Breaking the Multiverse for You

The group's laughter began to settle, the warmth of camaraderie lingering in the cool air of the riding club. Rupert tossed another pebble into the water trough, creating ripples that mirrored the lively conversation between the friends.

"You know," Lysander began, leaning casually against the stable post, his tone tinged with amusement, "I might actually have a lead for this man-bra idea. You all remember Maggie Armond, right? She was a senior of mine at the magic tower."

Rupert perked up, his interest piqued. "Countess Maggie? Married to that beast of a man, Count Drifter Armond? The guy whose shirts always seem to fall apart?"

"That's the one," Lysander said with a smirk. "Apparently, no matter how high-quality the material, Drifter's clothes have a nasty habit of ripping at the worst possible moments. The poor man can't even attend a formal dinner without his muscles flexing and accidentally tearing his sleeves."

Erwin howled with laughter, slapping his thigh. "You're kidding! That's priceless. The dragon-slaying mercenary turned noble can't keep his clothes intact? Oh, the irony."

"It's not entirely his fault," Lysander explained, his tone dipping into sympathy with a hint of amusement. "He's not used to the uptight occasions of the noble society. He tenses up in those situations—muscle memory from his mercenary days, I suppose. Maggie's been tearing her hair out trying to find a solution. She's even started enchanting armors just so he has something to wear at high-society gatherings."

Rupert chuckled. "But you can't wear enchanted armor to a tea party, can you? The nobles would faint."

"Exactly," Lysander agreed. "Maggie is desperate for a fashionable, functional solution. Something durable enough for Drifter's... quirks."

Micheal frowned thoughtfully. "So you think she'd be interested in collaborating?"

"More than interested," Lysander said, his smirk widening. "She's been vocal about the lack of innovation in men's formalwear, especially for people with... unique physiques. Honestly, I think she might even like you, Micheal. You both share a common bond as victims of the Emperor's taste in marriage arrangements."

Micheal shot him a dry look. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

Rupert grinned. "It's not a bad idea, Micheal. Maggie is well-connected, and if anyone can help you develop something that blends functionality and style, it's her. Plus, if it works for Count Drifter, it could work for a whole niche market."

"And let's not forget," Erwin chimed in, his grin mischievous, "you'd get the chance to meet one of the Empire's most famous couples. That alone should make it worth the effort."

Micheal sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Fine. Lysander, reach out to her. See if she's willing to meet."

Lysander nodded, already planning his approach. "I'll send a message today. Knowing Maggie, she'll be intrigued enough to at least hear you out."

"And what about Drifter?" Micheal asked, a hint of wariness in his voice. "You sure he won't punch me for suggesting he needs... structural support?"

"Oh, he might," Rupert teased. "But if Maggie's on your side, you'll be safe. Mostly."

The group shared another round of laughter, the tension of Micheal's earlier worries fading into the background. As they moved toward the riding arena, their banter continued, each friend offering increasingly ridiculous suggestions for the name of Micheal's invention.

Through the humor and camaraderie, Micheal couldn't help but feel a sense of determination rekindle. Perhaps, with the right allies—friends and unexpected collaborators alike—this absurd idea might just turn into something meaningful.

The evening sun dipped below the horizon, casting long, golden shadows over the von Shelb estate as Micheal's carriage hummed to a stop at the manor's entrance. Stepping out, he was greeted by Barnaby's ever-energetic bow and brisk announcement.

"Welcome back, Master Micheal. Dinner will be served shortly."

"Later, Barnaby," Micheal replied, his mind already swirling with the events of the day and the daunting task ahead.

He strode through the grand hallways of the estate, the soft tap of his boots echoing in the quiet. Reaching his study, he pushed open the heavy oak doors to find Reginald waiting for him, standing inside stiffly as always, his every movement an embodiment of propriety. Next to him was a younger man, clutching a neatly folded notebook as though it were a lifeline.

"Master Micheal," Reginald began, his tone clipped but respectful, "may I present your new assistant, Arthur Gray?"

Arthur stepped forward, bowing deeply, though his movements were tinged with a nervous energy. His neatly combed hair and sharp suit screamed competence, but the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth hinted at apprehension.

"It is an honor to serve, my lord," Arthur said, his voice steady but a shade too high to be entirely composed.

Micheal studied the young man for a moment, his eyes narrowing as a flicker of recognition passed through his mind. Ah, the future right-hand man to the Duke of the North, he thought, recalling Arthur's role from one of the novels in his mental repository. Let's see how this supposed paragon of efficiency fares here.

"Arthur," Micheal said finally, motioning to a chair across from his desk, "let's see if you're up to the task. Take a seat."

Arthur obeyed, clutching his notebook like a shield, his eyes darting nervously around the room as though expecting some grand test to leap out from the shadows.

Micheal settled into his chair and pulled a blank sheet of parchment toward him. Grabbing a pencil, he began sketching with swift, deliberate strokes. Arthur leaned forward slightly, watching intently, his curiosity momentarily overriding his nervousness. Reginald seeing that both of them were getting along well slipped away unnoticed.

"So," Micheal began casually, "we're going to discuss my latest project."

"Yes, my lord," Arthur said, nodding earnestly. "How can I assist?"

Micheal smirked, sensing the assistant's naive enthusiasm. "You've heard of Count Drifter, haven't you?"

Arthur blinked. "The dragon-slaying knight? Of course, my lord. His exploits are legendary."

"Indeed," Micheal said, adding another line to his sketch. "And have you heard about his... unique wardrobe challenges?"

Arthur hesitated, his brow furrowing. "You mean... his clothing tearing during formal events?"

"Exactly." Micheal tapped the parchment with his pencil for emphasis. "I aim to solve that problem. Behold—my new invention: the man-bra."

Arthur froze, his wide-eyed expression resembling a puppy that had just been shown a very shiny, very dangerous object. "The... man-bra?" he echoed, as though the words themselves were foreign and potentially harmful.

"Yes." Micheal turned the sketch toward him with a flourish. "A garment designed to provide support and comfort for men with... exaggerated physiques. Think of it as a fusion of function and fashion."

Arthur stared at the sketch as though it might bite him. The image depicted a broad band with adjustable straps, designed to wrap securely around the chest. "And... this is for men, my lord?" he asked tentatively.

"That's right," Micheal said, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied grin. "Think of all the aura-wielders and muscle-bound knights out there. They'll thank me."

Arthur's polite mask cracked slightly, his expression shifting to one of barely contained horror. "I see... and you believe there's a market for this?"

"Absolutely," Micheal replied, ignoring the assistant's evident skepticism. "Who wouldn't want a solution to Count Drifter's... wardrobe disasters?"

Arthur's lips twitched, as though he were struggling to contain a multitude of thoughts—none of them safe to voice. "It's certainly... creative, my lord."

"Creative?" Micheal raised an eyebrow. "You mean absurd."

Arthur flinched. "I wouldn't dream of saying so, my lord."

Micheal chuckled, leaning forward conspiratorially. "Relax, Arthur. In time you'll either get used to my eccentricities—or run away screaming. Either way, it'll be an experience."

Arthur managed a weak smile, though his grip on the notebook tightened as Micheal continued sketching. "And... how will we proceed with this project, my lord?"

"Well," Micheal said, jotting down notes in the margins, "we'll need volunteers for fittings, a tailor willing to think outside the box, and materials that can handle both tension and style."

Arthur's mouth opened and closed a few times, much like a fish out of water. "Volunteers, my lord?"

"Yes," Micheal said with a grin. "Don't worry. I won't ask you to model."

Arthur let out a faint, involuntary laugh—half relief, half disbelief. "That's... good to know, my lord."

As the meeting concluded, Micheal pulled a small box from a drawer and opened it, revealing a gleaming pocket watch. The intricate engravings on its surface caught the light, reflecting a craftsmanship that was both delicate and robust.

"Here," Micheal said, handing it to Arthur. "A token of appreciation for your bravery in joining this madness."

Arthur accepted the watch gingerly, as though it might explode. "Thank you, my lord. I... I'll do my best."

"Good man," Micheal said, clapping him on the shoulder as Arthur stood. "Welcome to the adventure."

Arthur left the study with the watch clutched tightly in his hand, his mind racing with thoughts of man-bras, dragons, and the eccentric master he'd just pledged himself to serve. Behind him, Micheal leaned back in his chair, a smirk playing on his lips.

"This," Micheal muttered to himself, "is going to be interesting."

The estate was cloaked in silence, the day's events having finally given way to the stillness of night. Micheal von Shelb, now restless and unable to sleep, found himself pacing the grand halls. His mind churned with thoughts of the absurd man-bra project, the laughter of his friends, and the sudden, unshakable feeling of responsibility that had taken root deep within him.

He hadn't intended to wander toward Magda's quarters, yet his aimless footsteps carried him there. The corridor was quiet, the faint scent of lavender lingering in the air. A soft light spilled out from the slightly ajar door of her chambers, casting a warm glow onto the ornate floor. Micheal paused, suddenly aware of where he was.

"Why here?" The thought gave him pause. He frowned, debating whether to leave, but his curiosity—or perhaps something more—compelled him to glance inside.

Through the gap, he saw her. Magda was seated by the window, her slender figure bathed in the soft glow of an enchanted lamp. A book rested in her hands, its pages turning steadily under her delicate fingers. Her expression was calm, her crimson eyes scanning the text with a quiet intensity that made her seem almost otherworldly.

Micheal's thoughts scattered as he watched her. There was a stillness to her presence that contrasted sharply with the constant noise in his mind. She was a mystery, he realized—one he had never truly tried to solve. For so long, he had avoided dwelling on their relationship, dismissing her as just another piece in the political game of their fathers. Yet now, he couldn't help but wonder.

"How much do I really know about her? About what she's endured to get here?"

A pang of guilt shot through him, followed by an unfamiliar surge of resolve. He wanted to do more—not just for her, but for both of them. His gaze lingered a moment longer before he stepped back, careful not to disturb the quiet.

Inside, Magda had already noticed him. Her personal mage assistant, Calista Merren, stood nearby, a faint smirk tugging at her lips as she observed the small surveillance display that she held in her hand, the display resembled a woman's hand mirror. The enchanted device showed Micheal's tentative form as he peered into the room, his uncertainty almost endearing.

"He's here again," Calista remarked, her tone dry but amused. "Since, he came here yesterday he seem to have taken a liking to this place."

Magda didn't look up from her book, though her lips curved faintly in acknowledgment. "Let him be," she said softly. "He doesn't mean harm."

Calista folded her arms, raising a skeptical brow. "Perhaps not, but he is... unorthodox, to say the least."

Magda allowed herself a brief smile, one hidden behind the edge of her book. She had grown used to Micheal's peculiarities. Despite their limited interactions, she could sense a shift in him—a slow but undeniable change. And, for reasons she couldn't fully explain, it brought her a measure of comfort.

Magda wasn't really focused on the book in her hands. Embedded within the enchanted pages of the book was a display tool linked to the discreet surveillance devices Calista had placed around her chambers. These were meant to ensure Magda's safety, a direct order from the Emperor. Yet, here they were, tattling on Micheal's midnight-eccentricities to their master by revealing glimpses of Micheal's odd, hesitant presence.

As the display showed him tiptoeing away, Magda stifled a soft laugh. "He's not as subtle as he thinks."

Calista rolled her eyes. "Subtlety doesn't appear to be his strong suit."

Back in his chambers, Micheal dropped into the chair by his desk, rubbing his temples as if to dispel the whirlwind of thoughts plaguing him. The image of Magda, poised and serene, remained vivid in his mind.

"How much has she endured to become that composed?" The question gnawed at him.

He reached for his notebook, flipping to a blank page. He began sketching—rough drafts, concepts, ideas—not just for the man-bra, but for something more. His pencil moved instinctively, guided by a need to create, to change.

"This is just the beginning," he murmured, the words carrying a weight of determination. "I'll rewrite our future."

The ink dried on the page, a testament to his resolve. Micheal glanced out the window, the soft glow of the moonlight filling the room. He didn't know what the path forward would look like, but for the first time, he felt a flicker of purpose—a sense that, perhaps, their story wasn't set in stone. Not yet.

As he lay back in his bed, his thoughts drifted once more to Magda—her quiet strength, her calm demeanor. He resolved to be better, not just for her, but for himself. "If the stories in my dreams can change, so can ours." Unbeknownst to him Magda has become his catalyst for change.