Chapter 250: Do I Pass Inspection? (Kofi Donation Bonus)

First was the Imperial Court Regalia of the Northern Bastions.

Creed stepped out of the fitting curtain looking like a Victorian wedding cake that had been assaulted by an aggressive swan.

The jacket was stark white, festooned with seven overlapping tiers of stiff, lace ruffles that extended all the way up to his chin, completely choking his throat.

Two massive, fluffy white-feather epaulets sat atop his shoulders like nesting pigeons, and the sleeves were so tight and heavily starched that he couldn’t bend his elbows past a ninety-degree angle without the fabric groaning in protest.

Creed stared at his reflection in the full-length mirror, his face completely expressionless.

Pascal took one look and collapsed onto a velvet couch, wheezing so hard his bald head turned the color of an overripe plum.

"BWAHAHAHA! ELDER BROTHER! YOU LOOK LIKE A CHICKEN WHO GOT PROMOTED TO ADMIRAL!"

"Take it off," Creed said, his voice flat, dead, and murderous. "Take it off right now, Vane, or I will use this lace to strangle you in your sleep."

"Barbarian," Master Vane muttered, snipping his tape measure through the air. "That piece was tailored for the third prince of the Azure Basin! A triumph of traditional refinement!"

"The third prince clearly has no functional neck muscles," Creed snapped, ripping the ruffled cravat off and tossing it onto a chair. "Next. Something that doesn’t make me look like a pastry."

The second attempt was even worse.

Master Vane returned with the Sovereign Mantle of the Void Syndicate.

It was a floor-length, pitch-black velvet cape that literally trailed three feet behind Creed on the floor, dragging dust across the tiles.

The high collar was reinforced with curved black obsidian spikes that flared around Creed’s ears like the hood of a cobra, and the chest was crossed with five decorative, dangling silver chains that clinked and rattled with every single micro-movement.

Creed tried to step off the pedestal.

His boot heel immediately caught on the interior hem of the massive cape. He stumbled, caught himself against a mannequin with an annoyed curse, and looked down as the five silver chains jangled like a wind chime in a hurricane.

"Vane," Creed said, his eye twitching furiously beneath his headband. "If an assassin attacks me while I’m wearing this, I can’t even dodge.

The sound of these chains alone will alert every sniper within three bastions. And if I try to use Wings of Freedom, this cape will wrap around my head and turn me into a flying burrito."

"It radiates mystery! It conveys dark, brooding power!" Master Vane protested, gesturing wildly with his monocle.

"It conveys that I belong in a cheap theatre production about vampire lords," Creed growled, violently unhooking the obsidian clasp and letting the heavy cape drop to the floor in a heap.

"No capes! No chains! No feathers! Do you people not understand the concept of a jacket that allows a man to throw a punch?!"

Pascal wiped tears of laughter from his eyes, adjusting his own ridiculous golden robes with supreme, condescending satisfaction.

"See, Elder Brother? True elegance cannot be rushed. Look upon my golden perfection! Simplicity and opulence in divine harmony!"

"Pascal, if you speak one more word, I am using your forehead to polish Master Vane’s shoes."

The tailor sighed deeply, pressing his fingers against his temples like a genius artist surrounded by uncultured swine.

"Fine," Vane whispered, his tone dropping into icy, clinical resignation. "You want functionality. You want mobility. You want the attire of an uncouth butcher. Follow me to the rear archive."

He led Creed past the gilded racks, through a hidden archway lined with heavy grey velvet, and into an isolated, temperature-controlled vault.

Resting inside a sleek glass display case was a single suit.

The moment Creed laid eyes on it, his complaints died in his throat.

It was crafted from midnight-navy starlight-silk—a rare, semi-metallic dimensional fabric woven from the fibers of void-spider cocoons.

It carried a deep, matte-black sheen that only revealed its rich, dark-blue undertones when caught by the light.

The cut was impeccably sharp: a double-breasted jacket tailored with high, clean shoulders, a structured waist, and zero unnecessary frills.

The interior lining was reinforced with micro-etched kinetic dampening runes, allowing the fabric to stretch and breathe with the wearer’s movement.

Along the left lapel and cuffs ran a subtle, razor-thin embroidery of frosted silver thread, resembling hairline cracks in a mirror.

Most importantly: the back panel featured two concealed, magnetized slit-ports designed specifically to allow the sheath straps of an artifact spear to lock securely beneath the coat without wrinkling the fabric.

"The Astral Vanguard Formal," Master Vane murmured, his fingers brushing the glass with reverent pride.

"Commissioned two years ago by a former House Captain of the Spades. He died in an S-rank rift before he could claim it. It is armored against low-tier kinetic strikes, weightless, and cut for an apex combatant."

Creed looked at the silver cuffs. He looked at the subtle frosted embroidery that matched the cool, crystalline aesthetic of Amara’s family crest.

A slow, sharp smirk finally spread across Creed’s face.

"Wrap it up, Vane," Creed said smoothly. "I’m wearing it out the door."

Ten minutes later, Creed stepped out of the fitting room.

Even Pascal stopped laughing. The bald boy’s mouth hung slightly open, his golden sleeves dropping to his sides as he blinked.

The transformation was striking.

Gone was the rumpled, slouching youth who looked like he had just rolled out of an alleyway bed.

The tailored midnight-navy jacket framed Creed’s broad shoulders and lean, athletic waist with absolute, commanding perfection.

The dark trousers fell cleanly over polished black leather combat boots that shone like dark glass. Beneath the jacket, a crisp white silk shirt was fastened with a single silver-and-sapphire pin, leaving his collar slightly open with effortless, dangerous swagger.

Across his back, secured through the jacket’s hidden magnetic ports, rested the bone-white shaft of the Pale Horizon.

The spear didn’t look out of place; it looked like a natural, regal extension of his silhouette.

The only thing that broke the aristocratic illusion was the thick, black headband pulled firmly across his brow, casting a deep shadow over his piercing, dark-blue eyes.

"Well, potato?" Creed asked, adjusting his cuffs with an easy, mocking grin. "Do I pass inspection?"