“Formalwear?”

The tailor’s voice rose slightly.

Compared to ordinary clothes, formalwear cost far more in every respect—materials, workmanship, time, money.

Of course, that also meant the amount he could quietly skim off the top, and the profit he could pocket for himself, would be far higher too.

He hadn’t had a single customer in ages, and now the moment business finally showed up, it was a huge order. The tailor rubbed his hands together. He could barely suppress the smile tugging at his lips, and even the rainy weather outside suddenly seemed brighter.

“How should I address you, sir?”

“Bruce.”

The tall, thin figure tipped his hat in greeting. The high bridge of his nose made the deep contours of his face stand out even more sharply, while his eyes remained hidden in shadow, mysterious and vaguely sinister.

“Bruce will do.”

“Ah, honored Mr. Bruce, then what sort of formalwear are you looking for?” The tailor bowed as well, though his etiquette was obviously clumsy enough to look almost comical.

“Something more lavish.” Bruce paid no attention to that.

“And?”

“Something more imposing.”

“Lavish and imposing...”

The tailor quickly sketched out possibilities in his mind, then turned and pulled out an illustrated catalog. Flipping toward the back, he pointed to one of the pictures.

“What about this design?”

The garment in the picture looked luxurious at a glance. It was done in an overall noble silver-white, with an ornate but not overly gaudy gold chain across the chest. The cut was close-fitting, and even on the model it was easy to see it would suit a tall, upright figure very well.

“Mm, not bad.”

Bruce stroked his chin and nodded slightly.

“But the details are still lacking.”

“The details?”

The tailor was a little surprised. Those pictures had cost him a fortune through a special channel, and he had been told they were all styles worn only by upper-class society.

For this man to be so picky even with a design this exquisite, could it be that Mr. Bruce was also...

“Do you have any specific advice?” the tailor asked, suddenly a little uneasy.

“I think...” Bruce considered it. “It’s still not lavish enough.”

“Still not lavish enough?” The tailor’s surprise deepened.

The style he had shown him was already the most lavish one in the entire catalog.

If even this could not satisfy his standards for lavishness, then surely he really was...

“Of course. Look at it—there’s only this one gold chain across the chest. How can that possibly count as lavish?”

Bruce pointed at the image, his displeasure obvious.

“A design like this needs at least ten more gold chains.”

“...”

The tailor was no longer merely surprised. He was genuinely stunned.

“Huh? Y-You said how many?”

“Ten, obviously... Is that a problem?”

Bruce thought about it, then nodded in agreement with himself.

“Although plain gold is a little vulgar.”

“R-Right, exactly, of course you can’t just add ten gold ornaments.” The tailor let out a breath of relief.

That scared the life out of him. For a ◆ Nоvеlіgһt ◆ (Only on Nоvеlіgһt) second there, he had thought this man was not some refined wealthy patron after all, but simply—

“It should have gemstones too. Rubies would be best.”

Bruce nodded, utterly certain.

“Yes. Rubies. I like rubies.”

“...”

He’d guessed right. This was just a vulgar nouveau riche idiot. Completely unrelated to the concept of taste.

The tailor, who had been bent respectfully at the waist moments ago, quietly straightened a little. A faint trace of disdain even tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Still, he controlled himself well enough that the Slavic upstart in front of him noticed nothing.

“Ten gold ornaments, plus rubies... that won’t come cheap,” the tailor said with a smile, rubbing his hands together again.

“How much? Money is no object.”

“It’ll be...”

The tailor made a rough calculation, settled on a number, then glanced up again at the rather large Slar man in front of him.

He had heard Slar people were not especially bright. Apparently it was true.

So he nudged the number even higher.

“It’ll probably come to around two hundred and fifty thousand Aimier...”

“Two hundred and fifty thousand?”

Bruce’s voice shot up at once.

The tailor’s heart tightened. Had he been caught overcharging?

Damn it. He shouldn’t have added a whole extra hundred thousand in one go. Even if Slar people were supposed to be dim-witted, surely they still ought to be able to tell—

“That’s far too low!”

Bruce flew into a rage.

“How could a mere two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-Aimier outfit possibly suit my noble status?”

“Huh?”

The tailor, who had just been about to cough awkwardly and revise the figure downward, was now genuinely dumbfounded.

“Then what do you think...?”

“Five hundred thousand. With my status, I need at least a five-hundred-thousand-Aimier formal outfit.”

“F-Five hundred thousand.”

The tailor swallowed.

Mr. Bruce’s requirements were absurdly high, yes, but formalwear was the sort of thing whose price could be hard to judge by simple market value alone.

Mix a little cheaper metal into the gold. Swap the rubies for brighter bits of colored glass.

The production cost would be...

A fortune. He’d make a killing.

“Here’s a five-hundred-thousand crystal card from the Church Bank, along with all my measurements.”

Bruce did not seem inclined to let the tailor inspect his body. He casually tossed over a crystal card and a slip of paper.

“Can you have it done in three days?”

“Yes... yes, absolutely!”

The tailor accepted them with both hands. His palms were trembling slightly.

To be honest, making a formal outfit in three days—especially one this fussy and complicated—would be extremely difficult.

But with five hundred thousand on the table, let alone three days, even one day made him feel like he could somehow force a miracle if he had to.

“Good. I’ll come pick it up in three days. Remember—my formalwear must be the best. Only then will it suit my status.”

After emphasizing that several times, Bruce pulled that oddly tall hat back on, turned, and walked out of the shop.

He seemed not to care about any detail at all except one: three days from now, he wanted an extravagantly lavish formal outfit worthy of his status.

“What a... strange man.”

The shop door closed, and only the bell above it continued to ring faintly.

It took the tailor a long while to calm himself down. Only then did he put away what was in his hands and get ready to head into the storeroom to pick out the best bolt of cloth that had not gone moldy yet.

“No. Wait.”

Just before going into the storeroom, he paused.

“Making clothes for a pig-headed nouveau riche idiot like that, on a three-day deadline no less, would be way too much work.”

The tailor’s eyes suddenly shifted. Looking out the window at Bruce’s retreating figure, a strange glint flashed in his gaze.

“Maybe... I should try a much easier route instead.”

...

... 𝒻𝓇𝑒𝘦𝘸𝑒𝒷𝓃ℴ𝑣𝘦𝑙.𝒸ℴ𝘮

All day long, Bruce—or rather, Muen after changing his appearance—moved through the streets and alleys of the district, going in and out of various shops.

At times he was in a high-end jewelry store, buying the most expensive and gaudy ornaments there in the most offhand tone imaginable.

At other times he would step into a perfume shop frequented only by wealthy ladies, pretend to know what he was doing while testing a few bottles, then buy the shop assistant’s lowest-grade trash perfume at the most outrageous possible price.

He even went to a restaurant playing classical music. After ordering the finest meal on the menu, he did not so much as touch the knife or fork.

When the head chef, deeply uneasy, came out to ask about it, he simply waved a hand with careless flair and left behind an utterly baffled chef and staff as he said:

“I didn’t come here to eat. There’s a beggar outside, and he looks hungry. Please give him my portion, and wish him a pleasant evening meal.”

“...”

In short, by the time Muen had finished wandering around and nightfall descended, stories had already begun spreading through places darker than the night itself about a certain nameless Slar man...

...

That night.

Inside a certain house.

The long silence was suddenly broken as a hoarse voice came from the courtyard.

“Lord Tyron.”

“What is it?”

The man in the room exhaled smoke and asked lazily.

“About tonight’s hunt—”

“No. A message came from the tailor in the western district.”

The man outside paused, then said, “He says he’s spotted a valuable big fish, and wants to know whether we’re interested.”