Yesterday Once More

Part 1

Philip woke the next day in a gentle glow of morning light, a far cry from the gunfire and chaos that had marked the previous night's signing ceremony. With the Vorak Hotel contract officially signed—and a sizable sum on the horizon—he felt an almost blissful sense of relief. At last, the estate's debt could be fully repaid, with enough left over to invest in businesses with great potential.

He suddenly realized that ever since his rebirth into this world, he had been so reactive to events that he'd barely thought about what he truly needed to do. He decided he had to gather as much information about this world as possible before planning any investments or turning his life around. After all, he finally had some money. He was now among the wealthy—the very people he had once hoped to serve better in his previous life in the faint hope of a promotion…just to have a better life…

A sudden pang of sadness hit him—grief over his old life and the nature of both worlds. He had seen enough differences to notice that inequality was much the same here, but at least this time, he had a chance to make a difference. First, though, he needed to survive and rise to a position of influence. He caught himself daydreaming about becoming a great philanthropist, attending massive auctions—just like in the old shows—where the extravagant bidding went to charity for poor orphans or widows. The image of the struggling women he had encountered the other day suddenly surfaced in his mind. Then, another image flashed through his thoughts: a woman pinned under him. It was Laura.

The memory jolted him back to his embarrassing misstep the day before and the lingering worry about paparazzi. The thought shocked him so much that he sat straight up in bed. As he stretched against the headboard, sweat beading on his brow, he recalled how the bodyguards had eventually escorted him from the Grand Imperial once the dust settled, their magical pager-like stones glowing like signal flares. He could still picture the pressed suits, alarmed faces, and an assassin pinned under Albert's shoe. At least it had made for a decent bedtime story.

Downstairs in the dining room, however, Lydia looked anything but rested. She had spent half the night fretting over the scandalous angle of that paparazzi photo: Philip sprawled awkwardly over Laura in a near-intimate position. Sure enough, the morning tabloids—piled on the table by Albert—outdid themselves in spinning a new narrative around the hero-turned-pacifist, Captain Philip, and his "make love, not war" moment.

"Morning, Lydia. Morning, Albert," Philip greeted as he came down, hair still tousled from sleep. He brightened at the sight of fresh rolls, jam, and coffee, almost forgetting his earlier concerns—until he saw Lydia's weary gaze.

"You'd better brace yourself, Master," she murmured, rifling through half a dozen newspapers. "You are…a sensation again."

Albert nodded gravely. "Each paper is trying to one-up the others. Some say you refused to fight back because you're a pacifist who believes 'an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind.' One claims you've rebranded yourself as a 'plush champion of nonviolent ideals,' using 'Make Love, Not War' by literally tackling your lawyer in front of a loaded gun." He coughed, looking embarrassed. "Apparently, because of your physique, they think you didn't do any actual dashing around—so they assume you just defied the assassin with some kind of romantic stunt."

"What?" Philip nearly dropped the jam knife. "They're saying I protested violence by intentionally getting intimate with my lawyer in front of an assassin?"

Lydia grimaced, flipping one paper around to show him the bold headlines: "Captain Philip's New Stance: Pacifism," "Captain Philip Is Against the War in Europe," and "Passion Conquers Bullets: Says Mr. Imperial Passion."

Philip covered his eyes in confused shock. How could a simple accident during a life-and-death moment be turned into some political statement through such colorful media exaggeration?

Albert, trying not to chuckle, tapped yet another paper. "Look at this editorial: 'Out of Shape, Out of Swords, But Never Out of Passion: Captain Philip Preaches That Violence Is NOT the Solution, but Passion Is!' They say you deliberately chose not to draw a weapon, urging your enemy to lay down arms. Peace at any cost, apparently."

Philip shook his head. "I didn't even have a weapon! And I definitely wasn't preaching pacifism—I was just trying to protect her by shielding her—"

Lydia sighed and handed him a cup of coffee. "It's because what you did was very noble. Acts like that are rare among nobility—or near-nobility—since few would risk their lives for a retainer. It gets stranger, though." She paused. "Some people are genuinely impressed. But your rapidly growing fame is the exact opposite of what your biggest patron, your grandfather, wants. If your following gets too large on the Collective Space, it might bring unwanted political attention—especially if you're perceived as supporting pacifism while still in the military during a war our nation is partially funding."

Philip blinked. "The Collective Space? And we're at war? What war?"

Lydia placed the back of her hand on her forehead in a melodramatic gesture. "Oh, my poor Master Philip, I forgot about your amnesia. First, there's a massive war raging in the European continent among various states. Second, the Collective Space was your favorite obsession. You even created a media company to salvage your image after your canceled engagement. Basically, it's a fancy name for a magically linked network of stone tabs that lets people read news and post real-time comments. Everyone sees these comments at the bottom of the displayed newsfeed."

"Precisely," Albert confirmed. "Thousands of users see the scandalous articles the instant they're published. And boy, are they commenting."

Lydia rubbed her temples. "Half of them see you as an unstoppable romantic figure who overcame gunfire with sheer desire—'Make Love, Not War' in the flesh. Others claim you set a dangerous precedent by ignoring a lethal threat to revel in the moment. They're even throwing around a slogan about living once, so make every circumstance enjoyable."

"Enjoyable?" Philip snorted. "I literally dove onto Laura to keep her from being shot. There was nothing enjoyable about it."

"That's not what the Collective Space gossip says," Albert replied, tapping the tabloids. "One top commenter wrote, 'I knew it! Captain Philip only gained weight to make a statement! My lovely hero is showing that violence isn't the solution and true passion goes beyond appearances. To prove these points, he intentionally dropped the sword and gained weight just for the right cause!'"

Philip couldn't decide whether to be sad or amused. "They're exaggerating my 'greatness' now."

Lydia patted his shoulder sympathetically. "It could have been much worse. I was worried they'd call you a 'sexually deprived scion lusting after his retainer.'"

Philip's jaw dropped. "Don't tell me you thought my interaction with Laura looked like that!"

Lydia's cheeks flamed with embarrassment.

Albert cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. "Well, at least you've achieved what your media company originally wanted: a marketable image. We can monetize this publicity. Fame and wealth can be interchangeable. Some people now hail you as an idol for modern aristocrats—someone who risks his life to end wars that only enrich the defense industry and satisfy the military's desire to test new weapons. We can build a brand around justice, chivalry, and pacifist ideals. That way, we can rehabilitate your image, make much-needed money for the estate, and if you do get discharged from the military, we can spin it as an honorable resignation based on your principles—thereby preserving the ducal house's reputation and the Duke's support."

Albert grew increasingly excited, nearly babbling about all the possibilities. Philip sipped his coffee and shook his head. "I guess that's the best way to salvage a bad situation."

Lydia managed a faint smile. "At least it would help our finances."

Philip glanced again at the tabloids. "Anyway, I'm just glad the contract is signed and I'm not being buried by hateful comments despite the mishap. So I suppose this is better than I expected."

Albert frowned thoughtfully. "This really shows how easily the media can twist the truth. I'm starting to see your foresight now! Master, you were a misunderstood genius!"

Then Albert, almost giddy with excitement, gave Philip a sudden embrace and apologized for ever doubting him. Philip didn't know how to react to such lavish praise, and a gleam of embarrassed gratitude lit his eyes.

Just as Albert was about to speak again, the telephone on the side table rang shrilly in the quiet morning. Lydia jumped, nearly spilling her coffee. Philip exchanged a puzzled look with her—most calls usually came through the staff lines. This ornate phone in the massive dining room almost never rang. In fact, Philip had never even heard it before.

Judging by Lydia's reaction, she clearly knew who was calling. She hurried to answer it while Albert fell silent, his demeanor suddenly grim. As Philip grew more curious by the second, a commanding voice crackled on the other end.

"Lydia, I believe you owe me an explanation for what happened yesterday."

Part 2

Celestica had spent the last two nights on the same tropical island where she and Winston once enjoyed their extravagant honeymoon. Forty years ago, she had been a clueless young bride looking to her thirty-year-old prince for guidance in everything. Winston, a paragon of confidence, lounged in the sand while she frolicked in sapphire waters, wearing a classy swimsuit. At night, they slipped into a tent with a transparent ceiling to watch the stars, whisper sweet nothings, share gentle caresses—and occasionally rock the shoreline with bouts of laughter.

Back then, she believed they were entirely alone. Ha! Winston had actually deployed two hundred elite guards in the palm groves and perched them in discreet watchtowers along the cliffs. He even arranged a million-rose air-drop that turned the sky into a petal-strewn wonderland. Hired actors posed as "island natives" wearing grass skirts and feeding them grapes in playful displays of devotion. Meanwhile, crack teams of archers, magicians, and swordsmen patrolled the perimeter disguised as "survivors" of naval accidents, all having signed a "we-might-get-obliterated" waiver in exchange for astronomical compensation if Celestica's notoriously destructive powers flared from any intense emotion. Hence, whenever she and Winston disappeared into that tent, the entire security force mentally braced themselves for potential annihilation—just because Winston might please her a bit too well.

Now, four decades later, she was back on that same beach, trying to recapture those golden memories—but with no Winston, no fake natives, and no crowd of attendants waving palm fronds. Two days of baking under the merciless sun reminded her that "living the dream" required sunblock, shade, and cool refreshments. She realized, with dismay, that she hadn't truly eaten in over twenty years. Ever since Winston's death, she had only pretended to eat at state events. No romantic gazes, no playful intimacy, no comedic security brigade—just the scorching sun roasting her like a slow-cooked meal.

Rising from the hot sand, she wandered along the shore. Memories washed over her in waves. She saw Winston as he had been then: thirty, charismatic, radiating love and lust in equal measure. He was her first love and mentor, her first glimpse of a world beyond her lab. While everyone else feared her as a potential apocalypse in formal attire, Winston saw her as the most extraordinary person he had ever met. They laughed and loved for forty-six years until time stole him away. She remembered him going gray, growing frail, and finally dying—leaving her forever youthful and abruptly burdened with the crown. She hated the endless bowing, court nonsense, and suffocating expectations, all of which Winston had once shielded her from. She still chuckled at the memory of him complaining about a trivial water bill while happily spending fortunes on fireworks, circus troupes, and entire battalions so she could splash around on a beach.

She stared at the turquoise sea, a sharp longing slicing her heart. Tears burned her eyes as she pictured Winston's warm smile and protective presence. Then she saw movement at the edge of the palm trees—a broad-shouldered figure with a familiar mop of brunette hair. Her heart lurched. Could the sun be deceiving her? She moved closer and recognized the half-smile that had once made her knees weak.

"Winston!" she gasped, tears welling as she ran across the sand. He stood there looking exactly as he had on their honeymoon: strong, confident, his gaze brimming with that unmistakable affection. She threw herself into his arms, pressing her face to his chest, desperate to believe he was real. When their lips met, it felt as though her decades of loneliness had melted away. His kiss was warm, his embrace sure—everything she remembered, tinged by a quiet sorrow he couldn't quite hide.

But amid her bliss, she noticed flickers of guilt in his eyes. He looked like a man who had paid an impossible price just to hold her again. Her heart clenched, and she whispered, "Winston…is it really you?"

Before he could answer, a sultry female voice, dripping with smug amusement, echoed from above: "Time's up, darling." It was as casual as a bored cat playing with its prey. Winston stiffened, terror flashing in his gaze. Then, in an instant, his body dissolved into pale wisps of light. Celestica stumbled forward, clutching at empty air. She let out a cry of disbelief, her head snapping upward.

On a rocky ledge stood a woman with alabaster skin and a cascade of silver hair that shimmered in the sun. Her crimson eyes gleamed with mischievous glee, and a smirk tugged at her lips. One glance told Celestica that this stranger held immense power—and had no qualms about using it.

"What have you done?" Celestica's voice trembled, a mix of fury and heartbreak. "Who are you?"

The woman tapped a manicured finger to her chin, radiating lazy boredom. "Me? Oh, I'm just his eternal companion," she replied, her lips curling in a feline grin. "Your Winston and I have…an arrangement." She drew out the last word in a singsong tone, delighted by Celestica's confusion. "He was so desperate to see you again—I found it adorable. So I granted his wish."

She gave a careless shrug, as if describing a trivial bargain. "But nothing in this universe is free. Winston belongs to me now. Lucky for you, I'm not the jealous type. My harem is so extensive, I can afford to share."

Celestica's heart thundered. She had known grief, longing, and despair, but never jealousy—until now. The thought of Winston, her Winston, bound to this creature fueled her rage. Something searing ignited in her veins. The silver-haired woman, entirely too smug for her own good, plucked at a stray thread on her outfit as though supremely entertained by Celestica's turmoil.

"It's really quite precious," she said, voice low and mocking. "That love of yours is so intense, it's practically edible."

Celestica's vision narrowed. Grief and fury roared to life, coiling in her chest. In a blink, she vanished and reappeared behind the stranger, sword drawn. The blade glowed with molten light.

"You will not take him from me," she snarled, barely containing the energy rippling through her. "I lost him once; I will not lose him again—not to the likes of you."