CHAPTER 79: CHAPTER 79: BLADES OF FABRIC, SHIELDS OF STEEL

The celebration wound down by ten. The Final Whistle emptied little by little, laughter trailing out into the cold air of the night.

Empty chairs rocked faintly, glasses clinked one last time, and the smell of roasted meat still hung heavy in the air as the night outside pressed colder.

Julian lingered by the doorway, scanning the crowd until his eyes found Tress.

"So... what do you use to get back?" Julian asked, half-curious, half-testing the waters.

Tress tilted her head, a sly smile tugging at her lips. "Hmm... why? You planning to escort me?" Her voice carried a teasing edge, so unlike the calm, collected tone she always had at school.

Julian blinked. This version of Tress felt like someone else entirely. "You’re... different outside class."

"Hahaha." She flicked something in the air—keys catching the glow of the streetlight before dropping neatly back into her palm. "Got this." She patted the seat of a sleek motorcycle parked just outside. "My father’s. But hey—" Her glasses caught the reflection of neon, making her grin sharper. "—if you want a date, just ask me straight."

And just like that, she swung a leg over the bike, revved the engine, and tore off into the night.

Julian stood frozen, utterly dumbfounded. "...Did she get struck by lightning or something?"

The rumble of her motorcycle faded down the street, leaving only silence and the faint chill of the night.

A black sedan pulled up—the gober car, waiting to take him home. Julian slipped inside, resting his head against the window as the city lights blurred past.

Billboards flickered, late-night diners spilled neon into the streets, and the hum of engines became a lullaby.

The night had ended, but his mind kept replaying everything—the cheers, Owen’s words, the match on TV, Tress’s teasing grin.

The fire of the pitch still burned within him. Only now, sparks were beginning to scatter in directions he hadn’t expected.

Tomorrow, the world would continue.

But tonight, Julian allowed himself to smile.

The night came to an end.

...

Morning came, and as usual Julian woke early. His body moved on instinct—stretching, grinding through training in the private gym until sweat ran down his back. The ache still lingered, but discipline was heavier than pain.

Shower. Steam. Cool air.

When he stepped out, towel slung across his shoulders, Crest was already waiting. Arms crossed. Eyes sharp.

"Julian. We need to go." Her tone was not a suggestion.

He arched a brow. "What? Some context, maybe?"

"We need to prepare for the party. Clothes. Presentation. Everything. Today we shop."

"Right now?"

"Yes. Now." Her gaze flicked over him like a blade, as if daring him to argue. "I won’t let you walk in unprepared. Or worse—bullied."

Julian sighed, but there was no real fight in it. "Alright. Let’s go."

...

Their first stop: a tailor. Not just any shop, but a brand-house for bespoke suits. The door chimed softly, and Julian stepped into another world—mahogany shelves, mirrors polished to liquid sheen, faint jazz humming in the background.

Rolls of fabric lined the walls like soldiers standing at attention, silk and wool shimmering under golden ligh. The scent of polished wood and faint cologne filled the air.

Before Crest could speak, an elderly man approached, posture impeccable. His hair was silver, slicked back, his vest and tie arranged with a surgeon’s precision. His eyes, however, were sharp as blades.

He circled Julian slowly, gaze sweeping from head to toe. Muscles, height, proportions—all silently measured before a word left his mouth.

At last, he murmured, "This is a good body." His voice carried the weight of long craft. "My name is Cusor."

Julian met his eyes, feeling the man’s scrutiny like a second skin. It reminded him of his old masters—those who could see weakness in a stance with a single glance.

Crest stepped forward. "We need a full formal set for him, Mr. Cusor."

"Hmm. Very well." With the grace of a master, Cusor drew his tape and began measuring. Shoulders, chest, waist, inseam—each motion precise, each note committed to memory.

"Preferred colors?" he asked at last.

"Blue and black," Julian answered simply.

Cusor gave a single nod. "Understood."

Crest inclined her head, expression as cold as ever. "Mr. Cusor, we need it before New Year."

For the first time, the tailor’s lips twitched, a hint of strain. "Hmph. Rushed orders..." He paused, then gave a bitter smile. "Fine. Consider it done."

"Thank you, Mr. Cusor. We’ll take our leave." Crest gave a short bow, firm and respectful.

Julian followed, half-curious, half-amused. For all her icy demeanor, she clearly respected the old tailor like a general respects another veteran of war.

...

Their next stop: a barber.

The bell above the door chimed as Crest walked in, her stride like she owned the place.

"Hello," she said flatly.

"Oh, sister!" A booming voice answered. A massive man stepped forward—broad as a wall, arms covered in inked tattoos that twisted across his skin like old scars of war.

His beard was thick, his eyes sharp yet warm. He looked more like a Viking chieftain than a barber.

Julian’s eyes lingered on the tattoos. It was the first time he had ever seen such markings up close—etched stories written on flesh.

One looked like a wolf devouring the moon; another, a ship breaking through storm waves. Symbols of battles fought in another lifetime.

Without hesitation, Crest pushed Julian forward.

"Give him a makeover. Make him presentable."

The bearded man chuckled, resting a heavy hand on Julian’s shoulder. "Let’s go, kid."

Julian sat in the chair. The clippers buzzed to life. The man circled him like a sculptor before marble, tilting his head this way and that. Snip. Buzz. Snip.

"Hmm," the man grunted, eyes narrowing as though finding form beneath stone. "You’ve got a face under there. Sharp bones. Strong lines."

Minutes bled into half an hour. Hair fell in tufts. The reflection in the mirror shifted slowly, piece by piece.

When the chair finally spun around, Julian barely recognized the man staring back. His long, unkempt hair was gone.

What remained was clean, sharp—a modern cut that carried both edge and grace. Like David Beckham reborn, but with the undeniable sharpness of his own Asian features.

He touched the side of his head, almost startled.

"Nice work, Grem," Crest said coolly. "Keep it on my tab."

"Always, sis." The giant barber grinned, arms folding like steel beams.

Julian rose, still adjusting to the reflection burned into his mind. A stranger’s face. Yet somehow—still his.

...

The day stretched on. Crest dragged him from store to store—watches, belts, shoes, the subtle weapons of presentation.

Every shop was another battlefield. Salesmen bowed, fabrics whispered against his skin, mirrors multiplied his new look until even Julian began to believe in the emperor they teased him to be.

Julian followed, his eyes drinking in everything. The mall itself was overwhelming: glass walls rising high into the sky, glowing signs, an endless hum of voices.

Elevators lifting crowds with a whisper. Payments made with nothing but a touch of a glowing screen.

It was nothing like the dusty markets of his old world. This was wealth tamed into steel and glass, luxury made ordinary

All of it felt like another world entirely. A world he was only now setting foot in.

By the time Crest allowed them to stop, they were sitting in a quiet restaurant, late afternoon sunlight pooling through the windows.

Plates of food lay before them, but Julian was more caught up in the day itself.

Exploration. Discovery. A battlefield of appearances rather than blades or ball.

For the first time since his reincarnation, he felt he was truly beginning to step into the world his new body belonged to.

...

By the time they returned home, their arms were weighed down with bags—suits, shoes, accessories, every piece required for the battlefield of appearances.

"Remember, Julian," Crest said as she set her things down, her tone colder than steel. "Be ready not just in your heart, but with your look."

"Yes, ma’am." Julian snapped a playful salute, earning nothing more than a faint exhale from her.

He slipped into his room, laying his new suit across the chair.

He knew Crest was taking care of him in her own way. Fierce. Relentless. Always watching. Always guiding.

But in the silence, a whisper stirred from deep within.

"But you are not the real Julian."

The dark echo of his former self—the boy who died in betrayal, the warrior who cursed the heavens.

Julian’s lips curved into a faint smirk.

"Yeah, yeah. Keep talking."

He was Julian. No matter what the past said. No matter who doubted it.

...

And just like that, the new year came.

Julian stood before the mirror, suited in black with threads of midnight blue woven subtly through.

The cut was sharp, precise; the watch gleamed at his wrist; a faint touch of cologne sealed the transformation. Every detail clocked perfectly into place.

An emperor’s attire. His reflection looked like someone born to stand at the center of attention—not a neglected boy, not a betrayed warrior, but something new.

At the airport, he stopped in his tracks. His first time seeing a plane up close—it was massive, a leviathan of steel and engines. A symbol of mankind’s defiance. Even bound by flesh, humans had conquered the skies.

But not him. Not yet.

This time, there was no qi, no wings of force. If the plane crashed, he was as fragile as any other boy.

"Afraid?" Crest’s voice cut through, calm but probing.

Julian’s gaze lingered on the giant machine, his chest tight with a pressure he refused to show.

"...No." The word came low, firm, though a shade rougher than he intended.

Crest’s lips curved—not into a smile, but close. A quiet chuckle escaped her.

"Good. Then let’s go."

Together, they stepped into the private jet. . The door sealed behind them with a hiss, and for the first time, Julian felt the weight of two worlds pressing closer together.