Breaking the Multiverse for You

Micheal von Shelb had never known true chaos until Barnaby stormed into his chamber that morning, his arms laden with a freshly pressed waistcoat and a scowl sharp enough to cut steel.

"Sir," Barnaby barked, his voice carrying an air of both authority and irritation. "It is 7:03 AM. You have precisely 42 minutes before your meeting with the Countess. I suggest you prepare yourself."

Micheal groaned, pulling the covers over his head. His mind was still caught on the embarrassment from the day before. Magda, standing elegantly by her carriage, had invited him to join her for the flower festival. A simple, straightforward request. But instead of replying with the grace expected of a noble, Micheal had blurted, "Yes, yes! Absolutely yes!" several times before practically running away.

He groaned again, his cheeks flushing at the memory. "Why am I like this?" he muttered.

Barnaby, unimpressed by Micheal's theatrics, yanked the covers away with a dramatic flourish. "Sir, if you want to wallow in self-pity, do so after your meeting. Now, up. Up!"

Reluctantly, Micheal sat up, his hair a mess of long waves and his face shadowed by the beginnings of a beard. "Fine, fine. I'm up." He shuffled toward the washroom, grumbling under his breath. "You'd think I was meeting the Emperor himself."

Barnaby's sharp response followed him. "The Emperor would demand less, sir. Afterall you are his family. You're meeting the Countess. Standards must be upheld."

In the washroom, Micheal splashed his face with cold water, the chill jolting him awake. He stared at himself in the mirror, running a hand over his scruffy jawline. "Too scruffy," he muttered.

Grabbing his razor, Micheal began to shave, his movements precise despite his grogginess. He thought back to Barnaby's endless attention to detail and sighed. Barnaby had already likely planned every second of his day, down to when he'd breathe.

When Micheal finally emerged, clean-shaven and smelling faintly of sandalwood, Barnaby was ready. His sharp eyes took in Micheal's rumpled attire with evident displeasure.

"This will not do," Barnaby declared, tossing the waistcoat onto a chair. He stepped forward, armed with a brush and a comb. "Sir, if you think looking like a haystack is acceptable for this meeting, I assure you, it is not."

"Haystack?" Micheal asked, raising an eyebrow. "I'm clean-shaven and ready."

"Clean-shaven, yes," Barnaby allowed, beginning to brush Micheal's long hair into order. "But your hair, sir, is chaos incarnate. A proper half-ponytail is the mark of a gentleman."

"Is that military wisdom?" Micheal teased, leaning back in the chair as Barnaby worked.

Barnaby smirked, deftly securing the hair into a sleek half-ponytail. "One of many skills I perfected during my service, sir. Sewing, organizing, punctuality... the military prepares you for everything."

Micheal's curiosity was piqued. "You sewed too? How did you learn?"

"Soldiers aren't born tailors," Barnaby replied, smoothing down Micheal's lapels. "But when uniforms tear on the battlefield, someone has to mend them. It was either that or going into battle half-dressed."

"Huh," Micheal mused, impressed. "You never cease to amaze me, Barnaby."

Barnaby handed Micheal a satchel, noticeably heavier than usual. "These are the prototypes you designed yesterday. Finished overnight."

Micheal opened the bag, his eyes widening at the neatly crafted pieces. "You did all this in one night?"

"Efficiency, sir," Barnaby said, a small note of pride in his tone. "A skill I've honed over years. Now, if you're ready, the carriage awaits."

Micheal laughed, standing and allowing Barnaby to inspect him one last time. "Punctuality is the hallmark of nobility, right?"

"And a crease-free collar wins wars," Barnaby quipped, opening the door to the sleek horseless carriage waiting in the courtyard.

As Micheal slid into his seat, clutching his satchel of prototypes, he couldn't help but feel a flicker of confidence. If Barnaby could work miracles overnight, perhaps Micheal could survive his meeting with Maggie the magical seamstress mage without making a fool of himself.

The Shelb-Armond Tower loomed ahead, an imposing silhouette against the mid-morning sun. Its grandeur was a testament to centuries of magic, warfare, and architectural mastery. Micheal stepped out of his carriage, a faint breeze catching the platinum strands of his neatly brushed half-ponytail. Adjusting the lapel of his waistcoat—a habit instilled by Barnaby—he inhaled deeply and squared his shoulders.

He was here not just as Micheal von Shelb, spare heir to House von Shelb, but as an entrepreneur, a visionary, a seller of man-bras.

Inside the tower, Maggie Armond awaited him with her signature blend of authority and elegance. Her fiery red hair was neatly tied into an intricate bun, her emerald-green eyes sharp as ever. She stood by the wide archway leading to her workshop, arms crossed, the very image of a no-nonsense mage.

As Micheal approached, she tilted her head, a wry smile tugging at her lips. "On time, I see. I didn't expect a seller of... bras to be so punctual."

Micheal met her gaze evenly, his usual calm confidence shining through. "A Shelb is always on time, Countess. Especially when revolutionizing soldier welfare is on the line."

Maggie quirked an eyebrow, clearly entertained despite herself, and gestured for him to follow her up a winding staircase. The interior of the tower was a blend of ancient and modern—a mix of enchanted relics, glowing runes, and high-tech com-tabs mounted on the walls.

"Your reputation precedes you, Countess," Micheal said conversationally as they ascended. "A mage of unparalleled skill, the finest seamstress in the empire, and a noble with impeccable taste."

"Flattery will only get you so far, Lord Micheal," she replied, her voice dry. "But I do appreciate the effort."

Micheal chuckled lightly, though his focus sharpened as they entered her workshop. It was a marvel of organized chaos. Bolts of fabric were stacked alongside magical tools and half-finished projects. Enchanted crystals floated above the workspaces, casting an even, warm light.

"Welcome to my little corner of brilliance," Maggie said, sweeping her arms out dramatically.

Micheal was genuinely impressed. "It's extraordinary. A fusion of creativity and practicality."

Maggie wasted no time examining the prototypes Micheal laid out on the table. Her fingers moved with practiced precision, testing the seams and inspecting the designs. Micheal watched as her sharp eyes took in every detail, her lips pressing into a thin line.

"They're beautifully crafted," she finally said, her tone measured. "But they're... impractical. You've designed something aesthetically pleasing, yes, but soldiers don't need beauty—they need functionality."

Micheal frowned, taking out his notebook. "What would you suggest, then? Perhaps reinforced straps? Lighter materials?"

Maggie shook her head. "Words won't do. You'll need to see the flaws yourself." She picked up her com-tab and quickly dialed. "Drifter, get to the tower. Now."

Micheal blinked, the name sparking recognition. "Drifter? As in... Drifter the Dragonslayer?"

Maggie smirked. "The very same. My husband."

The name echoed in Micheal's mind, and not just because of its grandeur. Drifter was a legend in the Healian Empire. Born a commoner, he had risen through sheer skill and grit, starting as a mercenary and becoming a knight after slaying a dragon that threatened the capital. The Emperor himself had granted Drifter noble status, later elevating him to a high noble when he married Maggie, the daughter of an ancient mage lineage.

Micheal had heard stories of Drifter's exploits growing up. The thought of meeting such a figure now made him straighten his posture even further.

When Drifter arrived, his presence filled the room. Tall, broad-shouldered, and ruggedly handsome, he exuded the quiet authority of a man who had faced death countless times and lived to tell the tale. His expression was a mix of annoyance and resignation, and Micheal immediately recognized the steely resolve behind his sharp gray eyes.

Maggie gestured toward Micheal with a sly grin. "Drifter, meet Lord Micheal von Shelb. He's here to sell bras to soldiers."

Drifter's scowl deepened. "Bras? Soldiers? What kind of nonsense is this?"

Micheal bristled slightly but held his ground. "Man-bras, Sir Drifter. Designed for better support under armor, to reduce fatigue during long campaigns."

Drifter crossed his arms, unimpressed. "Sounds like a fancy way to make coin off desperate men."

"Drifter," Maggie cut in, her tone amused yet commanding, "put it on."

Drifter groaned, muttering under his breath as he picked up one of the prototypes. "This had better not be enchanted."

As soon as Drifter fastened the straps, his face contorted in discomfort. He tried to raise his arms but found his movements restricted.

"See?" Maggie pointed at the shoulders. "The fabric bunches here. It's cutting into his armpits. And the chest panel? Completely rigid."

Drifter exaggerated his movements, trying to lift his arms and twist his torso. "I feel like I'm wearing a torture device. If I wore this in battle, I'd be dead before the first swing."

Maggie tugged at the fabric, demonstrating how it pulled awkwardly. "Soldiers need freedom of movement. This design is a liability."

Drifter added, his tone dripping with sarcasm, "Though I suppose it'd make for a great conversation starter on the battlefield. 'Oh, look, there's the knight who died because his bra was too tight.'"

Micheal winced, furiously jotting down notes. "Alright, alright. I see the flaws. Less fashion, more function."

Drifter, now thoroughly irritated, began unfastening the man-bra. "If you're serious about this, boy, you'll need more than clever designs and noble titles. Soldiers don't care about names—they care about results."

Maggie, watching Micheal's reaction closely, smirked. "If you want to understand what they need, Micheal, you'll have to see it firsthand. Visit our military camp. Talk to the soldiers. Learn their struggles."

Micheal hesitated, the weight of the suggestion settling on him. "I'm still an heir to House von Shelb, Countess. Joining a military camp might not align with my responsibilities."

Drifter snorted. "Excuses. If you can't handle a bit of dirt and discipline, you have no business trying to 'revolutionize' anything."

Maggie arched an eyebrow. "Think of it as research. Unless, of course, you're afraid you'll ruin those fancy boots."

Micheal, stung by the challenge but unwilling to admit it, straightened. "I'll consider it. For now, I'll take your feedback and refine my designs."

Drifter smirked. "Good. And next time, try not to invent something that feels like it's out to kill me."

They decided that it was better to conclude the meeting for the day, Micheal noted down all the suggestions. As Micheal stood out to leave, Maggie offered to walk him out.

The Mage Tower loomed over the quiet countryside like an ancient sentinel, its dark stone exterior exuding an air of mystery. Inside, Magda Valoria von Shelb was deep in study, the soft glow of magical orbs illuminating her fair complexion and striking red eyes. Fir tree cross-sections lay across the table before her, their glistening rings faintly pulsating with traces of old mana.

Standing nearby was Lysander Valmont, tall and composed, his sharp features framed by meticulously styled raven-black hair. His silver-framed glasses caught the light as he adjusted them, watching Magda work with calm professionalism. Assigned as her assistant that morning, Lysander was already proving invaluable, though his composed demeanor occasionally veered into smugness.

Magda's long fingers traced one of the darker rings on a slice of fir tree. Her voice held a note of excitement as she leaned closer.

"Look at this," she said, pointing to a particularly dark ring. "It's from twenty years ago. The mana disturbance matches the northern wastelands perfectly."

Lysander nodded, his gaze narrowing as he examined the sample. "It's consistent. If we gather more cross-sections, we could triangulate the source of these fluctuations."

Magda's crimson eyes gleamed with determination. "We should check the archives. They might have older records of similar signatures."

The two descended the spiral staircase to the tower's central corridor, their steps echoing softly in the hushed space. As they turned a corner, voices drifted toward them—familiar voices. Magda recognized Micheal's rich baritone and the melodic voice of Maggie Armond.

Micheal strode down the corridor with an air of nobility, his platinum blonde hair tied back in a perfectly brushed half-ponytail, his bright blue eyes alight with energy. His earlier meeting with Maggie had left him feeling optimistic, and he carried himself with confidence. But the moment his gaze fell on Magda, his steps faltered, and the color rose in his cheeks.

Magda's expression softened as she spotted him. "Micheal?"

Micheal froze like a deer caught in the headlights. In a flash, he turned to leave—only for Maggie to tug him back by the sleeve.

"That's not the way out, Lord Micheal," she said, deadpan, pointing in the opposite direction.

Trapped, Micheal turned around, his composure completely undone. "Magda! I wasn't expecting to see you here."

Magda tilted her head slightly, a teasing smile playing on her lips. "I could say the same for you. What brings you to the Mage Tower?"

Micheal floundered for a moment before gesturing toward Maggie. "Oh, this is strictly professional! Maggie is, uh, Countess Armond, and also a renowned streamstress mage. And she's happily married—to Sir Drifter. Very happily married!"

Magda's smile grew, but before she could respond, the imposing figure of Drifter Armond entered the corridor. His broad shoulders and chiseled jawline made him appear every inch the dragon-slayer knight he was known to be.

The moment Drifter saw Magda, he straightened into a sharp salute. "Your Highness," he said, his deep voice reverberating through the corridor.

Magda inclined her head graciously. "Sir Drifter, the pleasure is mine."

Drifter's gaze flicked to Micheal. His lips curved into a mischievous grin. "Your Highness, a word of advice: keep a close eye on your pretty boy husband. A man like that could start a riot in places like this."

Micheal turned bright red, but Magda, unbothered, replied smoothly. "Oh, there's no one quite like Micheal in this kingdom, Sir Drifter. I assure you, he's perfectly behaved."

Drifter chuckled, his admiration for Magda evident. "A man like that, eh? Sounds like you've got your hands full, Your Highness."

Before Micheal could sputter out a response, Maggie grabbed Drifter's arm and began pulling him away. "Come on, Drifter. Let's not make things more awkward than they already are."

As the couple departed, Micheal stood frozen, torn between pride and mortification. Magda's words replayed in his head, but his thoughts were interrupted as he noticed Lysander standing just a little too close to her.

Micheal squared his shoulders, forcing a smile. "And you must be Lysander Valmont. Heard a lot about you. All good things, of course."

Lysander's polite smile didn't waver. "Likewise, Lord Micheal. Though I must admit, I didn't expect to see you in the Mage Tower. It's not exactly known for its business prospects."

Micheal's polite grin froze. He glanced at Magda, who was watching the exchange with quiet amusement, clearly letting the two have their charade.

"Right," Micheal said stiffly. "Well, I wouldn't want to interrupt your research. Carry on."

Magda gave him a soft smile. "Good luck with your work, Micheal."

Micheal turned on his heel and strode briskly out of the tower.

Settling into the plush seat of his automated carriage, Micheal pulled out his com-tab. His fingers flew across the screen.

Micheal: "Lysander. Why were you standing so close to my wife?"

The reply came almost instantly.

Lysander: "To assist with her research. Jealous already, are we?"

Micheal: "Jealous? No. Suspicious? Yes."

Lysander: "Ah, yes. Because her royal highness would obviously fall for her assistant over her dashing husband who sells man-bras."

Micheal: "Man-bras are innovative solutions, Lysander. And revolutionary."

Lysander: "Revolutionary indeed. That's why I introduced you to Maggie. To give the Empire's fashion world a jolt. But don't worry, I'll take good care of your wife's research while you… revolutionize soldier lingerie."

Micheal: "It's about comfort and functionality, not lingerie."

Lysander: "Of course, my apologies. Functional lingerie then."

Micheal groaned, running a hand through his immaculate hair.

Micheal: "Stay professional, Lysander."

Lysander: "Always. Can't say the same for your prototypes, though."

Barnaby glanced back from the driver's seat.

"Another Lysander exchange, sir?" he asked, suppressing a smirk.

"He's insufferable," Micheal muttered.

Barnaby chuckled. "Perhaps, but he keeps you on your toes. You'll need that for the competition in business and otherwise."

Micheal slumped back into his seat, muttering under his breath. "Business is easier than dealing with him."