Breaking the Multiverse for You

The automated carriage glided to a smooth stop in front of a weathered old shop, its peeling paint and sagging beams standing in stark contrast to the bustling Shelb-Armond Tower Micheal had just left. His bright blue eyes took in the neglected structure with a mix of hope and exasperation. This was the shop his father had given him, a supposed "launchpad" for his man-bra venture, though it looked more like a sinking ship.

Micheal stepped out, brushing off his coat as Arthur came walking out from inside the shop. Arthur's neat and professional appearance stood in stark contrast to the shabby building. His straight black hair was combed perfectly to one side, and his piercing gray eyes seemed to absorb every detail of Micheal's arrival. Yet his slight stoop and fidgeting hands gave him the air of a man perpetually on the edge of worry or deep thought.

"Lord Micheal! You're here!" Arthur exclaimed, his voice tinged with a mix of relief and nervous excitement. "I was starting to think you'd decided to abandon this place."

"Abandon it? Never," Micheal replied, his voice tinged with dry humor. "Though if I'm honest, Arthur, the shop looks like it's doing a fine job of abandoning itself."

Arthur's face fell slightly as he glanced at the sagging ceiling beams. "It's not that bad… is it?"

Micheal strode past him, his polished boots clicking on the worn floorboards. "Arthur, we can't sell anything—let alone revolutionize soldier welfare—out of a shop that looks like it belongs to an apothecary from two centuries ago."

Arthur hesitated, his brow furrowing. "Do we really need to start with the structure? I mean, maybe a bit of cleaning—"

"Arthur." Micheal stopped and turned, fixing him with a patient but firm look. "First impressions matter. If our shop doesn't inspire confidence, neither will our products."

Arthur nodded quickly, his determination kicking back in. "You're right. Of course, you're right. I'll—uh—I'll make sure this place is ready for a grand opening in no time!"

Micheal smirked, amused by Arthur's earnestness. "Good. Now, how are your sketches coming along?"

Arthur perked up, eager to impress. "They're… progressing! But honestly, I wanted to hear how your meeting with Countess Maggie went first."

At the mention of Maggie, Micheal's expression shifted, a mix of pride and lingering embarrassment. "It could've gone better. She wasn't impressed with the designs or the prototypes."

Arthur tilted his head in confusion. "Prototypes? You had prototypes?"

"Barnaby made them last night," Micheal replied with a casual shrug, as if crafting professional-grade samples overnight was the most natural thing in the world.

Arthur's gray eyes widened. "Last night? But… you sketched those designs right in front of me. I was there!"

Micheal waved a dismissive hand. "Barnaby is efficient."

Arthur's mouth opened and closed as he processed this. Finally, he sighed, his admiration for Barnaby overtaking his bewilderment. "I'll just… work harder. Like Barnaby."

Micheal clapped a hand on his shoulder as he tuned to return home. "That's the spirit."

The hum of the automated carriage soothed Micheal as he leaned back against the seat, staring out at the passing countryside. His com-tab buzzed, pulling him from his thoughts. It was a message from Maggie.

Maggie Armond: "I know today didn't go as planned, but I admire your persistence. If you're serious about helping soldiers, you need to understand their lives. Get real experience."

Micheal frowned, reading the message twice. Real experience. She couldn't possibly mean joining an army camp, could she? His com-tab buzzed again.

Maggie Armond: "Try the Armond military camp. Start as a recruit. You won't be coddled there. It's the best way to understand your audience."

He hesitated, his thumb hovering over the screen. As the heir—albeit a spare—of House von Shelb, joining the military as a common recruit was unheard of. His family's legacy hung over him like a storm cloud, and every decision he made was scrutinized through the lens of Harold von Shelb's legend.

Micheal: "Not sure I can do that. Expectations are… complicated in Shelb."

Her reply was swift.

Maggie Armond: "That's exactly why you should try it. Armond camp is different. No one cares who you are there. Think about it."

Micheal let out a long sigh, staring out at the rolling hills. The idea was both daunting and oddly appealing. Could he really do it? Shed his title and immerse himself in the life of a soldier? The thought lingered as his com-tab buzzed again—this time, a message from Lysander.

Lysander Valmont: "I hear Lady Maggie roped you into joining the military. Man-bra pioneer turned warrior? This I must see."

Micheal scowled at the screen.

Micheal: "And I hear the great Lysander Valmont has been reduced to fetching fir tree rings for my wife. A tragic fall."

Lysander Valmont: "Touché. But unlike you, I wasn't presenting corsets to soldiers."

Micheal: "They're man-bras. Functional ones."

Lysander Valmont: "Ah yes, functional enough to paralyze a dragonslayer. Truly revolutionary."

Micheal groaned, pocketing the com-tab as the carriage rolled to a stop in front of the estate. He stepped out with a new mix of emotions—uncertainty, determination, and a spark of excitement. Whether he took Maggie's offer or not, one thing was clear: the journey ahead was about to take a decidedly unexpected turn.

Micheal arrived back at the Shelb estate, his mind still swirling with the implications of his earlier conversations. Magda's composed yet supportive words lingered, as did the biting wit of Lysander and Maggie's well-meaning critique. He barely registered Barnaby handing him another neatly pressed invitation until the words "tea with the Duchess" snapped him out of his reverie.

"Tea? With Mother?" Micheal murmured, blinking at the ornate card.

Barnaby nodded solemnly. "It's not just tea, sir. It's the Duchess' tea. And when the Duchess summons, even the Emperor himself might consider rescheduling."

Micheal sighed. "I suppose I have no choice."

"No, sir. You do not," Barnaby quipped, straightening Micheal's lapel with a critical eye before waving him toward the family drawing room.

The Duchess Eleanor von Shelb sat poised and regal, her long chestnut-brown hair cascading down her back in perfectly styled waves. Her hazel eyes, warm yet sharp, flicked to Micheal as he entered the room. Beside her sat his two brothers: Adrian, his golden-blonde hair tied neatly back, exuding calm intelligence, and Ethan, the very image of a classic military hero with his cropped golden hair and muscular frame.

Micheal drifted in like a ghost, his bright blue eyes distant, still caught in his thoughts. The Duchess noticed immediately.

"You're late, Micheal," she said, her voice a mixture of affection and gentle reproach.

"Am I?" Micheal replied absently, sinking into a chair with the grace of a practiced nobleman.

Adrian raised an eyebrow. "Are you alright? You look... distracted."

The Duchess studied him for a moment before turning to her other sons. "Let us catch up first. Micheal seems to need a moment to land back on earth."

Adrian launched into a detailed account of a recent military training exercise, his tone lively but deliberate.

"And then, Mother," Adrian said, his deep blue eyes lighting up, "Father charged right into the mock skirmish with nothing but a wooden saber. His aura alone sent the recruits scattering. It was magnificent—just like the stories he tells about the Northern campaigns."

The Duchess smiled faintly. "I see your father is still fond of his theatrics."

"Oh, he is," Adrian confirmed, glancing at Ethan for support. "He's also given me some advice for motivating the troops. Honestly, Mother, it's fascinating to watch him still command so much respect."

"Respect or fear?" Ethan muttered under his breath, earning a sharp glance from Adrian.

"Respect," Adrian insisted, returning his attention to the Duchess. "The Shelb army remains one of the finest in the Empire, thanks to his leadership."

"And yours, no doubt," the Duchess said diplomatically, though her expression suggested she wasn't entirely sold on Adrian's account.

Ethan, who had been silent for most of Adrian's storytelling, leaned forward suddenly. "What about you, Micheal? Have you ever considered joining the army? Even as a volunteer? It would teach you discipline, something our House prides itself on."

Micheal, who had been stirring his tea absently, froze. He looked up at Ethan as if seeing him for the first time.

"The army?" he echoed.

"Yes, the army," Ethan said firmly. "You're refined, yes, but some time with soldiers might temper that refinement with a little grit."

Before Ethan could continue, Micheal abruptly stood, his expression shifting to one of newfound determination.

"I've decided," he announced, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. "I'm joining the Armond military as a recruit."

The room fell into stunned silence. Adrian looked as though Micheal had just insulted the entire Shelb lineage, while Ethan's jaw slackened in disbelief.

"The Armond military?" Adrian finally managed, his tone hovering between offense and confusion. "Why not the Shelb army? It's one of the best in the Empire."

Micheal waved a hand dismissively. "The Armond camp suits my current... goals better."

Adrian's expression darkened. "So you think the Shelb army isn't good enough for you?"

"What? No! That's not what I meant—"

But Adrian was already frowning deeply, misinterpreting Micheal's words as criticism.

Ethan, meanwhile, looked genuinely shaken. "I was just trying to nudge you, not—" He gestured helplessly toward Micheal. "This."

The Duchess, who had been watching the exchange with growing irritation, set her teacup down with a decisive clink. "Enough," she said coolly, her hazel eyes sharp as they moved between Adrian and Ethan.

"Micheal," she continued, her voice softer but no less commanding, "are you certain about this? The army isn't exactly... your calling."

Micheal nodded, his determination unwavering. "I need to do this, Mother."

The Duchess sighed, her composed exterior cracking just slightly. "Very well. But know this: while I admire your resolve, I will hold you to the Shelb standard—whether you're here or in another camp. Do not disappoint me."

Micheal inclined his head. "I won't."

As he left the room, the Duchess turned her gaze to her elder sons. "Congratulations," she said dryly. "Between Adrian's overzealous storytelling and Ethan's relentless pushing, you've driven your brother into the arms of another army."

Adrian looked mortified. "Mother, I didn't—"

"And I was just suggesting—" Ethan started, but the Duchess silenced them both with a raised hand.

"Enough," she said with a small sigh, reclaiming her teacup. "Men."

Ethan and Adrian exchanged glances, both wondering how such a simple tea had gone so spectacularly awry.

Micheal sat cross-legged on the plush carpet of his room, surrounded by an assortment of carefully chosen "essentials" for his upcoming enlistment. The golden hues of the setting sun filtered through the expansive windows, casting a warm glow on his meticulous packing. Arrayed around him were three sets of silk pajamas, a rainbow of scented candles, his favorite leather-bound journal, and a stack of perfectly ironed handkerchiefs. Several pairs of impeccably polished shoes were lined up like soldiers awaiting inspection.

He picked up a lavender-scented candle, holding it close t his nose.

Micheal (muttering): "Lavender might help with the stress of drills… but eucalyptus could enhance clarity. Then again, vanilla might foster camaraderie."

The com-tab resting beside him buzzed, cutting through his indecisive reverie. Micheal glanced at it, his eyes narrowing slightly as he read the incoming message. Maggie had replied.

Maggie: You're what?!

Micheal typed back, his movements precise and deliberate, as though reaffirming his commitment with each keystroke.

Micheal (typing): I'm joining the Armond military camp as a recruit. I've made my decision.

Far away at the Armond estate, Maggie reclined in her favorite armchair at the Armond estate, a steaming cup of tea balanced delicately on the armrest. Her emerald-green eyes scanned Micheal's message, her lips curling into an amused smile.

Maggie (waving her com-tab toward her husband): "Guess who's decided to join our military camp as a recruit?"

Across the room, Drifter, the famed dragonslayer knight, sat polishing his ceremonial sword. The flickering firelight from the aesthetic fireplace cast sharp shadows across his broad shoulders and chiseled features. His piercing gaze lifted from the blade, fixing on Maggie with a mixture of exasperation and curiosity.

Drifter (gruffly): "If it's that Shelb pretty boy, the answer is no. The Duke will have my head, and I don't need more headaches."

Maggie tilted her head, a knowing smile playing on her lips.

Maggie: "You wouldn't refuse him if I told you Reuben likes him."

Drifter's expression shifted. The mention of their eldest son, Reuben—more mage than knight—struck a chord. Drifter had always struggled to connect with Reuben, whose magical expertise often clashed with his father's aura-based martial prowess.

Maggie (softly): "Reuben needs someone he can relate to. Someone like Micheal. Maybe Micheal can help you understand him better."

Drifter's jaw tightened, his calloused hands gripping the sword hilt. He sighed heavily, surrendering to his wife's logic.

Drifter (muttering): "Fine. But he'll be treated like any other recruit. No exceptions."

Maggie (grinning): "Of course, dear."

Back in Shelb's estate, the door to Micheal's room suddenly burst open, and Barnaby stormed in, his imposing figure filling the room like a thundercloud. His athletic frame, broad shoulders, and perpetually tousled chestnut-brown hair gave him a commanding presence, even as his polished uniform clung impeccably to his form. His sharp green eyes sparkled with a mix of frustration and energy, almost electrifying the air around him.

Barnaby (half-yelling): "Master Micheal, what is this madness about joining the Armond military camp? Have you lost your porcelain mind?"

Micheal looked up from his neatly folded handkerchiefs, blinking innocently.

Micheal (calmly): "Ethan said it would build character."

Barnaby crossed his arms, his exasperation palpable.

Barnaby: "Ah, yes. Because when I think of building character, I think of scented candles and silk pajamas." He gestured at the items strewn across the carpet. "This isn't about the camp, is it? This is about a certain someone."

Micheal's face turned crimson, and he scrambled to deny the accusation.

Micheal (stammering): "It's not about Magda! It's about—discipline! Yes, discipline!"

Barnaby raised an eyebrow, unconvinced, but before he could retort, the door swung open. Adrian entered, his usually composed demeanor overshadowed by visible distress.

Adrian (earnestly): "Are you serious, Micheal? Why not join the Shelb army? It's not as if we don't have the best training in the Empire."

Micheal, already frazzled, snapped.

Micheal: "I can't! Anywhere but the Shelb army!"

Adrian froze, his deep blue eyes wide with shock. The words hit him like a hammer, and he stepped back, his golden-blonde hair catching the light as he processed the statement.

Adrian (quietly): "So… you think our army isn't good enough."

Micheal opened his mouth to argue but stopped when he saw the hurt in Adrian's expression. Adrian nodded curtly and left, muttering under his breath.

Adrian (muttering): "Lavender soap… seriously."

Adrian leaned against the corridor wall, his thoughts spiraling. His brother's words replayed in his mind, each one stinging like a blade.

Adrian (to himself): "If Micheal thinks our army isn't good enough, I'll prove him wrong. I'll make the Shelb army the envy of the Empire."

Back in Micheal's room, the faint glow of sunset filtered through the ornate windows, casting a warm golden hue over the chaos that was his packing. Micheal was once again debating the merits of chamomile tea versus mint for his travel set when Barnaby, still as imposing as ever, sighed audibly. His green eyes, usually sharp and full of energy, softened as he observed his master's determination.

Barnaby leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his broad chest, his polished uniform perfectly at odds with his perpetually tousled hair. His initial frustration seemed to dissipate, replaced by resigned affection.

Barnaby (grumbling): "You're truly set on this, aren't you?"

Micheal looked up from his deliberation over tea blends, his bright blue eyes sparkling with resolve. He nodded firmly, his expression more serious than Barnaby was used to seeing.

Micheal (simply): "I have to."

Barnaby pushed himself off the doorframe with a small shake of his head. Kneeling beside Micheal, he reached into the pile of neatly folded items. Pulling out a silk pajama set, he raised an incredulous eyebrow.

Barnaby (dryly): "And you think the Armond brutes are going to care about your bedtime elegance?"

Micheal gave a small chuckle, reaching for the pajamas and smoothing them back into place.

Micheal: "Just because one is a recruit doesn't mean one must sacrifice dignity."

Barnaby rolled his eyes but started unpacking some of Micheal's more questionable choices, replacing them with practical items—a durable water flask, extra socks, and a small first aid kit. His hands moved deftly, each motion betraying a lifetime of military precision.

Barnaby (muttering under his breath): "Porcelain in a battlefield. This will be a spectacle."

Micheal caught the words and frowned, his voice tinged with mock indignation.

Micheal: "Porcelain? I'll have you know I'm as durable as—"

Barnaby (cutting him off): "—a tea set in a hurricane. Yes, sir, I'm well aware."

Despite his grumbling, Barnaby's movements became gentler, his usual sharp remarks softened by genuine concern. He sneaked in a small, well-worn charm for good luck into Micheal's bag, tucking it beneath the layers of essentials.

As they packed, Barnaby's voice dropped into a softer tone.

Barnaby: "You'll need more than scented candles and charm to survive out there. If you ever feel like it's too much… just say the word. I'll come running."

Micheal paused, touched by the sincerity in his words. A small smile curved his lips.

Micheal: "I know, Barnaby. That's why I'll be fine."

Downstairs in the grand hall, the atmosphere was anything but serene. Duchess Eleanor von Shelb, the epitome of noble grace, was pacing the length of the room. Her long chestnut-brown hair, usually styled with precision, swayed with every determined step, and her striking hazel eyes flashed with a mixture of worry and indignation.

Clara, her ever-faithful maid, stood nearby, her hands neatly folded and her expression calm despite the storm brewing before her.

Duchess Eleanor: "My poor Micheal! Bullied into enlisting by those brute sons of mine. It's all their father's fault, you know."

Clara tilted her head slightly, her expression thoughtful.

Clara (gently): "The young master seems quite determined, my lady."

Eleanor paused mid-step, turning sharply to face her maid.

Duchess Eleanor (exasperated): "Determined or not, he's still my baby. The Armond military camp! Of all places! They'll ruin his complexion, Clara."

Clara fought back a smile, her voice carrying a hint of amusement.

Clara: "Perhaps it will do him some good."

Eleanor blinked, as if the idea was entirely foreign to her. She resumed pacing, though her steps seemed slightly less frantic.

Duchess Eleanor (softly): "Good? Perhaps… but if anything happens to him…"

Her voice trailed off, but the fire in her hazel eyes burned brighter.

Duchess Eleanor: "…there will be hell to pay."

Clara gave a small nod, her smile softening.

Clara: "Of that, I have no doubt, my lady."

The duchess sighed dramatically, the hem of her elegant gown sweeping across the polished floor with each step. She stared out of the tall windows, her thoughts far away.

Duchess Eleanor (murmuring): "He's always been different, you know. So much like me in some ways, and yet so utterly his own person. Perhaps that's why he drives me mad."

Clara offered no response, knowing the duchess needed the space to voice her worries. After a long pause, Eleanor straightened, her regal demeanor firmly back in place.

Duchess Eleanor: "Still, I will not have my gentle son dragged into chaos by those military maniacs. If they so much as scuff his boots…"

Her words trailed off again, but the steel in her tone was unmistakable. Clara hid her amusement as she curtsied.

Clara: "I shall ensure his boots are polished to perfection before he leaves, my lady."

The duchess sighed again, this time with a mix of frustration and resignation. With one final sweep of her gown, she turned on her heel and marched out of the hall, muttering about how she would handle "those boys" later.

As the first hints of dusk painted the Shelb barracks in warm, golden hues, Adrian von Shelb dismounted his horse with practiced elegance. His golden-blonde hair glinted in the fading sunlight, and his deep blue eyes scanned the grounds with a mix of determination and calculation. Soldiers, mid-task in their evening routines, saluted him reflexively. Adrian responded with a polite wave.

Adrian: "No need for formalities today, gentlemen. Carry on."

His calm demeanor was a familiar sight, but it did little to foreshadow what was to come. With a purposeful stride, Adrian approached his assistant, Harry, who was balancing a com-tab precariously in one hand and an overstuffed satchel in the other.

Adrian: "Harry, I've decided to initiate a wellness survey for the soldiers. Morale drives efficiency, and efficiency ensures victory."

Harry blinked, visibly caught off guard by the sudden announcement. His wiry frame seemed to tremble under the weight of his perpetual dishevelment, but he quickly sprang into action, furiously scrolling through his com-tab.

Harry: "A survey... of course, sir. Let me find a template."

After a few frantic moments, Harry located a wellness survey and presented it with an air of triumph. Unfortunately, his enthusiasm led him to overlook a critical detail: the source of the survey was a luxury hotel chain in the Shelb estate known for pampering its noble guests.

Harry: "Here you go, sir. I'll print it out right away."

Adrian nodded approvingly, entirely unaware of the template's origins.

Adrian: "Efficient as always, Harry. Print it, and I'll distribute it myself. Direct engagement will enhance its effectiveness."

Minutes later, armed with a neatly stacked pile of printed surveys and a clipboard, Adrian walked confidently into the barracks, catching the attention of soldiers stacking firewood. His polished boots clicked against the cobblestones, announcing his arrival.

Adrian: "Good evening, men! I'm here to ask a few questions that will improve your experience in the Shelb military."

The soldiers exchanged puzzled glances but stood to attention.

Adrian (enthusiastically): "Question one. On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate the current state of the barracks soap?"

Soldier #1 (hesitantly): "Soap, sir?"

Adrian: "Yes, soap. Specifically, do you prefer lavender or pine scents? This is vital for morale and hygiene."

The soldiers struggled to suppress their bewilderment. Adrian, however, was unfazed, jotting down answers with the fervor of a man uncovering military secrets.

Adrian: "Now, about the mess hall. Would embroidered banners featuring the Shelb crest inspire more loyalty during meals?"

Soldier #2 (murmuring to a comrade): "Is this a trick question?"

Officer (whispering, overhearing): "Just answer him. It's easier that way."

Adrian's clipboard filled rapidly as he worked his way through the barracks, his questions growing increasingly eccentric. Some soldiers scratched their heads over inquiries about breakfast pastries, while others tried not to laugh at questions regarding personalized armor engravings.

Meanwhile, in the silent depths of the Mage Tower, Magda von Valoria stood before an array of fir tree cross-sections, their glowing rings casting faint light onto the stone walls. Her hazel eyes were narrowed in concentration as she traced her finger along the grooves of a particularly bright ring. Lysander Valmont, her steadfast assistant, stood nearby, gray eyes quietly assessing the patterns.

Magda: "This ring here—it's darker than the others. The mana disturbance matches the wasteland patterns from twenty years ago. Could it be connected to the myths of the Desert God, the White Saber?"

Lysander: "If we gather more samples, we might be able to confirm that theory. The patterns are consistent, but it's strange. It almost feels… deliberate."

Magda's thoughts swirled as she stared at the glowing rings. The implications were profound, touching on ancient myths that could reshape their understanding of magic. Yet the puzzle remained stubbornly incomplete.

Magda (to herself): "What are we missing?"

The faint hum of the magical orbs seemed to pulse in tandem with her rising apprehension. Somewhere within these patterns lay an answer—one that could change everything.

Her heart raced as the weight of discovery pressed down on her, and for the first time in a long while, Magda felt the sharp sting of unease.