Chapter 205: Matchmaking

Chapter 205: Chapter 205: Matchmaking

Emperor Aurelius lingered in the air above the shattered skylight for a moment longer, his towering, golden aura gradually receding like a dying sun. The heavy, suffocating pressure that had held the entire store in suspense melted away, leaving the streets bathed once more in soft morning light.

Before turning to take his leave, the Emperor looked down at Rowan with a rare, amused gleam in his sharp golden eyes. A slow, knowing smirk spread across his formidable face.

"You handled yourself well today, kid," Aurelius rumbled, his deep voice carrying a distinctly informal, booming warmth that echoed off the streets. "When you have some free time away from your soil and your sales, make sure to visit the Imperial Palace. And perhaps... take Princess Lyra out on a date if you’re interested."

A collective, sharp gasp rippled through the boutique like wildfire.

The surrounding guild vice-masters, high-tier merchants, and noble ladies froze in absolute disbelief, their eyes bulging as they stared between the sky and the unassuming sixteen-year-old farmer. Several senior treasurers nearly dropped their enchanted storage rings. The Emperor of the Sol Aethel Empire had just publicly, casually offered his own daughter—the empire’s most coveted prodigy—to a young produce farmer in front of half the continent’s elite.

Without waiting for a formal response, Aurelius let out a thunderous, hearty laugh that shook the remaining glass panes in the upper rafters, dissolving into a flash of brilliant golden light that shot straight into the high heavens and vanished.

Rowan stood in the center of the ruined foyer, blinking slightly as he rubbed the back of his neck. Underneath the shadow of his straw hat, a faint, wry smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

"Well," Rowan muttered softly to himself, tipping his hat back up with a thumb. "That’s certainly one way to handle public relations."

Beside the main checkout counter, store manager Orion hurriedly wiped a bead of cold sweat from his forehead, adjusting his silver spectacles as he stepped over a piece of cracked marble. "Master Rowan... should I... prepare a royal diplomatic envoy? Or schedule a palace visit on the official Eden International calendar?"

"Let’s focus on selling the produce first, Orion," Rowan chuckled, resting the Hoe of the World-Tiller lightly against the floorboards.

With a subtle, gentle pulse of soft green mana—devoid of any combat violence—tiny, delicate tendrils of living moss and fresh floral vines slithered across the floor, binding the shattered tiles back together and sweeping away the lingering traces of dark ash. In seconds, the streets felt fresh, pristine, and filled once more with the comforting, life-giving aroma of high-vitality earth.

Rowan turned toward the stunned crowd of customers, offering them a warm, grounded smile.

"Apologies for the brief interruption, everyone," Rowan announced smoothly, gesturing toward the gleaming wooden displays brimming with legendary produce. "Eden International is officially open. Please, enjoy the harvest."

***

By noon, long before the shattered marble inside Eden International had even fully cured, the word had crossed every gilded salon, high-tier guild hall, and noble manor across Sol Aethel.

What had begun as a grand boutique opening had erupted into the single greatest political earthquake of the decade. Across the capital’s encrypted scrying networks and private tea rooms, the story spread at breathtaking speed, growing more extravagant with every single retelling.

"Young Rowan single-handedly crushed thirty-six S-Rank purists with grass!"

"His Majesty didn’t just intervene—he practically offered him the crown!"

"An open invitation to the Palace? A public match with Princess Lyra?!"

In the upper-crust residential districts, high-ranking matriarchs nearly dropped their fine porcelain teacups in sheer disbelief. Countesses frantically drafted formal invitations to royal galas, desperate to secure Rowan’s presence—or, at the very least, a direct, uninterrupted supply of his legendary vitality produce.

Young noblemen who had spent years attempting to win Princess Lyra’s cold, aloof favor were left utterly speechless, forced to swallow the reality that Emperor Aurelius had publicly bypassed every duke’s heir in the realm for a sixteen-year-old boy in a straw hat.

Deep within the inner sanctuary of the Imperial Palace, the atmosphere was equal parts electric and chaotic. Courtiers whispered furiously behind silk fans in the vaulted corridors, while inside the royal garden pavilion, Princess Lyra sat staring blankly at her private comm-slate. Her face was flushed a deep, undeniable crimson as report after report confirmed her father’s thunderous, unscripted announcement.

From the direction of the main throne room, the faint, boisterous echoes of Emperor Aurelius’s hearty laughter could still be heard, completely unbothered by the sheer panic he had induced across high society.

Back at Eden International, the crowd outside had doubled in size.

Nobles who had previously sent junior stewards to buy fruit were now arriving in elaborate carriages themselves. They bowed respectfully to Orion at the front door, eagerly paying top-tier prices for crates of Grade-S peaches while dropping broad, unsubtle hints about family alliances and business partnerships.

Rowan sat comfortably in his second-floor private office overlooking the bustling showroom, sipping a cup of warm clover tea while reading a frantic, thoroughly amused comm-slate message from Martha back at Sunny Vale Manor.

"Rowan," her message read, practically radiating her teasing laugh, "our online order portal just crashed the regional communications grid for the third time. Half the noble houses in the eastern provinces are trying to pre-order ’Imperial Matchmaker Peaches.’ What on earth did you do to His Majesty?"

Rowan chuckled softly, laying the slate flat on his desk and adjusting the brim of his straw hat. He leaned back in his leather chair, watching the sun gleam off the pristine glass shelves down on the main floor.

"I just sold him some good apples," Rowan murmured with a wry, easygoing smirk. "Though I suppose... I might actually have to polish my boots if I’m taking a trip to the palace."

***

As the twilight hours settled over the capital, painting the skyline in deep violet and warm amber tones, the chaotic sea of nobles, guild couriers, and curious onlookers finally drained from the avenue. Rowan slid the heavy brass bolts of Eden International’s front doors into place with a satisfying, metallic click.

Inside, the grand hall was immaculate. Thanks to Rowan’s earlier pulse of living vitality, not a single speck of dust or cracked tile remained from the purists’ ill-fated attack.

Gathering the exhausted clerks, store clerks, and door guards in the center of the pristine foyer, Rowan unstacked several heavy, woven canvas sacks from behind the main register.

"Great work today, everyone," Rowan said, stepping forward with a warm, grounded smile as he handed each employee a bulging sack packed to the brim with Peaches, crisp vitality apples, and rare, mana-infused culinary herbs. "You all handled the crowds—and the unexpected drop-ins—brilliantly. Take these home to your families."

The young floor attendants held the sacks in stunned silence, their hands trembling under the fragrant weight. In the open market, a single piece of Rowan’s high-vitality produce could fetch enough gold to cover several months of rent in the capital’s upper district. Holding an entire bag of it as a casual end-of-day perk was completely unheard of in the merchant guild world.

"M-Master Rowan..." a junior clerk stammered, clutching her bag to her chest with wide, disbelieving eyes. "This... this is far too generous! These peaches alone could buy a small town home!"

"They’re fruit," Rowan interrupted gently, tipping his straw hat back with a chuckle. "And fruit is meant to be eaten, not kept locked in a vault. Go on home, get some good rest, and eat up. Tomorrow is going to be just as busy."

With deep, overflowing bows of gratitude, the tearful staff bade him goodnight and filed out through the side entrance, whispering excitedly among themselves about how they were going to cook their evening meals.

Orion lingered by the main desk, holding his own heavy canvas bag with a rare, soft smile breaking through his normally strict, analytical demeanor. He adjusted his silver spectacles and bowed deeply. "Thank you, Master Rowan. I will ensure the perimeter wards are fully synchronized before I take my leave. Will you be returning to Sunny Vale Manor tonight?"

"Eventually," Rowan replied, stretching his arms over his head as the comforting stillness of the boutique settled in around them. "Just going to take a moment to enjoy the quiet first."

Once Orion had checked the security formations and taken his leave, Rowan leaned casually against the polished counter, resting a hand on the handle of the Hoe of the World-Tiller. He looked up through the pristine skylight at the starry night sky over Sol Aethel, an easygoing grin touching his lips as he thought about the wild success of the opening—and the royal invitation waiting for him tomorrow.