Starting With an SSS-Rank Goddess Summon!

Chapter 412: Social... Media? [Bonus Chapter]

Evelyn brought the thin cigarette back to her chapped lips, drawing in a short deliberate pull of bitter smoke before exhaling a thin gray stream straight up toward the vaulted obsidian ceiling of the command office.

’Is it just me or does Evelyn seem more depressed all of a sudden...?’ Silas thought with a raised eyebrow.

That seemed to be the issue, why the hell would she randomly call him Graves then?

She gave a lazy, one-shouldered shrug, completely unbothered by the collective hostile glares radiating from the room’s resident powerhouses.

"Look, Silas, you weren’t on the surface, and I needed something solid that wouldn’t get flagged by the regional census algorithm," Evelyn rasped, tapping her cargo pant pocket. "Besides, ’Evelyn White’ isn’t a bad family name to piggyback off of but the name on the laminated plastic is only half the battle. Right now, what we actually need to do is set up a functional, verified Social Media presence for the persona."

A collective pause settled over the command room.

Eluned blinked her luminous emerald eyes, tilting her head with genuine innocent curiosity.

Beside her, Morwenna crossed her arms over her loose linen tunic, her brow furrowing in confusion, while Talira’s draconic wings rustled against the stone wall as the warrior looked around the room as if searching for a physical object.

Even Aeliana and Kadi paused, their hands hovering over their respective ledgers and platters.

"Social... Media?" Morwenna echoed, rolling the foreign mortal words over her tongue with deep suspicion, her stormy gray eyes narrowing at Evelyn. "What kind of astral ward or communication array is that? Is it a human surveillance spell?"

"It’s not a spell, sea-dog," Evelyn muttered, flicking a microscopic flake of ash toward the base of the desk. "It’s a global network where millions of regular mortals and low-tier awakened post their daily lives, share broadcasts, and validate whether someone actually exists in the modern world... Silas is going to have to interact with real-world guild executives, sector officials, and global media outlets sooner rather than later. If ’Vespera’ just drops out of thin air with zero digital footprint, zero registered communications, and zero past history, every corporate intelligence syndicate on the planet is going to put a tracer on her within forty-eight hours... We have to make her look like an actual living, breathing person who has a normal life on Earth."

Before anyone could ask a follow-up question, the heavy double doors of the office were violently kicked open with a deafening bang.

"LORD GRAVES!"

A loud, boisterous roar echoed through the stone corridor as a short, incredibly sturdy figure bounded into the office like a launched cannonball.

It was Thora.

The dwarven blacksmith was still wearing her heavy soot-stained leather forge apron, her thick braided hair bouncing wildly behind her shoulders.

The second her sharp eyes locked onto Silas sitting behind the massive desk, all concept of military decorum ceased to exist.

She didn’t salute, she didn’t wait for permission, and she certainly didn’t care about the high-ranking meeting.

Thora stomped across the floor, kicked off the edge of the stone masonry, and launched herself directly through the air, landing square in Silas’s lap with enough momentum to rattle the heavy wood of the chair.

"Whoa—Thora, calm down!" Silas laughed, catching her sturdy frame by the waist as his hands braced against her rough leather apron.

Thora didn’t listen in the slightest.

She threw her thick, muscular arms around his neck in a crushing headlock of affection, planting a loud, wet kiss directly onto his cheek before burying his entire face straight into the soft, unyielding swell of her chest.

"You’re back! You’re finally back, my Lord!" Thora bellowed joyfully, rubbing his head aggressively against herself. "The forge was dead without ye! These fancy ladies wouldn’t let me smash open the good mead barrels until ye returned!"

From beside the desk, Talira’s golden reptilian slit-pupils violently contracted.

The towering winged human let out a deep rumbling hiss that vibrated the glassware on Kaelia’s food platters.

A twin jet of scalding white steam shot aggressively from Talira’s nostrils as the air temperature around her spiking instantly.

Talira took two heavy strides forward.

With terrifying precision, her hand reached out, grabbed Thora by the thick knot of her braided hair, and forcefully hoisted the squirming dwarf straight into the air like a sack of scrap iron.

"Off," Talira rumbled, her voice vibrating with draconic irritation. "You are suffocating the Lord, you loud anvil."

"Unchain me, ye overgrown flying lizard!" Thora shrieked, kicking her heavy steel-toed boots wildly at the empty air as she swung from Talira’s grip. "I was welcoming our Lord! At least I have the guts to jump in his lap! You just stand in the corner looking like a scaly gargoyle! You ain’t even sexy enough to warm his sheets!"

Talira’s jaw tightened, the muscles in her scaled forearm bulging as she genuinely considered smashing the screaming dwarf headfirst into the stone tiles.

Only a firm, warning glance from Silas kept the dragon from turning the office into a demolition site.

Amidst the screaming and the kicking, Eluned stepped forward, her elegant emerald dress rustling against the floorboards.

The Goddess looked past the bickering vanguard, her vibrant green eyes locking squarely onto Evelyn with a deeply possessive pout.

"So... in essence," Eluned spoke, her melodious divine voice effortlessly cutting through Thora’s cursing. "My Lord has barely set foot within his own domain, and now he must immediately depart back to the mortal realm with you?"

Every single female in the room went dead silent.

Morwenna, Aeliana, Rowenna, Kadi, Kaelia, Brida, Tasmin, and the squirming Thora all simultaneously turned their heads, fixing Evelyn with intense stares.

The power of protective devotion, latent divine pressure, and territorial possessiveness converging on that single spot was heavy enough to buckle the floorboards.

Evelyn stood in the center of the crosshairs, feeling a prickle of cold sweat at the back of her neck beneath her messy bun.

She had fought these women in a brutal televised war, at least some of them.

She knew for a fact that every single one of them was a terrifying powerhouse who could tear a standard strike team to pieces.

Being surrounded by the very army that had broken her Unmovable Wall was still undeniably unnerving.

’Christ...’ Evelyn thought, tapping the ash from her cigarette with slightly rigid fingers. ’They look like they’re ready to skin me alive just for breathing his air.’

Before the room’s atmospheric pressure could trigger an actual attack, Silas stood up from his chair.

He smoothed the fabric of his long black shirt, rolling his broad shoulders as the warm, calming golden aura of his Gold Core washed through the room, instantly pacifying the rising tension.

"I’ll go," Silas announced calmly, offering the room an easy reassuring smile. "It’s just setting up some administrative paperwork and sorting out the disguise on the surface. It won’t take long and when I get back, we have a mountain of real work to do like processing the new monster migrations, and going through the next summoning phase."

The change in the room’s atmosphere was instantaneous.

The dark murderous glares instantly softened.

Eluned lowered her hands with an obedient, trusting nod; Morwenna’s jaw relaxed; and even Thora stopped kicking, dangling quietly from Talira’s hand with a wide, bashful grin.

Because Silas had spoken with clear authority, not a single one of them raised an objection.

Their respect for his commands superseded everything else.

Evelyn watched the total effortless compliance with wide stunned eyes.

’He didn’t even raise his voice...’ she noted internally, shaking her head in disbelief. ’One sentence and twenty bloodthirsty killers turn into obedient puppies. The command control on this guy is ridiculous...’

"Let’s go, Evelyn," Silas said, stepping around the obsidian desk. "Lead the way."

They walked out of the command office side by side and the heavy reinforced oak doors clicked shut behind them.

The second the latch locked into place, a muffled wave of synchronized female bickering, whining, and complaining instantly erupted from the room behind them, echoing through the thick stone.

Silas winced slightly, letting out a heavy amused sigh as he rubbed the back of his neck.

Evelyn took another drag of her cigarette, a dry smirk pulling at the corner of her lips as they walked down the wide stone corridor toward the grand staircase.

"They really love you, don’t they?" Evelyn remarked, blowing smoke toward the high archways. "It’s almost creepy how much they worship the ground you walk on, Silas..."

"Isn’t that the whole point of being a Lord?" Silas countered smoothly, his heavy boots clicking rhythmically against the stone steps as they descended toward the ground floor. "You give them a real home, you feed them, you fight on the front lines so they don’t die meaningless deaths... and in return, they trust you enough to follow you into hell. If your people don’t love you enough to want to stand by your side, you’re just a glorified slave driver with a title."

Evelyn glanced at his side profile, remaining quiet for a second.

The memory of how her own troops had suffered under the relentless exhausting grind of running a mobile fortress flashed through her mind, alongside the genuine unprompted mercy Silas had shown Elm after the war.

"Yeah, yeah," she muttered, rolling her dark eyes. "Save the inspirational speech for the live streams, saint."

They pushed through the massive double doors of the Keep, stepping out onto the neatly paved central courtyard of the Blessed Land.

The air was crisp and clean, insulated by the towering Tier 3 Steel-Weave Palisade that hummed with intricate defensive blue runes.

Over on the eastern side of the courtyard, the barracks grounds were bustling with activity as dozens of Shieldmaidens and transferred recruits ran synchronized phalanx drills.

"Halt! Form up on the marker!" a loud, authoritative voice barked across the yard.

Standing at the head of the training line was Gunnhild.

The magic Swordsman was fiercely running the new recruits through rigorous positioning routines.

The moment Gunnhild’s sharp eyes caught sight of Silas descending the Keep’s front steps, her stern drill-instructor facade completely shattered.

"LORD SILAS!"

Without a second thought, Gunnhild activated wind magic.

A sudden gust of green mana coiled around her heavy iron-plated boots as she exploded across the stone tiles in a dead sprint, closing the thirty-yard distance in less than two seconds.

She threw herself directly into his arms, wrapping her muscular limbs tightly around his waist with an overwhelming breathless gasp.

"Welcome home, my Lord!" Gunnhild cried out happily, burying her face into the crook of his shoulder. "We secured the western watch perimeter just as you ordered!"

Silas was pushed back half a step by the sudden tackle, but he laughed warmly, wrapping his arms around her back and gently running a hand through her thick hair.

"Good work, Gunnhild. You’ve been keeping everyone in line, I see."

As his hand moved through her hair, however, Silas caught a sudden overwhelming whiff of something distinctly sour and unwashed.

He paused, blinking as he leaned back slightly, taking another subtle sniff near her shoulder.

"Though... you smell a little weird today," Silas noted honestly, raising an eyebrow with an amused smirk. "Did you take a bath in monster blood, or did you just wrestle a pack of wolves?"

Gunnhild completely froze.

The physical color drained from her face for a microsecond before a violent volcanic crimson blush exploded across her cheeks, burning all the way down to her collarbones.

Her legs began to tremble uncontrollably against the stone tiles as reality crashed into her skull.

’I... I haven’t washed my hair since Tuesday!’ Gunnhild screamed internally with pure panic seizing every nerve in her body. ’I’ve been helping Thora at the forge, hauling scrap, skinning beasts, running drills with the new recruits... I haven’t taken a single bath in three days!’

She slowly realized that she reeked of sweat, sulfur, oxidized iron, and rotting drake bile.

And she had just aggressively tackled the man she adored, shoving her disgusting unwashed scalp directly into his face.

’Why didn’t anyone tell me?!’

Gunnhild’s terrified, wide eyes darted across the courtyard toward the edge of the barracks.

Sitting on an empty supply crate, leisurely polishing the mythril string of her recurve bow, was Fenna.

The archer met Gunnhild’s gaze, bit her lower lip so hard it turned white, and desperately puffed her cheeks out to stifle a roaring fit of hysterical laughter.

’YOU TRAITOROUS BITCH!’ Gunnhild cursed in silent fury.

It was always your closest friends who sat back in silence just to watch you humiliate yourself in front of your crush...

Gunnhild knew with agonizing certainty that from this day forward, in the barracks, in the mess hall, and on the training grounds, she was going to be known as the girl who smelled like rotting meat to the Lord.

Rumors spread fast in Blessed Land after all.

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