to refine his numbers. "The implementation timeline is critical," he mused. "Month one for preparation—developing standards, guidelines, and training. Month two for a soft launch with the first wave of distributors. Month three for full implementation."

As he worked, with the May sunshine warm upon his shoulders and Natalia's presence a comforting constant beside him, Philip felt a surprising sensation—purpose. For perhaps the first time since his transmigration, he wasn't merely reacting to crises or struggling to maintain appearances. He was building something sustainable, something that might genuinely improve lives beyond his own.

"This is just the beginning," Philip said softly, almost to himself. "If we can make this work, we can apply the same analysis to the other financial issues..."

Natalia smiled, the expression lighting her perfect features with a warmth that no marble statue could ever capture. "I believe you can do it, Master," she said simply, her faith in him both humbling and motivating.

"We," Philip corrected gently. "We can do it."

Part 2

The Imperial Palace of Albecaster rose against the twilight sky, its spires gleaming like divine swords thrust into the firmament. Kendrick approached the heart of imperial power along the Royal Mile, where not a single cobblestone dared protrude above its neighbors. The Avalondian capital revealed itself in calculated layers of splendor, each designed to inspire unquestioning loyalty.

Kendrick adjusted his military uniform's high collar as the weight of his ceremonial medals pulled at the midnight-blue fabric. Through his carriage window, the aristocratic district unfolded with alabaster mansions behind gilded gates. Lamplights illuminated the path, creating the impression of a river of stars flowing toward the palace.

"Colonel Nernwick," his attaché murmured, "the First Minister has sent specific instructions for your entrance. The Empress will preside over the entire ceremony."

"I see," Kendrick replied, his aristocratic training permitting only the slightest quirk of an eyebrow. "All the more reason to ensure our presentation is flawless."

The carriage proceeded through the first of seven ceremonial gates. Guards in midnight-blue uniforms stood at perfect attention, their ceremonial halberds gleaming. Each successive gate grew more elaborate—bronze statues reaching skyward, silver trees with rustling mechanical leaves, archways of gold depicting imperial conquests.

By the fourth gate—which emitted a perfume believed to inspire courage and loyalty—Kendrick felt the first tendrils of aristocratic intoxication: the sensation of being at civilization's pinnacle. The palace was designed to cultivate exactly this feeling; its proportions and sensory elements calibrated over centuries to induce reverent submission.

"Colonel," the attaché warned, "the seventh gate's effects can be overwhelming even for someone of your experience."

The seventh gate appeared deceptively simple—a white stone arch that shimmered with inner light. As they passed beneath it, Kendrick felt a wave of sensation wash over him. Colors intensified; sounds acquired crystalline clarity; scents became narratively descriptive; even his sense of self seemed to expand beyond physical form.

"Mana saturation," the attaché explained. "The gate concentrates ambient mana to enhance perceptions to the highest levels. Quite useful for ensuring visitors are appropriately impressed."

The carriage stopped at a sweeping marble staircase. Footmen in white and gold livery materialized to assist Kendrick's descent, bowing at precisely forty-five degrees—as befitted the famous "Colonel of Hearts."

At the stairs' summit stood the Lord Chamberlain in formal court dress. "Colonel Kendrick Nernwick, son of the Duke of Nernwick, Defender of Civilization, Bearer of the Star of Imperial Merit First Class," he announced, each title delivered with perfect enunciation.

As Kendrick ascended, he became acutely aware of the admiring glances from assembled courtiers. Ladies-in-waiting fluttered their fans nervously as he passed, their cheeks coloring. He had grown accustomed to such reactions—his extraordinary looks had earned him both his nickname and considerable privilege—but here in the palace, with perceptions enhanced by the seventh gate's magic, the effect seemed magnified.

The Lord Chamberlain led him through increasingly opulent chambers, each grander than the last. Pages struck silver staves against marble floors in perfect unison, creating a hypnotic rhythm. Aristocrats lined his path—not the handful expected for a routine appointment, but dozens of the Empire's most illustrious figures.

"Has there been a change to the itinerary?" Kendrick asked discreetly.

"First Minister Sir Arther felt your appointment as Imperial Envoy of Peace warranted elevated significance," the Lord Chamberlain replied. "Her Imperial Majesty concurred."

They arrived at the Azure Antechamber, where First Minister Sir Arther awaited. Kendrick had met Arther before, of course, but the man now before him seemed transformed from the somewhat buffoonish figure who often drew eye-rolls from the aristocracy. This Arther radiated confident authority.

His ceremonial robes—midnight-blue with silver embroidery depicting constellations—seemed to absorb and reflect light in mesmerizing patterns. Gone was the vague, distracted gaze; in its place was laser-like attention that made Kendrick feel simultaneously honored and exposed.

"Colonel Nernwick!" Arther exclaimed, clasping Kendrick's shoulders. "The very man who shall bring peace to our age! What an absolute delight to see the most photogenic officer of our imperial forces in the flesh!"

Kendrick felt a flush of pride warming his cheeks. "First Minister, the honor is entirely mine."

Arther laughed—a sound that seemed to invite everyone within earshot to share in some delightful conspiracy. "My dear Colonel, surely you don't imagine we would send our most distinguished officer—our 'Colonel of Hearts'—into the diplomatic arena without a proper imperial send-off? The peace negotiations between Osgorreich and Arussia require nothing less than our finest representative."

Arther guided him toward the Grand Imperial Ballroom. "The Empress has taken a particular interest in your appointment as Imperial Envoy of Peace," he added. "She was most impressed by your handling of the Yorgorian situation."

The ballroom exceeded all Kendrick's previous experiences. Its domed ceiling soared fifteen stories overhead, painted with animated imperial mythology. Hundreds of crystal chandeliers cast light patterns that subtly guided the eye toward the imperial dais. The marble floor rippled with luminescence beneath their feet. It felt so different being there in person than seeing it on the screens of large mirror devices.

Two hundred aristocrats in their finest regalia lined the processional path. Ladies in evening gowns of silk, satin, and velvet curtseyed deeply, their eyes following Kendrick with unconcealed admiration. Many whispered behind fans, their gazes lingering on his perfect features. Even in this gathering of Avalondia's elite, the "Colonel of Hearts" stood out as exceptionally beautiful.

But all these wonders paled when Kendrick's eyes reached the imperial dais.

There sat Empress Celestica upon a throne of massive sapphire. Her wings—usually folded discretely—now extended eight feet of iridescent feathers that amplified the chandelier light. Her gown of liquid moonlight flowed around her curvaceous form in ways that defied both gravity and modesty while maintaining imperial dignity.

Kendrick stared, temporarily forgetting court manners. Had she always been this captivating? At their prior encounter at the Nernwick estate, she had been beautiful, even alluring in her naïve way. But nothing like this. This Celestica exerted a gravitational pull on his attention that made it physically difficult to look elsewhere.

"Magnificent, isn't she?" Sir Arther murmured. "The Empire in human form."

"It makes one wonder," Kendrick found himself saying, "if attractiveness is somehow influenced by situational factors. She seems so much more..." He trailed off.

"Power," Arther supplied with the slightest smile, "is the most intoxicating substance in existence, Colonel. It enhances perceived attractiveness immeasurably. Particularly when framed correctly." His eyes flickered toward the elaborate staging of the throne.

As if sensing their attention, Celestica turned her gaze toward them. Though separated by fifty yards, Kendrick felt her eyes lock with his directly. Her lips curved slightly—a gesture somehow both imperial and intimate—and she inclined her head a fraction of an inch.

The entire ballroom held its breath.

"Let the celebrations commence," she said simply.

Those words sent ripples through the assembly. Servants entered with champagne; the Imperial Orchestra began playing ceremonial music. Arther guided Kendrick to the high table, positioned below the imperial dais.

The banquet progressed with meticulous attention to imperial tradition. Each course represented a different dominion of the Empire—delicacies from across the globe arranged in edible artwork. Throughout the meal, Kendrick noticed ladies from the highest aristocratic families finding excuses to pass near him, their glances lingering, their smiles inviting.

Yet his attention remained divided between the diplomatic briefings discretely provided by Arther's aides and the magnetic presence of Celestica, who had descended from her throne to join them.

"Colonel Nernwick," she said at one point, her voice causing conversations to cease, "I trust your sister's research continues to progress well? Her work on viral sequences is quite... promising."

Kendrick nearly choked on his wine. "Your Majesty is well-informed. Elora would be honored by your interest."

Celestica's smile contained mysteries. "I make a point of following developments that might benefit the Empire. Your sister's mind is extraordinary—perhaps as extraordinary in its way as your beauty and diplomatic talent." After saying this, Celestica stole a glance at Arther, as if searching for some form of assurance.

After a few hours, as the banquet concluded, Arther rose to address the gathering. His voice, normally pleasant but unremarkable, now carried throughout the ballroom with resonant authority.

"Distinguished guests, we gather tonight to witness a momentous occasion. The Osgorreich-Arussian conflict has raged far too long. Too many young men and women have fallen victim to this senseless slaughter." Arther paused, scanning the assembly. "So it is time for Avalondia, the beacon of civilization, the arbiter of justice, to intervene. And who better to embody Avalondian refinement and strength than one of the heroes who restored order to Yorgoria with such... decisive efficiency?"

Murmurs of approval rippled through the aristocrats. Kendrick felt their collective gaze—admiring, expectant, approving.

"Colonel Nernwick," Arther continued, "has demonstrated the courage, intelligence, and loyalty that exemplify the finest traditions of our Empire. Tonight, Her Imperial Majesty bestows upon him the title of Imperial Envoy of Peace, with full authority to negotiate peace between Osgorreich and Arussia in Avalondia's name."

Celestica rose, the movement causing her wings to catch light in prismatic cascades. She descended three steps from the dais—a rare breach of protocol that caused gasps throughout the ballroom. In her hand appeared a platinum medallion on a blue ribbon.

"Colonel Kendrick Nernwick," she said, her voice somehow both intimate and all-encompassing, "do you swear to uphold the honor of the Avalondian Empire in your diplomatic service?"

"I do so swear, Your Majesty," Kendrick replied, surprised at the steadiness of his own voice.

"Do you pledge to pursue peace while protecting imperial interests with all your faculties?"

"I do so pledge."

"And do you commit yourself fully to this mission, prepared to sacrifice comfort, safety, and if necessary, life itself in service to the Empire?"

Kendrick felt a momentary flicker of his earlier doubts—Elora's warnings about the dangers awaiting him, his private concerns about being sent into an active war zone—but they dissolved in the warmth of imperial approval. In this sacred space, surrounded by centuries of splendor, such concerns seemed trivial.

"I do so commit, Your Majesty, with all my heart and strength."

Celestica placed the medallion around his neck, her fingers briefly brushing his collar. "Then rise, Imperial Envoy of Peace. The Empire places its trust in you."

The assembled aristocracy erupted in applause. Kendrick stood, suddenly aware that he had knelt without conscious decision. The weight of the medallion against his chest felt simultaneously like a burden and a blessing.

As the ceremony concluded, Arther raised his glass. "To Colonel Nernwick, whose beauty of form is matched only by his courage of mind. May he bring peace in our time!"

"To Colonel Nernwick!" echoed two hundred voices.

Kendrick felt himself transformed. His mission now seemed not merely necessary but glorious—an opportunity to secure his place in imperial history. Whatever dangers awaited paled against the honor of representing such a magnificent civilization.

"To the Empire," Arther whispered to him privately, recognizing the transformation in Kendrick's bearing, "Eternal and invincible."

Kendrick raised his glass without hesitation, his voice firm with newfound conviction. "To the Empire. Eternal and invincible."