Breaking the Multiverse for You

Micheal von Shelb sat slumped in his high-backed chair, the ornate carvings of the wood pressing into his back as if mocking his predicament. The warm glow of the table lamp illuminated the papers and scattered tools on his desk, but its golden light failed to dispel the shadows of doubt creeping into his mind. His sharp blue eyes were fixed blankly on the lamp's soft glow, his thoughts consumed by the absurdity of his latest challenge.

"The man-bra," he muttered, the words barely audible over the soft crackle of the fireplace. A self-deprecating chuckle escaped his lips, tinged with frustration and disbelief. Hours earlier, he had declared it with bravado—a playful jab at the ridiculous societal expectations that seemed to define his family. Now, it felt like a weight dragging him deeper into humiliation.

The scene replayed vividly in his mind: Duke Louis von Shelb, his imposing figure framed by the grand study's mahogany walls, gazing down at Micheal with thinly veiled disapproval. His father's words, cutting and sharp, echoed once more.

"Ah, yes. Perhaps the boy who cannot stomach a sword and avoids horseback riding might find his destiny in undergarments."

The words had stung, their condescension palpable. Micheal's response had been equally bold and absurd—a pointed defiance of the Duke's expectations. He could still see Reginald, the family's ever-stoic butler, standing quietly in the corner, his lips twitching in what could only be described as a restrained smirk.

"Fine," Micheal had said with mock grandeur. "The man-bra will revolutionize society."

At the time, it felt like a moment of triumph, a clever retort to his father's expectations. Yet now, seated alone in his dimly lit study, it felt more like folly. He leaned back, staring at the intricate plasterwork on the ceiling, its vines and flowers weaving a silent tapestry of mockery.

A faint chime interrupted his brooding. The sleek screen of his communication tablet—the com-tab—lit up with notifications, its blue-white glow cutting through the warm amber light of the room. Micheal picked it up, scrolling through the messages in their group chat.

Erwin Calden: "Riding club at noon tomorrow. Don't be late, Shelb. You need the fresh air!"

Lysander Valmont: "Let us hope Micheal can at least pretend to enjoy himself for once."

Rupert Greystone: "He's probably sketching plans for a mechanical horse instead."

Micheal von Shelb: "Horseless carriage, thank you very much."

The banter brought a faint smile to Micheal's lips, but his amusement was short-lived. His friends' teasing about the riding club meeting at noon struck a nerve, dredging up memories of his father's insistence on horseback training. Micheal had loathed horses ever since—his aversion bordering on hatred. It was this distaste that had driven him to invent the horseless carriage, a vehicle powered by mana stones, as an alternative to traditional transport.

The prototypes were already in limited use on the estate, their sleek forms gliding smoothly over cobblestone paths. Yet the endeavor was far from complete. Training drivers had proven unexpectedly challenging, and his plans for large-scale implementation—and the coveted commercial patent—remained in limbo.

He set the com-tab aside, its notifications continuing to ping with messages he no longer read. Instead, his thoughts turned inward, drawn irresistibly to the repository of novels in his dreams. The com-tab itself, once heralded as the greatest invention of the Healian Empire, had been revealed as a creation of a transmigrator—a soul from another world who had adapted the "mobile phone" from their original realm into this one.

Micheal leaned forward, intrigued. His dream had already proven disturbingly accurate, and the repository seemed boundless. Testing its power, he closed his eyes and imagined his mother, Duchess Eleanor von Shelb. Instantly, fragments of her story emerged with astonishing clarity. She had once been a prime candidate for crown princess, celebrated for her beauty and grace. Yet, beneath her poised exterior, she had harbored unspoken feelings for Raphael Valoria, now Emperor and Micheal's father-in-law.

Micheal shifted uncomfortably in his chair as the repository revealed more. His mother had set aside her feelings after witnessing the happiness between Raphael and Celeste Valoria, the "wonder child" destined to become Empress. To Micheal's awkward amusement, Eleanor had even helped Raphael court Celeste.

"Wonderful," he muttered dryly. "My mother had a crush on my father-in-law."

The revelations didn't stop there. His father, Louis, had been assigned as Raphael's guard companion during the latter's youth, a role imposed by the former Emperor. Observing Eleanor's quiet affection for Raphael, Louis had taken it upon himself to spare her the humiliation of being passed over as crown princess. His proposal at the Harvest Festival Ball, delivered with grand flair, had not only restored her honor but cemented her status as Duchess.

Micheal's amusement deepened. "Father, the seasoned side character," he murmured, shaking his head. The more he uncovered, the more it seemed Louis von Shelb had a knack for pivotal yet secondary roles in the narratives of others. Whether saving Eleanor's dignity or guiding Raphael in his youth, his father's actions spoke of quiet influence, always in the background yet crucial to the main plot.

Even the Emperor's story, chronicled in the novel The Healing Snow, hinted at tragic alternate endings. The book painted a picture of love and happiness, but Micheal now knew the harsh reality: Celeste had died young, their child had been swapped at birth, and Raphael had become a hollow shell of his former self.

The thought struck a chord deep within Micheal. If novels could be rewritten, perhaps reality could as well. His determination solidified, a resolve burning bright against the shadows of doubt.

"I'll change the ending," he whispered. "For Magda. For me."

His gaze lingered on the com-tab as the messages continued to trickle in. The cheerful banter of his friends contrasted sharply with the weight of his thoughts. Exhaustion seeped into his bones as he leaned back in his chair, his mind still racing with the implications of the repository's revelations. Gradually, the glow of the lamp blurred, and his head tilted forward. Sleep claimed him where he sat, surrounded by the quiet hum of his inventions and the relentless ping of unanswered messages.

The room fell silent save for the faint flicker of the fireplace, a testament to the restless genius who dreamed of rewriting his fate.

Micheal stirred awake, his neck stiff and his back protesting against the poor posture of having fallen asleep at his desk. The faint golden light of dawn streamed through the ornate curtains, casting a soft glow on his cluttered workspace. The com-tab lay on the floor, its screen still illuminated. He picked it up, wincing as he straightened.

The device displayed an avalanche of messages from his friends, their cheerful banter filling the screen. They were discussing their meeting at the riding club, the tone of their texts ranging from excitement to friendly jabs.

Micheal groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Of course, they didn't forget," he muttered, his voice hoarse from sleep. He scrolled through the messages, noting Lysander's reserved acceptance, Erwin's sarcastic commentary about Micheal's likely tardiness, and Rupert's confident prediction that Micheal would somehow charm his way into arriving late.

Stretching his stiff limbs, he rose and shuffled toward his wardrobe. He selected a crisp, embroidered white shirt paired with a meticulously tailored aristocratic suit in deep navy. The sapphire cufflinks glinted in the morning light, a perfect match for his piercing blue eyes. As he examined himself in the mirror, he murmured dryly, "Dressed to impress for a club I'd rather avoid."

Before he could button his cuffs, a whirlwind burst into the room in the form of Barnaby Trent, his indefatigable personal butler.

"Master Micheal! You're running late!" Barnaby's voice carried both a reprimand and an air of absolute authority. His green eyes sparkled with determination, and his tousled chestnut-brown hair only added to the chaotic energy he exuded.

Micheal raised an eyebrow, bemused. "Good morning to you too, Barnaby. Did you sleep, or were you lying in wait like a hawk?"

"No time for wit, Master Micheal!" Barnaby announced, already bustling around the room with the speed and precision of a seasoned battlefield commander. "Punctuality is the hallmark of nobility!"

Micheal chuckled as Barnaby descended upon him, brushing his platinum blonde hair into loose waves with alarming efficiency. "Must you always attack my mornings like a hurricane?"

"It's my solemn duty," Barnaby quipped, tying Micheal's cravat with a flourish that would make a magician jealous. "And you, sir, are a tornado of procrastination. Someone must restore order."

Before Micheal could protest further, Barnaby's strength became as evident as his speed. In a seamless motion, he hoisted Micheal's arm over his shoulder and practically half-carried him toward the door with the ease of someone moving a feather.

"Barnaby! Let me walk on my own!" Micheal exclaimed, caught between laughter and exasperation.

"There's no time for that, Master Micheal!" Barnaby declared, his voice resolute as he maneuvered them both with the force of a maelstrom. His wiry frame belied an almost superhuman strength, and Micheal found himself swept along like cargo in the tide.

"Honestly, Barnaby, it's like being carried by a runaway horse," Micheal muttered.

Barnaby grinned, unbothered by his master's complaints. "Well, sir, perhaps if you enjoyed horses more, punctuality wouldn't be such a challenge!"

Micheal rolled his eyes. "Touché."

As they approached the sleek, horseless carriage waiting in the courtyard, Micheal allowed himself a moment of pride. The mana-stone-powered vehicle gleamed under the morning sun, a testament to his own ingenuity. Yet, his childhood memories of his father forcing him to ride horses soured any admiration for equestrian pursuits.

The carriage hummed softly as it powered up, its intricate design blending utility with elegance. Barnaby all but hoisted Micheal inside before climbing in himself, his unrelenting energy undiminished.

"To the riding club!" Barnaby announced to the driver, who saluted with a grin and set the vehicle into motion.

Micheal leaned back in the plush seats, watching the scenery blur past as they sped toward the club. Despite the chaos of the morning, a small smile tugged at his lips. With Barnaby's unrelenting support and the odd comfort of their banter, Micheal felt ready to face whatever the day held—though he silently prayed the riding club meeting would be mercifully brief.

As the carriage rolled to a smooth stop outside the grand gates of the club, Micheal stepped out, his usual confident air returning. He adjusted his cravat, his mind already preparing witty retorts for whatever his friends had in store.

"Well, Barnaby," he said, glancing back at his butler with a smirk, "it seems your chaos paid off. Right on time, as usual."

"Of course, Master Micheal," Barnaby replied, his tone smug. "Punctuality isn't just a virtue—it's an art. Now, go dazzle them, sir."

With that, Micheal strode toward the club's entrance, his earlier reluctance fading under the warm glow of the morning sun.

The riding club was alive with activity, the crisp morning air carrying the sounds of laughter, neighing horses, and the rustle of fine fabrics. Nobles in their tailored riding attire mingled, exchanging pleasantries while their grooms prepared their mounts. Micheal, however, approached their usual meeting spot with the energy of a man heading to his execution.

Erwin Calden spotted him first, leaning casually against the stable wall. "Well, well, look who finally decided to grace us with his presence!" he called out, his voice carrying a mischievous edge. "Did Barnaby finally drag you here by the collar? Or did he carry you like a damsel in distress again?"

Rupert Greystone chuckled, tipping an imaginary hat in Micheal's direction. "I'd wager Barnaby gave his usual 'punctuality is nobility' speech. Or perhaps he found a new line—did he quote scripture this time?"

Micheal sighed, rolling his shoulders as though shaking off the weight of their teasing. "No scripture, just sheer brute force. I swear, that man could carry a horse if he wanted to."

"Given how he practically carries you," Erwin shot back, grinning, "that's not far off."

Lysander Valmont, ever the voice of calm among the chaos, raised an eyebrow. "I don't know why you're complaining, Micheal. Barnaby is the reason you're not perpetually late."

"I'd prefer to arrive late and intact," Micheal retorted, his tone wry.

Erwin tilted his head, scrutinizing Micheal. "Hmm. You seem… off today. You're usually sharper with your comebacks. Did you get cursed, or is Barnaby just that effective?"

Rupert leaned in conspiratorially. "Or—dare I say it—did you wake up early of your own volition? That would explain the tragic pallor."

Micheal hesitated, his usual wit faltering. He shuffled awkwardly, glancing at the horses grazing nearby as though they might offer a distraction. The others exchanged glances, their teasing easing into curiosity.

"What's wrong, Micheal?" Lysander asked, his tone quieter now, probing but not pushing.

Micheal sighed, running a hand through his platinum blonde hair. "You'll laugh."

"Oh, absolutely," Erwin said without missing a beat. "But only after we hear what's bothering you."

Micheal hesitated, his hand lingering at the back of his neck. Finally, he blurted, "I told my father I'd start a business."

Rupert blinked. "That's it? Micheal, that's hardly—"

"And," Micheal interrupted, his voice low, "I told him I'd make a man-bra."

The ensuing silence was broken only by a faint snort from Erwin, which quickly devolved into full-blown laughter. "A man-bra? Oh, Micheal, you've outdone yourself this time!"

Rupert, struggling to suppress a grin, added, "Of all the things you could invent—why that?"

Lysander, though maintaining his composure, couldn't hide the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. "I assume there's a story behind this… unique decision."

Micheal groaned. "It was supposed to be a clever response to his challenge. He said I couldn't start a business in a field the family hasn't already touched. And since the House of Shelb is involved in practically everything—"

"You went for the one thing no one else would dare," Rupert finished, his grin widening. "Classic Micheal."

"I didn't think it through," Micheal muttered, the tips of his ears reddening.

The conversation shifted as they began brainstorming, their initial laughter giving way to thoughtful discussion. "Let's be honest," Erwin said, gesturing to the group, "none of us would need this product. We're well-built, sure, but we're not… over-jacked."

Lysander nodded. "Exactly. The type of men who'd need something like this are aura users. Their bodies bulk up to contain their aura reserves, which makes normal clothes ill-fitting."

"Ah," Rupert said with mock gravity, "the walking sculptures our dear Micheal loves so much."

Micheal scowled. "Don't remind me. My father wanted me to be one of them, but thanks to my heart, I can't even use aura."

A brief silence followed, the weight of Micheal's words settling over the group. It was Rupert who broke it, his tone lighter. "Well, if it's any consolation, I'd rather have your brains than their biceps any day. Not that it's a high bar."

Erwin snorted. "True. Besides, who needs aura when you've got friends like us to carry you through life?"

Micheal couldn't help but smile, the tension in his shoulders easing. "Thanks, I think."

Rupert leaned back against the stable, a thoughtful expression on his face. "You know, Micheal, you've got something else those aura users don't."

"What's that?" Micheal asked, raising an eyebrow.

"A prodigious mage for a wife," Rupert said with a sly grin. "Magda Valoria—excuse me, von Shelb—is practically a legend. Ten simultaneous spells? That's insane."

Lysander nodded, his silver eyes gleaming. "She's remarkable. Honestly, Micheal, you're lucky. Even if your marriage was arranged, you've got someone extraordinary by your side."

Erwin chimed in, his tone uncharacteristically earnest. "Seriously, Micheal. We just want you to be happy. If anyone deserves that, it's you."

Micheal looked down, his expression softening. "Thanks, guys. I—" He paused, then shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Let's just say I'm figuring things out."

As their banter resumed, Micheal felt a flicker of warmth in his chest. Perhaps, with friends like these—and a wife like Magda—he could navigate the chaos of his life and find his own way, one absurd idea at a time.