CHAPTER 227: CHAPTER 228: TAILORED TO WIN

Noel stood on the raised platform, arms slightly out to the sides, watching a dozen enchanted threads orbit his body like curious snakes. Each one shimmered faintly, measuring everything from shoulder width to ankle alignment with perfect precision.

Noriel circled him with a sharp eye, scribbling on a floating slate that followed him mid-air.

"Hold still. And don’t flex. You’ll throw the measurements off," he said flatly.

Noel exhaled. "Wasn’t planning to."

One of the threads hovered unusually long near his waist. Too long.

Noel glanced down.

"...You’re seriously measuring that too?"

Noriel didn’t even blink. "Of course. Cut matters. Balance matters. Presentation definitely matters."

Balthor let out a hearty laugh from his seat nearby. "Now you’re starting to understand what a real tailor’s like."

Noel groaned under his breath. "You could at least warn a guy."

Noriel raised an eyebrow. "Would that have made it less awkward?"

Noel muttered something under his breath and looked at his reflection in the mirror. His blonde hair had gotten a bit messy from the walk, and his green eyes looked faintly annoyed—but the truth was, the fit of the first sample vest already looked... sharp.

’Green eyes, blond hair... I already stand out enough and with this damn, I know why girls are after me now, just kidding.’

Noriel stepped back and snapped his fingers. The threads instantly vanished into the air.

"Measurements complete. Time to choose how dangerous you want to look."

Noriel opened a tall cabinet with a flick of his fingers. Inside, row after row of suits floated forward, suspended by fine enchanted hangers that hovered mid-air.

"Let’s start with these," he said, walking between them like a general inspecting troops. "Minimal runic layering, high-mobility seams, and all reinforced with light mana threading. Durable and clean."

Noel blinked. "You talk about clothes like they are weapons."

Noriel didn’t look back. "Because bad tailoring is a form of assault, atleast to me, I’m a professional in my work and the best at it too"

The first option came to him—a deep navy suit with silver embroidery, high collar, and subtle shoulder plates.

Noel tried it on. Looked in the mirror. "Too shiny."

Second: a black and gold piece with a formal military-cut. Sleek, powerful, bold.

He stepped out.

Balthor frowned. "Makes you look like you’re going to execute someone."

Noel raised a brow. "And that’s a bad thing?"

Third suit: dark gray with minimalist lines and hidden runes along the cuffs.

Noel liked the balance, but something felt... off. "Too quiet."

Fourth: a forest-green robe with a lighter tunic underneath. Comfortable, ceremonial-looking.

"Too soft," Noel said. "Feels like I’m about to give a speech."

Noriel nodded without judgment, and snapped again. "Then one more."

From the side, a final suit floated forward.

Sacramento green. Three-piece design. High-quality shirt in clean white. Bronze-stitched lapels, dark trim, no unnecessary flourishes. It didn’t scream for attention—but demanded respect.

Noel slid into it. The fit was exact. Perfect.

He turned toward the mirror. Blonde hair, green eyes, sharp cut. There was elegance, strength—and intent.

Balthor let out a short grunt of approval. "That’s the one."

Noel didn’t argue.

’Yeah... this feels right, I wonder how this color would look on Elena, green colors like these suit her, I’ll save it for the future.’

Noel stepped down from the platform, adjusting the cuffs of the jacket one last time. The weight, the fabric—everything felt just right. He turned toward the counter, reaching for the pouch at his waist.

"How much for the suit?" he asked, already untying the leather cord.

Noriel barely looked up from folding the unused suits. "For that one? More than you’re used to spending, but seeing that you are a nobleman, it may not seem like much to you."

Noel pulled out a handful of coins. "That’s fine, if it’s worth the price I’ll pay it, if not ask Balthor, he knows it well."

Before he could place them on the counter, a small mithril token clinked down beside his hand.

Balthor had moved first.

"Put it on my tab," the dwarf said, arms crossed.

Noel frowned. "You don’t have to—"

"I know I don’t," Balthor interrupted. "I’m doing it anyway."

He smirked. "Think of it as an investment. You better keep winning in that damn tournament."

Noriel chuckled from behind the counter. "If he doesn’t, I’ll just triple the cost."

Noel stared at them both for a second, then shook his head, sliding the coins back into his pouch.

"...Thanks," he muttered.

Balthor gave a dismissive wave. "You can repay me by not dying in the next round."

Noriel started wrapping the suit in a mana-treated garment case, then paused.

"You two in a rush?"

Balthor checked a pocket watch pulled from his coat. "Still got time before the real fun begins."

Noriel raised an eyebrow. "Then drinks, before you go."

Noriel guided them through a side door into a cozy back room—warmly lit, lined with dark oak shelves and thick dwarven rugs. A low table sat in the center, surrounded by leather chairs that looked older than some kingdoms.

From a polished cabinet, Noriel pulled out a crystal bottle filled with amber liquid.

"Stonefire blend," he said. "Aged seventy years. Still sharp enough to slap a giant sober."

He poured three short glasses and handed them out.

Noel eyed his drink. "...You’re offering me alcohol now?"

Noriel raised his own glass. "You just let me take full measurements, top to bottom. I figured you earned it."

Balthor clinked his glass against Noriel’s. "Tradition, lad. Don’t make it weird."

Noel hesitated—then took the glass and gave it a small tap against theirs.

Noel clinked his glass against theirs.

The taste hit like a punch—warm, smoky, with a spicy afterbite that settled in the chest like molten iron.

They sat for a moment in silence, letting it sink in.

Then Balthor leaned back and let out a breath. "You know... being back here makes me think of my brother."

Noriel looked up, eyebrow arching. "Torwan?"

"Yeah." Balthor’s tone shifted. "Haven’t spoken since the incident."

Noel glanced between them, sensing tension.

Noriel swirled his drink once. "You didn’t hear? He’s here. He is now the director of the Tharvaldur Institute of Arcane Might ."

The room froze.

Noel, mid-sip, choked on his drink and coughed violently, spraying a bit of it onto his sleeve.

"You what?!" he sputtered.

Balthor’s eyes went wide. "You have to be fucking kidding me, I’ve been looking for weeks, I saw the director from a distance but he doesn’t look much like Torwan from the last time I saw him.."

Noriel shook his head calmly. "I wouldn’t joke about something like that, he really is the director now, he came back a decade ago but he doesn’t tell anyone about his past life, it’s not like I’ve ever met him either, you can see him now it seems he has a cache, he’s not the same Torwan from 50 years ago Balthor, I don’t know if something has happened to him but even though it hurts me to tell you since you’re his brother. I don’t know if he’ll remember you"

Balthor leaned forward, gripping his glass tightly.

The room went quiet again—until Balthor spoke.

"...I need another drink."