Simon walked through the grand entrance of the most luxurious mall in the entire city—a place so extravagant that even the wealthiest elites at the base would hesitate to open their wallets here. The very air inside shimmered with wealth and class. It wasn't just a mall; it was a monument to status.
He moved with purpose, ignoring the gaudy displays and opulent storefronts until he stopped before a shop with an unusually modest name: Kingsmen.
The name didn't scream luxury. It didn't glitter like the others or call for attention. But it had something else—something sharper. A keen presence, refined and discreet, the kind that only those with a certain taste or awareness would notice.
Why was Simon here?
Olivia.
In the fog of pre-Astral Lord memories that still clung to his mind, one thing remained clear—his sister had adored this brand. Every time the topic of fashion or dresses came up, Kingsmen was the name she whispered like a dream. Back then, they couldn't afford to even look at it.
Now, Simon stood in front of it.
Now, he could walk in.
And as he stepped through the door, he finally understood why Olivia had been so obsessed with it.
The air inside was filled with the subtle scent of applewood, laced with just the faintest trace of rose—an elegant and rare blend, even in this world. A sense of calm confidence hung in the atmosphere, and the minimalist interior only added to the brand's allure.
A well-dressed woman in a crisp, perfectly tailored uniform approached him. She was stunning—sharp eyes, confident posture, and a quiet grace.
"Good evening, sir. What would you like today?" she asked.
Simon had braced himself for the usual cliché—being looked down upon, judged, and underestimated, just like every other 'main character' in those novels from his past life. He half-expected to be thrown out until he revealed his wealth or status.
But that didn't happen.
Her tone was respectful. Her gaze, serious. There was no arrogance, no condescension—only professionalism.
It clicked.
In a world filled with insane powerhouses, lunatics, and Astral Lords who might show up half-naked and leave in a custom suit worth millions, appearance alone meant nothing. Respect here wasn't given—it was measured.
"I need a suit. Something... for a special occasion," Simon replied.
"Of course," she said with a slight nod, before launching into a string of technical jargon—terms for cuts, fits, fabrics, lapels, and tailoring details Simon had never heard before.
He stood there, expression frozen.
She paused, reading his confusion with practiced ease, and smiled gently.
Without missing a beat, she pulled out a sleek display pad and began showing him visual examples. She explained every detail with patience, guiding him through the basics—single-breasted vs. double-breasted, notch lapels vs. peak, fabric blends, shoe pairings, and tie selections. It wasn't rushed. It was elegant. Efficient. Kind.
Together, they built his look piece by piece:
A three-piece black suit, with a crimson tie, polished black shoes, and a long, tailored coat to complete the ensemble.
He didn't stop at one. With her help, he ordered four more suits, each with its own tone and mood, fit for varying occasions.
"When will they be ready?" Simon asked as they finalized the order.
"The black set will be ready in an hour," she said with a smile. "The others will be delivered to your registered address by tomorrow."
Simon nodded, impressed.
Exactly one hour later, he walked out of Kingsmen, transformed.
The black suit hugged his physique perfectly, emphasizing his lean muscle and broad shoulders without overdoing it. It wasn't just a suit—it was an armor of confidence, status, and elegance.
But he wasn't done yet.
He made his way to another store: a watch boutique. In this disaster-ridden world, watches were more than accessories—they were symbols of silent dominance. Only the wealthy, the powerful, or those pretending to be both wore them.
Inside, Simon chose a sleek black gear watch, its design minimalist but commanding. It didn't flash or sparkle—it asserted itself with quiet power. Just like Simon.
Strapped to his wrist, it felt like the final touch.
He was ready.
Tempo Prezioso.
Ivan stood silently in front of Tempo Prezioso, the most luxurious restaurant in the entire city—a place so exclusive that even the highest-ranking officials needed months of advance booking to get a table. His outfit was a stark contrast to the elegance surrounding him, yet somehow, he didn't look out of place.
He wore a half-sleeved blue shirt, adorned with delicate kintsugi-style golden lines that ran across the fabric like veins of light. It was tucked neatly into white Gurkha pants, cinched just right to accentuate his form. He paired it with polished black leather shoes, and added to the look were silver accessories—a slim bracelet on his left wrist, a glowing silver chain around his neck, and a pair of fire-shaped silver earrings that flickered subtly under the lights.
It was all thanks to his cousin sister.
When she heard he was going to Tempo Prezioso, she had practically dragged him through the process. The clothes and jewelry may have been from a dollar store, but the way she styled them turned him into a statement. Despite having a naturally careless sense of fashion—just like Simon—Ivan stood out, even in this high-class setting.
For Ivan, clothes had always been a second thought. He was a warrior, born and trained to fight Dreadbeasts, not to understand fashion or social cues. While Simon had 35 years of life experience backing his choices, Ivan was still a young man driven by instinct and raw power.
As he waited outside, adjusting his sleeves nervously, a voice called out.
"Brother Ivan!"
He turned to see a man in military attire approaching—a soldier with a chiseled physique and sharp eyes. His name was Rafe Dallen, a squad captain known for his loyalty and fierce sense of justice.
"What are you doing here?" Rafe asked, his tone mixed with confusion and concern.
Ivan replied casually, "I'm here to meet a friend. We have something to talk about."
But hearing that, Rafe's face darkened slightly. His expression shifted into one of restrained fury.
"A friend brought you here?" he said, scanning the extravagant facade behind Ivan. "This place… This isn't somewhere people like us just walk into casually. Are they mocking you? Making you stand here just to show you your place?"
Ivan looked confused. "No, Simon's not like that."
But Rafe wasn't convinced. He clenched his fists.
After the mission in the wilderness, he owed Ivan more than his life. If not for Ivan's intervention, neither he nor his squad would have returned alive. Since then, Rafe had seen how Ivan lived—so consumed by training that he'd forget to eat or sleep. He knew Ivan didn't care about social games, status, or appearances.
To Rafe, this situation reeked of someone toying with Ivan's trust—an all-too-common power play among the elite. Invite someone beneath you to a place they'd never belong, just to make them stand outside while you dined inside.
His blood boiled at the thought.
"Ivan, come inside with me," Rafe said firmly. "Commander Kael is hosting a dinner tonight. He's inviting all who were involved in securing the base after the riot. You deserve to be there. We all do. Let me introduce you—he even mentioned wanting to meet the man who saved our lives in the wilderness."
But Ivan stood his ground.
"I appreciate it," he said quietly. "But I'm waiting for my friend. He'll come. He wouldn't invite me and not show up."
Rafe's brows furrowed even deeper. "You're too loyal, brother. That's why people like you get hurt. If he doesn't come, don't take it personally. Some people only call you a friend until they no longer need you."
Just as Rafe opened his mouth to say more, a voice called out behind them.
"Ivan! You're early."
Both men turned toward the voice.
A tall figure walked up, wearing a perfectly tailored three-piece black suit, accented with a crimson tie and long black overcoat. Every step he took carried weight, each movement calculated, smooth, powerful.
It was Simon.
But this wasn't the same Simon most people saw. He exuded a different energy now—refined, composed, dangerous. The aura surrounding him was so potent it felt like a beast cloaked in human skin had just entered their midst.
Rafe's eyes widened. He didn't need to ask who he was.
So this was the friend.
Simon met Ivan's gaze, offering a slight nod that said everything.
And Rafe? He could only watch in silence as the so-called cold, heartless elite turned out to be nothing of the sort