Starting With an SSS-Rank Goddess Summon!

Chapter 383: The Hardest Choices... [Bonus Chapter]

Reginald paused with his pen hovering a millimeter above the paper as his mind involuntarily flashed back to the incident on the street twenty minutes ago... specifically, the moment Silas’s maid had shoved an entire twelve-pack of reinforced stamina prophylactics directly into the young man’s palm.

A microscopic bead of sweat formed beneath Reginald’s starched white collar.

Normally, an exhaustive surveillance report for Lady Etilga Bloom required every single microscopic detail to be documented without a filter.

But Lady Etilga was a matriarch who viewed male virility through a terrifyingly strict eugenics lens.

In her eyes, seed was an ancestral resource meant strictly for the continuation of noble bloodlines... squandering it via artificial latex was a degenerate sin worthy of public execution.

’Subject promptly ordered the immediate return and disposal of unauthorized domestic contraband...’ Reginald carefully noted, deliberately omitting the exact nature of the foil-wrapped box. ’Displays admirable discipline and restraint and does not succumb to base hedonistic impulses.’

Satisfied with the edit, Reginald closed the journal with a soft, muted snap and tucked it into the breast pocket of his tailored coat.

His gaze lingered on the dark-haired young man currently browsing the central displays.

’Lady Seraphina could have chosen a far worse consort...’ Reginald reflected quietly. ’The boy possesses steel.’

Out on the open showroom floor, Silas strolled slowly between the polished quartz pedestals, completely oblivious to the fact that an elite noble assassin had just given him a passing grade.

The room smelled faintly of lavender and perfumes.

Arranged across floating glass displays were rows of hyper-exclusive men’s combat jackets, enchanted silk dress shirts, and tailored trousers woven from exotic beast hides.

Silas stopped in front of a mannequin sporting a sharp midnight-black button-down shirt.

The fabric was breathtakingly smooth, subtly shifting its hue under the mana-lights like the scales of an abyssal serpent, with fine platinum thread lining the collar and cuffs.

"Not bad," Silas muttered, reaching out and brushing the fabric between his thumb and forefinger.

The texture was light as a feather yet carried the distinct mana-conductivity of high-tier defensive gear. "Clean cut and breathable, it wouldn’t look ridiculous under a leather duster either."

He casually flipped the small, crystal-embossed tag dangling from the left cuff to check the price.

’185,000 Spirit Credits.’

Silas’s hand instantly froze.

His eye twitched violently.

’One hundred and eighty-five thousand credits?’ Silas’s internal voice screamed in pure agony. ’For a single shirt?!’

He could buy an entire crate of tempered iron broadswords for that.

He could purchase thirty barrels of military-grade pitch, fifty days of grain rations too... He had the money but for a single shirt?

To drop nearly two hundred thousand credits on a piece of cloth you wore to dinner was nothing short of criminal insanity.

He quickly released the cuff as if the silk had suddenly caught fire, taking a half-step back and clearing his throat.

He glanced around at the other mannequins, checking tags at a distance.

[- Enchanted Trench Coat: 450,000 SC]

[- Drake-Leather Boots: 120,000 SC]

[- Mythril-Woven Tie Clip: 45,000 SC]

Silas cringed, violently rubbing his temples.

"Rich people are completely detached from reality," he whispered under his breath. "If I drop a million credits here just to replace a hoodie, I’m going to have a stroke."

Deciding his bank account couldn’t survive browsing the menswear any longer, Silas turned his attention toward the far end of the sanctuary, where two massive soundproofed changing pavilions stood draped in heavy velvet curtains.

The left curtain was a vibrant shimmering royal purple, pulsing faintly with the static electrical wards Harper’s aura tended to leave behind.

The right curtain was a deep velvet crimson, radiating the suffocating, dry heat of House Bloom’s ancestral flame.

Silas let out a slow, resigned sigh, walking over to a plush white leather sofa positioned directly between the two dressing suites.

He sat down, leaning his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together.

’I need to be extremely careful with how I handle this,’ Silas strategized, his sharp mind treating the upcoming fashion show like a high-stakes diplomatic summit. ’Harper is competitive and easily ignited. If I favor Seraphina too heavily, Harper will probably electrify the sofa but Seraphina is a proud, unhinged noble heiress. If I don’t give her validation, she’ll view it as an insult to House Bloom and try to force that marriage contract down my throat again.’

He cracked his knuckles, locking his face into an expression of deadpan, objective neutrality.

’Honest balanced ratings,’ Silas resolved firmly. ’Critique the fit, praise the craftsmanship, and keep both of them from burning the mall to the ground.’

...

Inside the Royal Suite, the heavy purple velvet curtains shut out the rest of the world, creating a private brightly lit sanctuary of mirrors and velvet cushions.

Harper stood in the center of the plush carpet, wearing only her delicate, lace-trimmed sports undergarments as she stretched her arms over her head.

Her athletic flawlessly toned physique gleamed under the magical lighting... every muscle along her abdomen and thighs tightly coiled with the explosive power of a Purple core Lightning Lord.

Standing behind her was Lydia, the senior maid assigned by Master Jean.

The woman moved with practiced efficiency, holding an open velvet garment bag containing an exquisite two-piece ensemble.

"Lift your arms slightly, Lady Whitmore," Lydia instructed smoothly, draping a sleeveless, form-fitting crop-top corset forged from iridescent violet dragon-silk over Harper’s shoulders.

The fabric immediately hugged Harper’s torso like a second skin, accentuating her narrow waist and dramatically pushing up her generous bust line.

Intricate silver-threaded lightning glyphs were embroidered along the neckline, shimmering with a soft pulsing luminescence whenever Harper breathed.

Harper stepped in front of the full-length triple mirror, resting her hands on her hips and tilting her head.

She examined her reflection, her purple hair falling in messy energetic waves over her bare shoulders.

She reached up, adjusting the cut of the corset slightly, and then paused as a sudden competitive thought crossed her mind.

Harper turned her head toward the senior maid, her violet eyes narrowing with dead-serious curiosity.

"Hey, Lydia," Harper asked, gesturing directly toward her own chest in the glass. "Be completely honest with me. Are my breasts big?"

Lydia didn’t even blink.

Having dressed Lords and aristocrats for over a decade, she possessed the unflappable composure of a seasoned diplomat.

The maid stepped forward, expertly tightening the mythril-laced corset strings behind Harper’s back with a sharp professional tug.

"Lady Whitmore," Lydia stated with unwavering sincerity, "your proportions are nothing short of exceptional. The muscle-to-fat distribution across your thoracic frame provides an optimal elevated silhouette. They are generously sized, impeccably firm, and perfect."

Hearing the glowing assessment, Harper threw her head back and let out a loud, triumphant bark of laughter that bounced off the mirrors.

"AHA! I KNEW IT!" Harper cheered victoriously, flexing in front of the glass. "Take that, you flat-chested noble princess! Let’s see your fancy ancestral lineage compete with raw genetics!"

Lydia offered a polite amused smile as she knelt down to slip on the matching high-waisted split-leg silk battle skirt.

"If I may say so, Lady Whitmore, your companion will find it exceedingly difficult to maintain his composure."

"That’s the exact goal, Lydia!" Harper grinned, her violet eyes flashing with crackling static. "Make the slit in this skirt two inches higher! We’re going for a total knockout!"

...

Meanwhile, on the opposite side of the showroom, the Sovereign Pavilion was practically vibrating with a different kind of energy.

Inside the spacious, rose-gold dressing room, Seraphina stood atop a raised circular pedestal, her arms held out horizontally at her sides.

Emily, the timid junior maid with the oversized round glasses, was currently down on her knees, her hands blurring in a whirlwind of motion as she pinned, adjusted, and smoothed the hem of a breathtaking floor-length crimson evening gown.

The dress was a triumph of high-society haute couture.

Crafted from pure phoenix-feather silk, the rich red fabric cascaded down Seraphina’s hour-glass curves like flowing liquid rubies.

The back was cut daringly low, plunging all the way to the base of her spine to reveal her unblemished alabaster skin, while the front featured a structured sweetheart neckline that accentuated her elegant collarbones and voluptuous bust.

Intricate golden filigree snaked up the bodice, mimicking the ancestral crest of House Bloom.

Seraphina looked down at the junior stylist working frantically around her ankles.

The maid wasn’t just adjusting the fabric... she was actively channeling trace amounts of mana through an artifact to heat the hems, ensuring the silk draped over Seraphina’s hips with microscopic perfection.

Every touch was delicate, precise, and completely dedicated to maximizing her beauty.

Seraphina tilted her head with a rare expression of genuine noble satisfaction softening her sharp noble features.

"You have remarkable hands, girl," Seraphina noted smoothly, admiring the way the light caught the golden trim in the mirror.

She glanced down at the stylist. "Tell me... does your master compensate you adequately for this level of craftsmanship?"

Emily froze mid-pin. Her round glasses slid slightly down her nose, and her cheeks instantly flushed with nervous panic.

"I—uh... Lady Seraphina," Emily stammered, frantically pushing her glasses back up with a trembling wrist. "The... the Grand Celestia provides a standard stipend, my Lady! It is... it is sufficient, but... with the high cost of living in the city and dealing with bills, it is... not that much, honestly..."

Seraphina let out a soft elegant hum, turning her crimson eyes toward the mirror.

"Listen to me, Emily," Seraphina stated, her voice carrying the authority of an elite heiress. "When I walk out through those curtains, I am going to utterly annihilate the purple-haired woman sitting outside. If my appearance forces Silas to acknowledge my supreme superiority, I will not simply tip you a handful of credits."

Seraphina looked down, her crimson irises locking onto the maid’s trembling gaze.

"I will officially buy out your commercial contract from Master Jean. I will double your annual salary, grant you full diplomatic immunity under House Bloom’s charter, and appoint you as my personal, exclusive stylist. You will never have to scrape for rent in this city again..."

Emily stared up at the noblewoman, her breath catching entirely in her throat.

Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.

’Double my salary?! Full diplomatic immunity under House Bloom?!’

The magnitude of the promise shattered the last remnants of the maid’s timid insecurity.

A terrifying burning flame of pure ambition ignited behind Emily’s round lenses.

She stood up, slapped both of her cheeks with a loud sound, and aggressively grabbed a glowing diamond-encrusted hairpiece from the vanity tray.

"Lady Seraphina," Emily declared fiercely, her voice shaking with intense, professional bloodlust. "Stand completely still... I am going to make you look so breathtakingly gorgeous that the man won’t just want to marry you... he will beg to worship the ground your stilettos touch!"

"Excellent," Seraphina smirked, the fire in her eyes matching the stylist’s perfectly. "Do not hold back."

...

Out in the central waiting area, Silas sat comfortably on the leather sofa, his chin resting in his hand as he watched the clock on his Spirit Phone tick forward.

’Seven minutes,’ Silas thought. ’Not bad. I figured they’d take at least an hour to—’

SWISH!

The heavy velvet curtains on both sides of the pavilion parted simultaneously with a synchronized rustle.

Silas blinked, straightening his posture as two distinct overwhelming waves of female authority flooded the open showroom floor.

From the left stepped Harper.

The energetic Lightning Lord carried herself with an athletic swagger that immediately demanded attention.

The two-piece violet dragon-silk ensemble was nothing short of lethal.

The crop-top corset hugged her toned torso, putting her rock-hard abs and generous cleavage on full unapologetic display, while the high-waisted skirt clung tightly to her muscular hips before splitting dramatically up her left thigh, revealing her long flawless leg with every confident step she took.

Her vibrant purple hair had been styled into loose, cascading waves that framed her flushed, radiant face.

Tendrils of static electricity danced playfully along the silver embroidery of her collar, making the fabric shimmer like a starlit storm cloud.

From the right stepped Seraphina.

The Bloom heiress moved with the slow, mesmerizing grace of high-society royalty.

The floor-length crimson phoenix-silk gown hugged every single curve of her hour-glass frame with suffocating precision.

The plunging open back accentuated the elegant curve of her spine, while the structured sweetheart bodice framed her voluptuous bust in glittering gold filigree.

Her fiery red hair had been pinned up in an intricate regal chignon, secured by diamond-encrusted pins, leaving two soft curled tendrils dangling along her pale slender neck.

Both women stopped exactly five paces in front of Silas’s sofa, striking their respective poses.

Harper planted her hand firmly on her hip, thrusting her chest forward and shooting Silas a bold, teasing wink.

"Well, Silas?" Harper smirked, her violet eyes glittering with competitive pride. "How do I look? Powerful, dangerous, and undeniably hot, right? You won’t find a woman in the entire city or country who looks this good in silk."

Seraphina raised her chin, turning slightly to the side to let the mana-lights catch the dazzling gold embroidery along her waist.

Her cheeks were dusted with a rosy blush, but her crimson eyes burned with fierce possessiveness.

"Observe the balance of the craftsmanship, Silas," Seraphina commanded softly, her melodic voice oozing with refined elegance. "The phoenix silk is an ancestral weave meant exclusively for sovereign nobility... It complements my unblemished complexion flawlessly. A man of your... refined eye can surely appreciate true untouchable perfection."

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