Exiled to a Foreign Land: Managing a Destitute Estate-Chapter 38: Philip Getting Serious

Philip turned pointedly back to his ledgers. "That's not funny."

"It's a little funny," she countered, adjusting her glasses. With a flick of her wrist, Philip's ledger snapped shut. "You're in no condition for this. Perhaps offer me a modest fee—say, one hundred Continental dollars—and I'll summarize your financial situation. An investment in your sanity."

"One hundred? That's extortionate for a simple briefing!"

The System's eyebrow arched higher. "Would you prefer two hundred?"

"How does that make sense?"

"Experience premium," she explained like she was addressing a child. "I have several billion years of financial expertise. By market standards, I should charge at least a thousand per hour." She tapped her fingers on an imaginary calculator. "I'm offering you a mere two hundred as a special discount."

"Ridiculous," Philip protested. "Experience doesn't guarantee better value."

"Oh my," the System laughed, "you sound exactly like fresh graduates who think they deserve the same pay as industry veterans." She adjusted her heart-shaped glasses dramatically. "In the professional world, companies routinely pay different rates for identical roles based solely on claimed experience. Whether that translates to actual competence is beside the point."

Philip sighed and counted out two hundred Continental dollars. "Fine. Two hundred for your allegedly invaluable wisdom."

The coins vanished with a satisfying "cha-ching" sound. "Excellent investment! See? You're learning." With a snap of her fingers, the scattered documents organized themselves into neat piles. "First, I can only summarize information you have access to. Anything beyond that—like the Duke's detailed records—is off-limits. Plausibility rules."

"Yes, yes, just get on with it."

"Let's distinguish between your personal assets and the Redwood Family Estate Trust, which you manage as trustee. The Trust legally owns most of what you use—the 10,000-acre estate, vehicles, everything else."

"Right. Crystal clear."

"You're effectively the sole current beneficiary and manager of the Trust," she explained. "In a delicious irony, you're living in a fancy rental where you're both tenant and superintendent. The Trust exists to prevent people exactly like old Philip from spending everything on pretty ladies and bad investments."

Philip chuckled. "His investment record was certainly bad. So what exactly do I own?"

"Your personal fortune amounts to approximately 230,000 Continental dollars—impressive by common standards, pitiful by aristocratic ones." She flipped a page. "You don't own a single property since selling your entire rental portfolio to finance your charitable initiatives. After the Rosetta incident, your grandfather ensured no more funds would enter your personal accounts, fearing you'd follow your father's financial mismanagement."

"My father?" Philip asked, genuinely curious.

"Captain Gabriel Redwood—exceptional soldier, terrible businessman. The Duke deemed him financially incompetent and created the Trust to preserve family wealth for future generations, hoping specifically for a financially savvy grandson." She peered over her glasses. "Spoiler alert: old Dukie got a rude awakening."

Philip winced. "I gather the Duke wasn't proud of old Philip."

"The hand-kissing incident with Celestica was just the final straw," the System confirmed. "The Duke had watched old Philip's financial blunders for years with horror. Imagine building a business empire from nothing, earning a noble title through service, only to watch your grandson waste it on vanity projects and impulsive romantic gestures."

"So the Trust... how much is it worth?"

"Now you're asking the right questions!" An ethereal balance sheet appeared between them. "The Redwood Family Estate Trust holds assets valued at approximately 5.8 million Continental dollars, with debts of roughly 700,000—giving it a net worth of about 5.1 million."

Philip's jaw dropped. "That's... astronomical."

"Indeed. Though much is tied up in illiquid assets—this property, luxury rentals, business investments, and non-redeemable GICs. Your available cash flow is much more limited, hence your ongoing challenges."

"If the Trust is so wealthy, why was the estate struggling with basic expenses?"

"That's where it gets interesting." The System adjusted her glasses. "After the Celestica incident, old Philip tried to change. To restrain himself, he locked 99 percent of the Trust's cash flow in non-redeemable GICs so that he could rein in his spending. Hey, you can't spend what you don't have."

Philip covered his face in disbelief.

"But the Trust has numerous obligations, many established during old Philip's romantically motivated periods. For instance..." She tapped a particular entry. "The Redwood-Woterbatch Children's Foundation."

"What's that?"

"Only the largest privately sponsored orphanage chain in Yorgoria!" she announced with mock grandeur. "Established by old Philip and Rosetta during their engagement. The Trust contributes 3,000 Continental dollars monthly."

"That's 36,000 annually... just for orphanages?"

"Yes! And the best part?" Her smile turned wicked. "Old Philip invested 50,000 from his personal fortune, separate from the 150,000 he spent on Rosetta. But with just 30,000 invested, Rosetta secured 51 votes to his 49 votes, and appointed most of the directors. So yes, everything is possible with love!"

"Can I cancel this arrangement?"

"Not without significant reputational damage to the Redwood name," she replied. "Legally, it's airtight. You could reduce the monthly contribution, but eliminating it? Social suicide—and the Duke would be on your back instantly. Plus, the orphanages genuinely help children, whatever their... other purposes might be."

"Other purposes?" Philip asked sharply.

"I've already delivered more than I was paid for," she said, studying her nails. "Some things you'll discover on your own. Now, let's discuss your personal finances in excruciating detail, since that's what you actually paid for."

She produced another ethereal balance sheet:

UNAUDITED FINANCIAL STATEMENTS OF PHILIP REDWOOD

(Not signed, because no respectable accountant would put their name on this mess)

As of 2025 CE

(All figures in Continental Dollars, rounded to nearest zero)

ASSETS

Cash and Liquid Assets ................. 2,000

GICs (Totally non-redeemable before 2026 CE) ..... 225,000

Securities (Desperately Clinging to Value) ...... 3,000 *see footnote 1

Other Assets ....................... 2,000 *see footnote 1

TOTAL ASSETS .................. 232,000

LIABILITIES

Credit Card Debt (Lifesaving services) .......... 3,000

Other Debt ......................... 0

TOTAL LIABILITIES ................... 3,000

NET WORTH ................... 229,000

OFF BALANCE SHEET ITEMS (Things we pretend don't exist)

- One (1) Orphanage Network (51 percent controlled by the woman who dumped him)

- One (1) Media Company draining 1,440/month (but hey, he is influencing public opinion!)

- One (1) Daycare operation (50 percent ownership of something worth absolutely nothing)

- One (1) Familiar masquerading as mistress (value: priceless, maintenance cost: astronomical)

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Footnote 1: Securities consist primarily of investments in Yorgorian Pipeline Limited and Royal Estate Financing Trust—because an aristocrat must invest in dividend aristocrats

Philip studied the floating document. "So I have 230,000 in liquid assets, but most is in illiquid GICs, with the rest in dividend stocks and cash?"

"Precisely! Old Philip may have been a romantic fool, but he loved his dividend income. Nothing says 'aristocrat' quite like buying 'dividend aristocrats.'"

"How is the media company draining 1,440 Continental dollars monthly?"

"Ah, Redwood Publishing—old Philip's attempt to clear his name and 'give voice to the common people.'" She made exaggerated air quotes. "That 1,440 breaks down to: 140 in direct cash infusion monthly, plus 1,300 in overtime pay for estate staff helping with distribution and printing because the company is perpetually understaffed."

"Surprisingly expensive," Philip remarked.

"That's not all that's expensive," she replied, flipping through her ledger. "The childcare service network you started for working mothers like Elizabeth costs you 270 Continental dollars monthly."

"The daycare is losing money?"

"Of course! In this world, the wealthy employ nannies. Working mothers who can't afford nannies aren't great consumers in terms of purchasing power. You instructed management to focus on service rather than profit. But I guess that's the price of a clear conscience!" She adjusted her glasses. "However, Lydia convinced the provincial government to match your contribution—another 270 monthly—after outlining the economic benefits of keeping mothers in the workforce."

"Impressive," Philip said, delighted.

"Don't get too excited," she warned with a smirk. "For their support, you only retain 50 percent ownership, and the daycare is effectively worth zero as it is now operating like a public service. That's why it's listed under 'Things We Pretend Don't Exist.'"

"So it's essentially..."

"A conscience-soothing money pit? But it generates something far more valuable than money," she leaned forward conspiratorially. "Gratitude. Hundreds of working families view you as their champion. That loyalty could prove handy someday, especially in these politically unstable times."

She flipped through her notes again. "Meanwhile, the media company has a theoretical value of about 2,000 Continental dollars, and the orphanage network is a charity—so financially speaking: nothing."

Philip stared at the balance sheet, understanding dawning. "So everything I thought I owned..."

"Is largely an illusion propped up by the Trust," she confirmed cheerfully. "Welcome to aristocracy! It's all smoke, mirrors, and trust accounting."

"So old Philip was a trust baby."

"Yes indeed," she agreed with a mischievous grin. "And we all know you can't trust trust babies to manage trust monies within trusts."

Philip groaned at the terrible pun. "Wait, you mentioned deducting money instead of mana. So how did you get access to more cash if the proceeds of the Vorak transaction did not go to my personal accounts?"

"When there was liquid cash in the trust, I simply siphoned it to your personal account."

Philip's eyes widened. "That's why Albert questioned those unexplained withdrawals?"

"Bingo!" she snapped her fingers.

"I suspected as much," Philip muttered. "But Natalia's been extremely active lately with the riot and everything. How come Albert hasn't noticed unusual withdrawals?"

"Ta-da!" she twirled. "Smart guy! Recently I've been deducting from your liquid cash and using your credit card. That's why your card is now 3,000 Continental dollars in debt and your cash plus GICs and stocks total 230,000 instead of 250,000."

Philip's jaw dropped. "What?! That's 23,000 Continental dollars since the last assassination! You charged me a year's salary for 77 workers in just weeks! That's excessive! You're ripping me off!"

"No, no, no," she shook her head with exaggerated patience. "Remember, life is priceless. Natalia provides lifesaving service each time."

She leaned forward with a sly smile. "Besides, most aristocrats would gladly pay a hefty price for a beautiful woman who can snap a man's neck between her thighs..."

Just as Philip was about to protest, Albert knocked and entered. "Excuse the interruption, Master Philip, but there's a letter from the Duke requiring immediate attention..."

Philip thanked him, waiting until Albert departed before breaking the Duke's seal. As he read, his expression grew troubled.

"You don't look well..." the System observed, teasing gone from her voice.

Philip looked up, face pale. "The Duke is visiting next week. He's heard about the 'recent unpleasantness' and wants to assess the situation personally. And he specifically mentions wanting to meet my... mistress."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Well, well, well. Things just got interesting."

Part 2

In the heart of Albecaster, a very different Sunday‑morning ritual was unfolding. The Continental Republic's ambassador to the Avalondian Empire, Joshua Thornway, known simply as "Josh" in certain intelligence circles, strolled casually through the Emerald Gardens, ostensibly enjoying the fine weather. In reality, he was engaging in what his younger agents mockingly called "prehistoric intelligence gathering."

Josh paused by a particular rosebush, pretending to admire its blooms while deftly extracting a small paper envelope from a hidden compartment in the bench beside it. Yes—actual paper. In an age when messages could be transmitted instantaneously through the Vortex of Knowledge, encrypted via seventeen layers of security protocols, or even psychically imprinted through enchanted quartz crystals, Josh insisted on using paper notes hidden in public gardens.

"Archaic methods yield modern results," he would lecture his subordinates, who rolled their eyes behind his back. "While everyone scans for magical‑transmission signatures and monitors the Vortex nodes, nobody checks under park benches anymore."

His younger informants had initially protested. "Sir, we could just send an enchanted Messenger Wisp! It would reach you in seconds, self‑destruct after reading, and leave no trace!"

"Exactly what they'd expect," Josh replied with the smug superiority of a man explaining colors to the blind. "When was the last time you think imperial counter‑intelligence agents checked for physical dead drops? Probably before even I was born!"

As he continued his walk, he discreetly opened the sealed message containing information written in what he grandly called "Thornway's Cipher"—which was essentially just his childhood language that he'd invented at age eight by replacing each letter with arbitrary symbols. His subordinates found it absurdly easy to learn but humored him nonetheless.

The message contained reports about the Yorgorian unrest. But what truly caught his eye was the section about the mysterious blonde defender of Redwood Estate who had become an overnight sensation.

Josh smiled to himself. Just yesterday, he had received orders directly from the President himself to thoroughly investigate this woman. The directive had arrived via the most sophisticated quantum‑entangled communication device the Republic possessed—technology so advanced it could transmit messages instantaneously across any distance.

Naturally, Josh had immediately drafted his response on parchment, sealed it with wax, and arranged for it to be physically carried back to the Republic's capital by agents traveling on plane.

His solution to the investigation was even more brilliantly simple: do absolutely nothing. Why waste Republic resources when the paranoid Imperial intelligence apparatus would undoubtedly investigate the woman themselves? His network of informants was already deeply embedded in the highest levels of the Avalondian hierarchy. He would simply wait for them to do all the work, then steal their findings.

"Work smarter, not harder," Josh muttered to himself, feeling enormously pleased with his own cleverness as he started reading the message. But then his eyes fixated on a line in the text. "What! The lazy bastards are waiting for us to investigate?"