Chapter 83: The First World
George looked at the now-empty magic circle. It had worked. He was sure of it, though he'd still need to test a few things to be absolutely certain.
He sat cross-legged beside the platform, slowing his breath, letting the meditation calm his mind and bring his mental energy back up. After half an hour, fully recharged, he stretched his thoughts again toward the "star" labeled The Deer and the Cauldron. The moment his energy brushed it, he felt a pull—that same familiar thread, like a beacon—and in the next instant, his awareness sank into the clone.
When the clone opened its eyes, George immediately felt it. The air smelled different, the leaves had a sharp edge to them, and the forest seemed a little too still. He let out a laugh he hadn't realized he'd been holding in. This wasn't just a partial success. It had worked. He was here.
Unlike the main world, he could clearly sense a kind of invisible energy shield around him. He watched it quietly for a moment and saw it slowly thinning out. Judging by the pace, it would last over 200 days. Not bad. It confirmed what he suspected—that the amount of time he could remain in another world was linked to how long the chaos pearl had stored energy for. One year of stored energy meant about the same time spent inside. Fair trade.
There was still more testing to do, but first things first—he needed to find a city.
A little while later, with the Illusion Charm masking him, George wandered into a lively city. It had that earthy smell old cities always did, dust and food and a little too many people packed together, but it was alive.
Half a year passed just like that.
In a courtyard tucked inside the capital, George leaned back in a wooden rocking chair, flipping through an old, yellowed book while a maid stood nearby fanning him. She wasn't particularly skilled at it, but it wasn't about the fanning.
"My Lord, Ju Bao Ge sent over a few more scrolls and paintings. They're claiming these are by Tang Yin," the butler said as he stepped in from the corridor, his hands folded respectfully in front of him, his queue neat and oiled.
"Tang Yin, again? They're not trying to pass off fakes, are they?" George asked, flipping a page without looking up.
"How could they dare? Everyone knows by now our My Lord has a divine eye for spotting forgeries," the butler said with a grin.
George gave a short laugh. "People talk too much."
That night, instead of going out for music and drinks along the canals like usual, George visited his warehouse. He wasn't in the mood for company. Normally, he'd stop by the river to catch a few songs from one of the flower boats, maybe overhear some gossip—those places were excellent for casual intel. But tonight, he had work to do.
He didn't plan to stay in this world much longer. It had been six months, and the faint buzz of the energy shield told him there were only a few weeks left. He didn't want to risk overstaying.
He reached for a cloth bag, charmed earlier with the Extension Charm, and packed it with everything in the warehouse—scrolls, antiques, coins, whatever might be useful or interesting back in the main world. The bag itself looked small, but the space inside could easily hold a caravan.
A month later, George disappeared from the world the same way he came in.
Back in the chaos space, he stood beside the teleportation circle and watched the clone reappear. As soon as it did, he absorbed the memories—it felt like flipping through a book he'd written himself. Familiar but vivid.
He took the cloth bag and left the chaos space, reappearing in the Room of Requirement. The stored energy was completely drained now. To attempt another cross-world trip, he'd need to let the chaos pearl slowly collect more.
Upon the fourth floor of the castle, George opened a new room and started laying out his collection. There were jade pendants, old bronze mirrors, scrolls mounted with silk, rare books, and lacquer boxes. The walls were enchanted with the Extension Charm, so he had more than enough room to display things properly. Some of these would be sent to the art museum near his old campus; he still liked building up his public collections when he could. Felt good, and the press always appreciated it.
The next morning, after breakfast, Fred appeared beside him.
"Mr. Orwell, you must personally attend tonight's government gala. Your name is already on the invitation," he said as he handed over a cream-colored envelope.
George took it, glanced inside, then nodded, "Alright, remind me again after dinner."
That evening, he stepped out of the car with the lead actress from his latest production on his arm. She was wearing a deep red gown, and her smile was polished enough to reflect the camera flashes.
The moment they arrived, the paparazzi swarmed. George offered them a calm smile, guided her up the stairs, and slipped inside with practiced ease.
Reporters in the corner murmured his name. If anyone asked who the most famous man in the United States was right now, it would be him. No debate. He had the looks, the money, the charm, and the aura that made people stop talking when he walked into a room.
"Father, is that the Earl?" a teenage boy asked quietly.
"Yes, Howard, that's the Earl. The most talented Earl in America," Mr. Stark said, adjusting his tie. "Come on. If we're lucky, I can introduce you."
Inside the gala hall, Paul found him first.
"Didn't think you'd actually show up," Paul said, clearly amused. "Guess Fred finally dragged you out of the castle."
George laughed, "You know I only show up when I have to. Couldn't let you hog all the handshakes."
Paul handed him the drink. "The film team's been asking about the script again. They're close to wrapping casting. And you're expected at the Oscars next week."
"I figured. I'll decide about the Oscars tomorrow," George said. "I'll finish the script tonight and send it over in the morning. Also," he turned slightly toward the woman beside him, "let's see if we can get her in for the final audition."
"You mean lead?"
"I mean lead."
Her eyes lit up. "Really? Thank you, George. I won't let you down," she said, standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, leaving a perfect lipstick mark.
George smirked and wiped it gently with his thumb.
Paul lowered his voice, "Everyone wants the lead in this one. Turbulent Times is already rumored to be your best script yet."
"We'll see," George said.
A middle-aged man and a teenage boy walked up then, both dressed in clean and formal.
"Mr. Paul, always good to see you," the man said. "This must be Mr. Orwell, yes?"
Paul nodded, "MIster Orwell, this is Mr. Stark. He's involved with one of our firearm subsidiaries."
George offered a hand. "You can drop the 'Mister' stuff. Just George is fine."
"This is my son, Howard."
George looked at the kid. He was sharp, had that restless look in his eyes, like he was always working out how to build something from scrap.
"Howard, huh? That's a name I'll remember," George said, giving the boy a small nod.
After some polite conversation, the Starks moved on.
George turned to Paul, "That kid's going to do something. Keep an eye on him."
Paul didn't argue. When George said it, it usually meant something.
The crowd around them shifted. A murmur ran through the guests. Someone in a wheelchair was being wheeled in, followed by an entourage. George didn't turn to look right away. He'd seen enough big entrances to know they were rarely as interesting as the ones who didn't make one.
Still, the gala was just getting started.