Exiled to a Foreign Land: Managing a Destitute Estate-Chapter 34: The Nature of the Empire

Part 1

Philip stood in the mud and driving rain, chest heaving and pistol trembling in his grip, as another clear bugle call cut through the chaos. Everyone on the manor property fell into a brief, stunned silence. Through the sheets of downpour and flickering torchlight, Philip saw lanterns bobbing in formation at the far end of the orchard drive. Then came the thunder of boots—hundreds of them, marching in perfect unison. Out of the darkness emerged a sight both magnificent and terrifying: two columns of soldiers, perhaps five hundred strong, advancing with mechanical precision onto the estate grounds.

At their head rode an officer on a white horse; beside him rode another mounted officer carrying a tall imperial banner that snapped in the storm wind. Even in the gloom, the head officer's uniform gleamed—a ceremonial tunic of spotless white adorned with gold braid and shining brass buttons. Lightning flashed, illuminating him like an actor on a stage: he sat straight‑backed and unflinching in the saddle, one gloved hand holding the reins and the other brandishing a revolver skyward. For an instant, Philip glimpsed the officer's face in that electric glare—youthful, aristocratic, almost unnaturally handsome, and utterly composed. He looked every inch the part of an imperial knight out of some legend, eerily untouched by the chaos around him. Then the realization hit him. It was none other than Kendrick!

The mob that had moments ago been braying for blood now wavered. Dozens of protesters turned and ran for escape routes at the sight of the imperial formation fanning out across the manor's front lawn. In their rough work coats and simple dresses, the remaining rioters suddenly looked very small against the wall of disciplined soldiers in dark red and white, their polished bayonets catching the flicker of lightning. A murmur of awe and fear rippled through them. Some instinctively lowered their makeshift weapons; others simply froze where they stood, mesmerized by the imposing yet beautiful cavalry officer whose banner whipped above him. There was something almost super‑human and unnaturally captivating about the man's poise in the storm. When he finally spoke, his baritone voice sliced through the air like a blade.

"In the name of the Empire and Her Majesty," Kendrick bellowed, "this unlawful gathering is to disperse at once! Lay down your arms and go home. You have fifteen minutes to disappear into the night."

For a heartbeat, nobody moved. Then a tremor of panic passed through the crowd. Many protesters dropped their clubs and bottles on the spot. Others began backing away, casting frantic looks toward the distant gates. Many turned and ran, colliding in their desperation to escape. But a large number still remained. At the front and center of the mob, a handful of die‑hards stood their ground, their rage not yet extinguished by fear. One stocky miner, eyes wild under his rain‑soaked cap, raised an old hunting rifle and took shaky aim at the white‑uniformed officer on horseback. "To hell with Avalondian oppression!" he screamed, finger tightening on the trigger.

A single gunshot cracked the night. The miner's rifle discharged harmlessly into the sky as he spun backward with a cry, the weapon clattering from his hands. On horseback, Kendrick lowered his smoking revolver, having neatly shot the man in the shoulder before he could fire. His movement had been so fast that Philip completely missed it.

Then the mounted officer beside Kendrick started counting down. "Ten, nine, eight ..." The remaining crowd panicked, and there was a furious stampede as rioters ran in all directions, dropping whatever they held.

However, a small group of die‑hard rioters refused to yield. They linked arms and stood firm while chanting various incoherent slogans.

As the mounted officer finished his loud countdown, Kendrick spoke again, his tone calm. "Disappear into the darkness now, or be engulfed by the darkness of death." With a slight wave of his hand, the soldiers at the front leveled their rifles at the rioters and loaded them.

After seeing that the remaining rioters refused to leave, Kendrick pulled out his sabre—first raising it skyward, then slowly lowering it. The look in his eyes was cold and determined, almost devoid of emotion. It was as if he were ordering a routine drill rather than an onslaught. Philip was genuinely shocked; he had never seen this side of the flamboyant, comically narcissistic, borderline goofy Kendrick.

As Kendrick's sabre lowered, the troops fired without hesitation. The first volley was deafening. Muzzle flashes lit up the garden in staccato bursts, and screams erupted as protesters toppled like targets at a shooting gallery. The mob broke completely. People ran in every direction, scrambling over one another in blind panic. Some surged toward the line of troops only to be met with round after round of volleys. Men and women screamed as they were hit by round after round of fire, and others were crushed in the stampede. To Philip's shock, Imperial soldiers pressed in on the remaining rioters from all directions in an encirclement maneuver, coldly firing and cutting down those still trying to push through. Surrounded figures dropped one after another. The muddy ground was soon slick with blood. The bodies of the rioters crumpled in the mud, the last flickers of resistance extinguished.

Within minutes, the manor's garden became a killing ground. Uniformed Avalondian soldiers moved methodically through the haze of gun smoke and rain, dispatching anyone not entirely dead with bayonets. A wounded protester tried to crawl away, his clothes soaked in blood and rain, until a volley of gunfire shot him from behind. The poor had no chance against the Empire's troops—this tragic truth echoed in every corner of the courtyard. What had begun as an angry crowd was now reduced to bodies littering the garden. Broken. Pools of red spread across the flooded grass, swirling in the downpour.

Up on his horse, Colonel Kendrick surveyed the carnage without a hint of distress. His jaw was set in a cool line, his revolver still in hand. He watched his men carry out his commands with ruthless efficiency, the blue‑coated figures moving through the chaos like automata. At one point he calmly consulted a pocket watch, as if evaluating the efficiency of his troops. Satisfied, he snapped it shut as the last screams died away. To him, this was nothing more than the necessary application of force against those who coveted things beyond their station. After all, to Kendrick, social order was the foundation of civilization. He had given them a choice, and they picked death over life. He was simply the instrument of order. At least, that's what he had believed all these years—that's how he had slept so well despite the unease that had initially gnawed at his conscience after his first enforcement assignment. As the final shouts faltered, he sheathed his sabre. "Cease fire," he called.

At last, the gunfire and shouting died away, leaving only the drumming of rain. In the flickering lantern‑light, Imperial medics and stretcher‑bearers hurried onto the field, but their aid was for the Empire's own. Avalondian soldiers with minor wounds were treated with the best care, while the bodies of the rioters were left to rot. A few troops methodically kicked aside dropped weapons and prodded prone bodies, ensuring no further threat remained. The aftermath was as cold and methodical as the assault itself.

A heavy silence fell over Redwood Estate's grounds. The acrid stink of gunpowder and blood hung in the cold air. It had taken a mere quarter of an hour for the Imperial troops to annihilate the uprising. Philip stared out at the scene, numb with disbelief. Lantern light and lightning flashes revealed bodies strewn across what had once been his manicured garden, some disturbingly thin. Shivering in the rain, Philip felt nausea rise in his throat. This ... this was a rescue? Only moments ago, he had feared the mob would kill him and harm those he cared about; now those same people lay dead, their bodies strewn across the vast garden. He should have felt relief, but instead a sick hollowness spread in his chest. Earlier, Philip had opened his mouth to shout for the soldiers to stop, but his frail voice was easily covered by the screams and gunfire. His plea was lost in the storm. The deed was done. He felt sick to his core.

For a few heartbeats, the only sounds were the patter of rain and a few muted whimpers. Philip became vaguely aware of figures standing behind him on the manor steps—the remnants of his own household staff who had survived the chaos. They were staring out at the courtyard in ashen‑faced silence. Even his battle‑hardened steward, Albert, leaned on a shattered shovel with a look of hollow shock. None of them spoke a word; they, too, were grappling with the horror of what had just transpired.

In that grisly moment, a dark realization crept over Philip. The glorious Empire in whose establishment the Redwood family was proudly entrenched was not the Victorian‑era utopia it had first appeared to him. It dawned on him how little he really knew about the Empire of which he was a noble. He had been too bogged down by the personal problems inherited from old Philip to take the time to study it. He had been too engrossed in his gilded new lifestyle to think beyond his immediate circle. He had just taken Avalondia's justice and order as a given. But tonight, that assumption was shattered in fifteen tense minutes. It appeared that common values were rather uncommon. Nothing could be taken for granted.

This Empire was a utopia only for those at the top; for those beneath its boot‑heel, it was a living dystopia. Philip thought of the farmers and laborers who had stormed his gates tonight—their faces contorted by desperation and rage. Misguided or not, they had been human beings, subjects of the Empire. Did they truly deserve to be cut down like rabid animals? The bitter question swirled in his mind with no comforting answer. Philip's eyes burned, stinging with a mix of rain and tears he would never admit to. On horseback, Colonel Kendrick sat like a marble statue, radiating unshakable certainty in the righteousness of what he'd done. He did not sneer or gloat; he simply was, as composed as if presiding over a training exercise. He efficiently directed the clearing of the bodies from the garden. The common folk he had just crushed merited no more emotion from him than one might give to insects underfoot. In that stark indifference, Philip saw the truth of the imperial aristocracy: noblesse oblige in words, perhaps, but in practice an iron law where one's destiny was tied to birth—arguably a world far worse than his old one. Except this time, he was a beneficiary of the systemic inequality.

A hot spike of pain shot through Philip's skull. He realized he had been clenching his teeth so hard it hurt. His heart pounded erratically, torn between gratitude and horror—gratitude that he was alive, horror at what he had just witnessed his friend do. Philip swayed on his feet as dizziness overtook him. The world blurred at the edges, darkness nibbling into his vision. He pressed a hand to his temple, trying to will away the throbbing headache that now hammered behind his eyes.

Before Philip's knees could buckle completely, Natalia's strong arm slipped around his back, propping him up when he might have fallen. "Ma... my love, we are safe now," Natalia whispered, her voice low and steady, almost lost in the drumming rain. Philip leaned into her without resistance. His vision swam, but he recognized the warmth and solidity of the body supporting him. Natalia's white nightgown was soaked and tattered from the fight; it clung to her form, and the rips in the fabric revealed glimpses of impeccable skin at her thigh and midriff. He could feel her ample curves pressed against him as she held him upright, her soft, doting warmth contrasting with the cold, hard reality all around. It was an embrace of desperation and solace between two survivors.

Philip's head lolled to rest on Natalia's shoulder. His fingers weakly grasped her bare arm, as if anchoring himself to something real. For a long moment they simply stood that way in the darkness, entwined, with rainwater streaming down their faces. Natalia's bosom rose and fell against him; through the dull roar in his ears, he could hear the faint, rapid beating of her heart. She was breathing hard, adrenaline still coursing from battle, but she held him as gently as if cradling a wounded bird.

Around them, the soldiers moved like ghosts, shouting orders to one another as they began to secure the grounds, but Philip and Natalia might as well have been alone in a void. He shut his eyes, letting the storm on his skin and the steady presence of Natalia drive back the nightmares in his head. After a time—it could have been seconds or minutes—he became dimly aware that he was trembling. He wasn't sure whether it was from the cold or from grief. Natalia's cheek pressed against his hair, and he realized she was trembling too.

Philip finally drew back just enough to meet Natalia's eyes. Her blonde hair was plastered to her face, and rainwater ran in rivulets down her cheeks. In the flicker of distant lantern‑light, her expression was achingly gentle. She lifted a hand and pressed her forehead to his, closing her eyes as if sharing in his pain. Philip's breath hitched; in that quiet moment he had no doubt that Natalia was now capable of comprehending human emotion.

Part 2

The next morning, inside the House of Liberty, the President was in a towering temper. He stood at the head of the long oak table in his conference room, a half‑dozen newspapers spread out before him. His face, usually the picture of stately confidence, was flushed red with fury.

"Nothing!" he barked, slamming his palm onto the stack of papers. The porcelain coffee cup jolted, almost toppling. "Not a single blasted word on the front page!" His other hand clenched so hard the signet ring carved a crescent into his skin. "Yorgoria just saw its worst unrest in ten years, and it doesn't even rate a headline!"

He seized a broadsheet and brandished it like damning evidence. "This," he spat, "is what hogs the news—a half‑clad, bargain‑bin Tarzan knock‑off!" The President flung the paper toward his senior aide.

The aide, immaculate in his tailoring, stepped forward and retrieved the crumpled sheet. Clearing his throat, he said in a measured baritone, "It appears, sir, the Avalondian press has ... redirected public attention toward more glamorous diversions."

"What's wrong with young people these days?" the President growled, collapsing into his high‑backed chair. "They fixate on all the wrong things—some girl in a shredded gown, standing in the rain with a sabre—while Yorgorian authorities unleash lethal force." He raked a hand through his meticulously dyed chestnut hair. "I thought they were out of cards, but Arthur never ceases to surprise me: my own love child, blessed with my looks yet refusing my name or ideals. Not that I can blame him, since I never told him. Didn't want him to get... too cocky. You know, it's too large a halo to swallow—being my son."

"Yes, of course, Mr. President," the aide replied, smoothing out the newspaper. "Most imperial‑aligned papers have only a small column on page two or three mentioning 'unrest in Yorgoria, swiftly quelled.' No details, no outrage. Certainly no mention of the brutal suppression tactics they used, nor any photos that the Continental—" he caught himself—"that some mysterious bystanders sent to them." He adjusted his glasses and gestured to the bold headline on the front page. "Instead, they've made this... 'wildly sexy female bodyguard' the story of the day. The coverage is remarkably consistent across outlets. It's all about Lord Philip Redwood's supposed secret exotic warrior woman fighting chaotic mobs. The brutal suppression at Redwood Estate by Imperial forces was completely overlooked and replaced by groundless stories of this lady repelling an opportunist mob."

The President snatched another paper from the table and glared at the front‑page image that had so captured the public's imagination. It showed a dramatic scene illuminated by firelight: a statuesque young woman with long, wind‑tossed blonde hair wielding a curved sabre amid the chaos of a nighttime battle. Her white evening gown was shredded daringly above the knee, revealing a length of toned, bare leg slicked with rain and mud. The tattered silk clung to her torso, baring an athletic midriff and a hint of her back, as though she were some wild barbarian princess caught mid‑rampage. In the photo, her lips were curled in a fierce snarl and her blue eyes flashed with intensity.

She looked less like a real bodyguard and more like an illustration from a lurid adventure novel—the kind that would depict a scantily clad Amazon fighting alongside a barbarian warlord hero, the very kind the President used to fantasize about starring in. Indeed, the woman's figure was so striking, her pose so boldly daring, that one might think the image was staged. "Almost too perfect to be real," the President muttered, echoing the very words a columnist had written beneath one of the many reprinted photos. He threw the paper down in disgust. "And the fools are eating it up."

"Fifty counts of Imperial massacre all over Yorgoria, and the world gawks at a pin‑up girl instead," the President hissed, seething. He swept his arm across the table, knocking aside a few of the papers. "Last night's event was supposed to spark domestic and international outrage at Avalondia's brutality and lead to secession movements! Instead, they've turned it into a damned spectacle—glamour and gossip to obscure their guilt."

The aide straightened a fallen page delicately. "It is a clever strategy, sir. The populace loves a sensational story, and manipulation of public perception has always been the Empire's forte. After all, that's how they manage to retain the largest empire on Earth with only thirty percent of our defense budget. In fact, the most popular searches on the Vortex of Knowledge were about the identity of this girl. In other words, even the globally educated class has been successfully distracted. The riots and crackdowns have already been relegated to yesterday's garbage." The aide pointed to one newspaper where a smaller sub‑headline read: Who Is This Siren of Yortinto?

The President rubbed his temples, a headache threatening at the sheer absurdity of it. He couldn't believe Josh's brilliant success at hijacking a natural disaster to stir national unrest in Yorgoria had been so easily negated by the Empire's propaganda machine. The Avalondian establishment had managed to snuff out the narrative overnight. They hadn't simply censored the news, which would have drawn more curiosity—they had outshone it with a tale that titillated the masses and distracted them from what really mattered.

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Yet, despite his anger, the President found his eyes drifting back to the grainy photograph on the table. He pursed his lips, refusing to admit he felt any curiosity beyond strategic concern, but the truth was that the mysterious woman in the picture intrigued him. In an age when aristocrats hired well‑known mercenaries or retired veterans as bodyguards, who on earth was this half‑clothed wild girl defending a manor?

"Our operatives had every detail on Redwood and his staff..." the President mused aloud, tapping a finger on the woman's face in the image. "Not one report mentioned her." His voice held a mixture of irritation and grudging fascination. "A blind spot."

The aide ventured a cautious comment. "We could have our intelligence look into her, sir. Perhaps she's just a hired sword from some primitive countryside, or an eccentric adventurer—"

"Perhaps," the President muttered, though he clearly wasn't satisfied. He leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. His anger was cooling into calculation. If the Empire's key strength was its hold on the minds and hearts of its people, then the Republic would just have to beat it at its own game—and this woman could prove handy. The corners of his mouth twitched as he contemplated the possibilities.

The aide waited quietly while the President fell into pensive silence. After a long moment, he spoke again, his voice low and his eyes still fixed on the image in the newsprint. "But first things first: who is she?"