Also, if we hit 50 Power Stones this week, I'll release 5 bonus chapters. Every bit of support helps keep this story going strong! 💪✨
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
George's consciousness returned to his main body. Lying on the bed, he recalled everything about Major Chester Phillips. He wasn't sure what was going on with this particular Phillips, but the one he remembered from a previous life was from an extremely high-stakes world. George didn't want to jump to conclusions. Once matters here were settled, he'd look into it further. No point in scaring himself prematurely.
His thoughts drifted to the technical schematics of two battery designs he had been considering.
The next morning, sunlight streamed into the room. George woke up, washed, ate breakfast, and stayed in. He focused his consciousness on his Shadow Clone in Washington, who had been preparing patent materials all night. Satisfied, George withdrew his consciousness.
He spent the rest of the morning standing by the hotel window, absentmindedly playing with a coiled dragon handpiece in one hand while the other hand manipulated a white bone feather—forming it, dissolving it, refining his control. In his mind, the bone material enlarged repeatedly, gradually shaped like a spider weaving a web. The process resembled a 3D printer, building the feather layer by layer. Once finished, he let it fall, over and over again, until a knock interrupted him.
John stood outside the door, looking exhausted and holding a folder. George checked his watch—past 1 p.m. He asked the attendant to send up two lunches.
John handed over the folder. "Mr. Orwell, I started investigating the nine wineries in town. There are a few more in the surrounding areas I haven't gotten to yet. I'll provide that data later."
Ten minutes later, John completed his report. Lunch arrived. After they finished eating, they left in a waiting car bound for the newly acquired PL Winery.
George reviewed the data as they drove. Besides his own, there were nine other wineries in town—some large, some small. They could collectively sell 300,000 liters of mid-to-low-grade wine at about $1.50 per liter and 40,000 liters of high-grade wine at around $4 per liter. Buying it all would cost roughly $610,000.
This didn't include the surrounding wineries, which could add another $250,000 worth. The prices were negotiable. Selling the wine back in the U.S. could yield massive profits—possibly tenfold returns even now.
George instructed John to act as his agent. Starting with these nine, John would receive a 3% bonus on any reductions negotiated. The same terms would apply to the rest.
Contracts must include clauses requiring all wine production for the next ten years to be sold exclusively to George. If the wineries were ever up for sale, he'd have the right of first refusal at equal price.
George painted a grand vision for John—to become the largest, even internationally renowned, winery on the Niagara Peninsula.
Less than two minutes later, they arrived. The gate was open. Over thirty people waited in the courtyard—winemakers and long-term staff from the two original wineries. In peak season, they'd need additional hands.
These workers were anxious to see what kind of boss George would be.
George stepped out and found himself momentarily overwhelmed. Dozens of eyes watched him—a mix of apprehension and hope.
John stepped up. "Everyone, this is Mr. George Orwell, your new employer."
George had regained his composure. He waved. "Hello, everyone. Nice to meet you. It's cold outside. Let's talk inside."
The crowd parted, letting him through. The villa was clean and well-kept. Personal photos were gone, but the furnishings remained.
"John, where's Lady Gwen?" George asked.
"She left yesterday afternoon. Little Gwen came to pick her up after the contract was signed," John replied.
"That's a shame. I meant to ask her about the winery's history. Please tell her she's welcome to visit anytime. I won't change the villa."
George meant it. He'd recently sold the farm where he'd lived most of his life. It held his childhood memories. He hoped one day to return and find it unchanged.
John nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Orwell. I'll let her know. She'll be pleased."
Inside, everyone took their places. The living and dining rooms were connected, and the long table offered ample seating.
George noticed they were hesitant to sit. He had John light the fireplace. "Alright, our senior gentlemen can sit. Everyone else, make yourselves comfortable."
A few older workers took seats.
"Let me get straight to the point," George continued. "First, we're merging the two wineries into one: PL Winery. Second, no one will be laid off for now. Third, everyone gets a 10% raise. Winemakers get 20%. Master craftsmen get 30%."
Cheers erupted. Workers high-fived and congratulated each other.
George let the celebration simmer, then said, "Let's introduce ourselves. I want to know who you all are."
An older gentleman began pointing out workers, naming them and their responsibilities. He introduced himself last as Allison, the former chief winemaker of Gwen Winery and a disciple of Lady Gwen's father.
George appointed Allison as the new chief winemaker. He would lead the production process, while another respected craftsman would receive equal treatment but wouldn't manage operations. Eventually, someone else would oversee the winery, but winemaking decisions would remain in the hands of the craftsmen.
George asked Allison to fence the property, hire more workers as needed, and resume production immediately. Any equipment requiring replacement should be listed.
He kept only the villa and wine cellar keys, leaving the rest with Allison.
Then, George and John went to town. They bought bedding and toiletries. George checked out of the hotel and moved into the villa.
Alone, George explored the house. It was classically American—oak furniture, stair railings, and a beautiful open kitchen. Ten bedrooms. Eleven bathrooms. A walnut-wood study packed with books.
He couldn't understand why Lady Gwen had been so financially strapped. The wine cellar, the furnishings, even the books were worth more than he'd paid.
He laughed. It felt great to score such a bargain. He made a feast in the kitchen—the first time in two lifetimes he'd had a home like this.
After bathing and changing into pajamas from his spatial storage, George reviewed the Shadow Clone's progress with Shikotsumyaku. The control over the wing's shape was improving. Still, he didn't practice indoors.
He created ten more Shadow Clones and sent them to the study to research Africa. The globe on the desk was mostly blank—elegant, but uninformative.
Changing clothes, he went to the wine cellar. He stored 40,000 liters of low-grade wine and whiskey in his spatial storage. If anyone asked, he'd say it was moved overnight. After all, no one else was there.
The next morning, the study Clones had found nothing useful. George wasn't discouraged. He dispelled them and left a new one to help Allison.
Traveling by the same method as before, George returned to Washington in under eight hours. He stopped by the rented warehouse and deposited 5,000 liters each of wine and whiskey.
Back at the hotel, he swapped with the Shadow Clone, wrote a note for Pang Bo to arrange a meeting with the Corleone family, and sent it via a falcon-transformed Clone.
He resumed organizing the patent for the car headrest and sent two Clones to purchase materials for the battery experiment.
The Clones returned before dinner. George placed the materials in storage and prepared to visit Lane's room. Just as he stood from the sofa, he turned his eyes to the door.
— End of Chapter 15 —
đź“ť Translator's Note
Thanks for reading! I'm thinking of launching a Patreon soon with early access to 10–20 chapters—would you be interested? Let me know in the comments!