The hangar bay of the massive siege cruiser hissed with depressurization as a sleek, personal Interceptor-class ship detached from the docking clamps. It dropped like a stone from the cruiser's belly before its thrusters ignited with a blinding blue flash, propelling it toward the swirling atmosphere of Yustea Prime.
Inside the narrow cockpit, Senior Lieutenant Verza Zal sat perfectly still, her hands resting lightly on the control yoke. She was descending to personally inspect the Accord fortresses that bordered the native lands.
"Interceptor-class, registration number one-one-nine-eight," Verza spoke into her comms channel, her voice as flat and cold as the void behind her. "Operating with clearance under BSO N-52. Requesting immediate landing pad designation with a charge launcher at my current coordinates."
A few seconds of static crackled through the speakers before the planetary control tower answered. "Understood, Interceptor 1198. Verifying BSO clearance..." Another brief pause. "Clearance confirmed. Welcome to Yustea Prime. Proceed to Landing Pad Aurek-Seven."
Verza guided the incredibly fast ship through the upper atmosphere, breaking through the clouds to reveal the lush, green valley below. She set the Interceptor down on the designated durasteel pad with practiced precision.
The moment the ship's ramp lowered, Verza stepped out into the crisp mountain air. Waiting for her at the base of the ramp was the Accord Army Captain in charge of this specific fortress sector.
He offered a crisp, snapping salute. "Welcome to Yustea Prime, Senior Lieutenant Zal."
Verza didn't return the salute. She simply adjusted the collar of her grey uniform. "I am here in a Supervisor capacity, Captain. You will address me as such."
The Captain swallowed hard, quickly lowering his hand. "Forgive me, Supervisor. We were already briefed on your sudden visit today by Major Benna. Please, allow me to give you a tour of our primary forward operating fort."
Verza simply gave a curt nod. As she began to walk, the mountain wind caught the half-cape of her BSO uniform, making it snap behind her, adding a foreboding, almost theatrical weight to her presence as she inspected the heavily fortified walls.
…
Down in the Crescent Circle of the valley, a starkly different scene unfolded.
The native Yustean people were quietly going about their daily chores, preparing the ancient stone hearths and woven pavilions for the upcoming Centennial Shower. But from where Gale stood, the beauty of the sacred valley was entirely overshadowed by the oppressive reality surrounding it.
Gale looked around, his sharp eyes taking in the perimeter. The natural, sweeping area of the valley was completely lined by a dark, foreboding fortress of Accord steel and rebar. And it wasn't just the military presence that unsettled him.
Lining the elevated durasteel walkways above the valley were thousands of wealthy Accord tourists.
They were packed tightly together, holding up their datapads and expensive recording orbs, taking photos and gawking down at the Yusteans as if they were observing a rare species of wildlife. Every time a native Yustean walked past to gather firewood, a flurry of flashes would light up the ridge.
Gale felt a knot of pure disgust form in his stomach. It felt exactly like a zoo.
"Are you not feeling uncomfortable?" Gale muttered, looking down at a young Yustean teenager who was calmly weaving a basket nearby.
The teenager didn't even look up at the flashing cameras. "You get used to it. They won't talk to us anyway. They think we are all observing this deep, mystical 'Silent Vow' ritual."
"Then why not talk to them first?" Gale asked, gesturing toward a media pavilion where reporters were setting up tripods. "Look, there are reporters up there. I'm sure they would want to hear your actual voices. Tell them the truth about the fortresses."
The teenager stopped weaving and looked up at Gale with a deeply incredulous, almost pitying expression. In that single look, Gale was forcefully reminded of exactly how the Accord machine operated.
"Some of us have tried it before," the teen said softly, his voice laced with generations of quiet defeat. "When one of our elders walked up to the fence and spoke perfectly good Common, the tourists looked at him like he had done something horrific. They got angry. They complained to the resort managers, saying we weren't 'true' Yusteans because a 'true' Yustean wouldn't break the sacred silence to speak to an outsider."
Gale's jaw tightened as the horrific realization washed over him. The false ritual wasn't just an excuse made up by the Accord to ignore the natives; it had become a systematic, psychological cage for both sides. The tourists wanted the mystical fantasy, and they would actively punish the Yusteans for breaking it.
Gale reached down and grabbed Jess's small hand a bit firmer, pulling her slightly closer.
The teen sighed, reaching into his woven pouch and pulling out a beautifully carved, authentic wooden talisman. He held it out to Gale. "Here. You can sell this to them up on the ridge. At least this one is a true piece of our culture you can sell as a souvenir, rather than those glowing rocks you painted."
Gale let out a low, deeply apologetic laugh, feeling a pang of guilt for his opportunistic hustle. But the teen just smiled kindly and brushed it off, going back to his weaving.
…
High above the Crescent Circle, standing at the very edge of the durasteel fort, Verza Zal looked down at the native camp through the reinforced glass of the observation deck.
"How many of them have arrived for the gathering?" Verza asked, her tone clinical.
The Captain stepped up beside her, checking a datapad. "Less than a hundred, Supervisor."
Verza's lips curled into a faint, utterly ruthless smile. "So, they are dwindling."
The Captain nodded, returning her smile with one of bureaucratic satisfaction. "They are indeed. The main ancestral routes through the mountains have been closed down entirely, officially cited as a 'tourist safety measure' due to unstable terrain. Most of the Yustean tribes from the outer sectors are still a long way from the Circle. They will absolutely not arrive on time for the showers."
The Captain took a step forward, resting his hands on the railing as he looked down at the small cluster of tents. "It is a massive improvement over last century. Their stench is not in our faces any longer, and the tourists don't have to deal with the overcrowding."
Verza simply nodded, her icy eyes tracking a small, Yustean child running through the camp below.
"Indeed."
…
Meanwhile, lightyears away from the oppressive durasteel fortresses of Yustea, the atmosphere inside the Kepler farmhouse on Friton was one of absolute, orchestrated chaos.
In the center of Dorian's spacious bedroom, the genius composer of the century had been reduced to nothing more than a life-sized dress-up doll.
"Stand still," Lyra commanded, stepping up to adjust the sleek, silver-plated shoulder pad of his tailored jacket. "The silver has to be perfectly straight, or it throws off the entire silhouette."
Beside her, Juno was meticulously fixing his hair, ensuring the styled strands fell perfectly over his forehead. Dorian, feeling an itch, raised his hand to brush a stray lock away.
Smack.
Juno effortlessly slapped his hand away without even looking. "Don't touch it. It's already perfect."
"Ouch," Dorian muttered, rubbing the back of his hand.
A few steps back, Manager Ratik held her hands up, using her thumbs and index fingers to create a makeshift frame. She squinted, analyzing the angle, the fall of the fabric, and the overall aesthetic of Dorian's gala attire.
Dorian let out a long, long sigh, entirely surrendering his dignity to the three women. He dropped his arms to his sides. "Is all this really necessary? It's a masquerade party, Ratik. They aren't even going to know who I am. Isn't that the whole point of the mask?"
Ratik lowered her hands, shaking her head with a seasoned, industry-weary smile. "That is exactly where you are wrong, Dorian. These ultra-rich Core World elites have incredibly roundabout ways of seeing things. Even if they don't know exactly who is under the mask, they will judge your worth entirely by the cut of your coat, the posture you hold, and the way you carry silence. You'll get used to it."
Juno stepped back, crossing her arms with a smirk. "Plus, some of those people have never been punched in the mouth in their entire lives. They have zero filter. So, try to hold your temper a bit."
Dorian raised an eyebrow, looking at Juno with a playful, challenging glint in his eyes. "Oh? You think I can't knock one of them out if they insult me?"
Juno let out a bright chuckle. "What I'm saying is that you can't punch your way through their security details. Someone in the 0.1 percent doesn't just hire bouncers; they have actual Solars as their personal bodyguards."
To emphasize her point, Juno playfully slapped him flat in the center of his chest. Even though she held back ninety-nine percent of her strength, the solid, dense impact briefly knocked the wind out of him, a stark reminder of exactly how terrifyingly strong a Solar warrior really was. Dorian wheezed slightly, though he was grinning.
The three women took a collective step back, analyzing the final look.
Lyra tilted her head, her face scrunching up in dissatisfaction. "Hmmm. The lighting in this bedroom is too warm. It doesn't support my brother's silver accessories at all. It makes him look washed out."
"Don't worry," Ratik assured her, checking her datapad for the schedule. "In the gala hall, the lighting will be entirely different. Sharp, dynamic, and cold."
"Pose a bit, Dori," Juno suggested, gesturing with her hand. "Let's see how the jacket moves."
Dorian sighed again and attempted to strike what he thought was a suave, mysterious pose. He leaned his weight to one side, crossing his arms and trying to look brooding.
Lyra's face immediately curled into a look of absolute, visceral disgust. "Eww. Brother, stop. You look like a squid drowning."
Dorian instantly broke the pose, looking at his little sister with pure offense. "How can a squid even drown?!"
Lyra shrugged unapologetically. "I don't know the science behind it, but you somehow manage to look exactly like one."
"Wait," Juno interrupted, a spark of inspiration hitting her. She raised her hand toward the ceiling fixture.
In that exact second, the warm, yellow lights of Dorian's bedroom suddenly dimmed into near darkness. Using her advanced Nullbreaker path, Juno subtly manipulated the room's energy field, refracting the raw electricity in the bulbs to conjure sharp, cold beams of simulated spotlight around Dorian. The silver shoulder pad instantly caught the fractured light, making him look imposing, ethereal, and undeniably expensive.
"Whoa," Lyra breathed, her eyes wide.
Even Dorian was caught off guard, looking at the refracted light dancing across his sleeves. He had known Juno was a powerhouse in combat, but seeing her use her Solar path for something so delicate and precise was mesmerizing.
Juno smiled in the dim light, highly satisfied with her work. "I think it's perfect. Wear your mask."
Dorian reached over to his vanity and picked up the final piece of the ensemble. It wasn't his usual, full-face Percival mask. This one was custom-made for the masquerade; a sleek, dark half-mask that covered his eyes and nose but cut off sharply just above the mouth, allowing him to speak clearly and sip the outrageously expensive drinks that would be served at the gala.
He slipped it on. The transformation was instant. The farm boy vanished, replaced entirely by a phantom of high society.
…
Ten minutes later, Dorian was boarding his ship, the Millennium Falcon.
Standing near the edge of the landing pad, the Kepler family had gathered to see him off. John and little Marcus waved energetically as the ship's repulsorlifts began to hum, kicking up a warm breeze across the farm.
"Bring me back some fancy food!" Marcus yelled over the engines.
Beside them, Leo emitted a series of rapid beeps, reminding Dorian to return before the next crop harvest.
As the ship's ramp closed and the vessel lifted off into the Friton sky, John scooped Marcus up onto his shoulders, turning back toward the farmhouse with Leo trailing behind them to finish their afternoon chores.
Only Lyra and Juno were left standing on the edge of the launch pad, watching the ship become a speck in the clouds.
Lyra crossed her arms, the wind blowing through her hair. She glanced sideways at the tall, beautiful Solar warrior standing next to her.
"So," Lyra said casually, though her tone was pointed. "Did my stupid brother ask you out yet?"
Juno kept her eyes on the sky, a soft, incredibly warm smile touching her lips. "I'm still waiting."
Lyra let out an exasperated groan, throwing her hands up in the air. "What a blockhead!"
Juno chuckled, the sound light and fond as she turned to walk back toward the farmhouse.
"Well," Juno murmured affectionately. "He is my blockhead."
…
The journey to Sela was, for the most part, entirely silent and relaxing. The interior of the Millennium Falcon was spacious and plush, designed specifically for long hauls across the Core Worlds.
Dorian exhaled a deep, weary breath, fully intending to slouch down into the luxurious leather passenger seat and catch a quick nap before the masquerade.
"Don't lean back!" Ratik snapped from the pilot's chair without even turning her head. "Your suit will get completely scrunched up. Sit straight."
Dorian immediately froze, his spine snapping back into rigid alignment. He let out a long, long sigh of pure suffering.
"Speaking of which," Dorian said, trying to change the subject to something far less stifling than high society fashion. "Did you know our farm yields are currently being used by some high-end restaurants in the capital sector?"
Ratik briefly turned around in her chair, genuinely surprised. "Really?"
Dorian nodded enthusiastically, a proud smile forming beneath his half-mask. "Yeah! Dad told me yesterday. They are specifically asking for 'Kepler Grade' produce now. They apparently love the soil profile."
Ratik hummed, impressed. "So, is your father working with several large-scale agricultural distributors now?"
Dorian shook his head. "No. Actually, Dad says he just partnered up with an old ex-miner friend of his who recently launched her own independent distribution group. They are keeping it small but high quality."
"A smart move," Ratik approved, her managerial instincts automatically kicking in. "Do you need my help to set up the legal framework or manage the contracts for him?"
"No, it's alright," Dorian smiled warmly. "He's got it handled. I think he enjoys having a project that's entirely his own."
With the conversation lulling, Dorian leaned his head, very carefully, so as not to ruin his hair against the headrest and closed his eyes. But he wasn't sleeping. In the quiet sanctuary of his mind, he accessed the hidden, glowing interface of his system.
He opened his Boon Collection.
Currently, his inventory was modest but powerful. He had five Boons of Aphrodite, two of Ares, three of Demeter, and a single, highly coveted Boon of Athena. He never ever used any of these, save for Aphrodite's, which had proven incredibly useful in navigating the chaotic world of entertainment politics. But tonight, he was walking into a sea of corporate sharks.
He opened his Keepsake tab and gently touched the holographic icon of a single, vibrant pink rose. In reality, it was pinned perfectly to the lapel of his tailored jacket as a boutonniere. But it wasn't just a decorative flower. It was the Eternal Rose, a powerful Keepsake he had pulled from the Hades gacha system.
At its base level, the Eternal Rose guaranteed that the next Boon of Aphrodite he found would be a rare or better quality blessing. But as he had leveled it up through passive use, it had become far more potent. Making for longer and higher quality, subliminal 'Charm' and 'Weakness' aura on those immediately around him.
It was the ultimate, invisible armor for a high-society masquerade.
A few hours later, the Falcon touched down smoothly on a private, elevated landing pad in Sela.
Dorian stepped off the ship and walked beside Ratik into the sprawling, opulent lobby of the Rendezvous Hotel, where they were scheduled to meet with Mar Raila before the gala.
As they walked past the glittering fountains and the ridiculously expensive statues, a sudden, ethereal shimmer of pink light materialized in the air beside Dorian.
Only he could see her.
Aphrodite floated gracefully beside him, her impossibly beautiful form entirely unbothered by the gravity of Sela. She looked around the lavish lobby with a deeply unimpressed, haughty expression.
"Humph," the goddess scoffed, her voice a melodious, echoing purr in Dorian's mind. "Look at all these mortal, cousins. Scurrying about in their shiny trinkets. And yet, not a single one of them has the capacity to truly appreciate upon Olympian charms."
Dorian couldn't help it. A short, highly amused chuckle escaped his lips.
Ratik immediately looked at him, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. "What exactly are you laughing about?"
Of course, she couldn't see the literal goddess of love floating right next to him.
"Nothing," Dorian covered quickly, clearing his throat and gesturing vaguely at the sprawling lobby. "It's just... it's very crowded in here. Not as private or exclusive as I expected for a pre-gala meeting."
Ratik didn't miss a beat. She adjusted her datapad, her tone dropping into a low, conspiratorial whisper. "That is because the owner of this specific hotel is one of Mar Raila's paramours."
Dorian stopped walking. He blinked beneath his half-mask, completely caught off guard by the sheer, unapologetic scandal of the statement. "Wait. You mean that woman has a side piece?"
Ratik just looked at him with a flat, entirely serious expression. "She has several."
Dorian's mind began to reel. His eyes widened slightly as a terrifying thought struck him. The head of a major label... known for having multiple lovers... was inviting him to a private meeting before a highly exclusive, secretive masquerade ball.
'Does she...' Dorian swallowed hard, panic rising in his chest. 'Did she invite me here to try and make me her side piece?!'
Beside him, Aphrodite let out a bright, highly amused peal of laughter that sounded like silver bells. "Oh, my sweet little godling," the goddess chuckled warmly. "No true love in this wretched city, hm? Just lust."
Ratik, noticing Dorian's blank, slightly horrified stare as they stepped into the private VIP elevator, immediately deduced exactly what he was panicking about.
"Don't worry," Ratik said firmly, stepping between him and the elevator doors as they hissed shut. "I won't let her anywhere near you. That is not why we are here."
Dorian let out a massive sigh of relief, genuinely amazed at how terrifyingly accurately his manager could read his thoughts.
"Mind reader," Dorian muttered under his breath.
Ratik just rolled her eyes. "Shut up and straighten your back. We are here."
The elevator chimed softly, and the polished silver doors slid open, revealing the penthouse suite.
Dorian stepped out, momentarily taken aback. The massive room was entirely tropical-themed, a stark contrast to the sleek architecture of Sela outside. Floor-to-ceiling windows illuminated the suite with the golden glow of the Selanian afternoon sun, casting long shadows through the broad, swaying leaves of exotic, imported plants scattered around the room.
Lounging on a plush velvet sofa in the center of this indoor jungle was Mar Raila. She was wearing a luxurious, loosely tied silk robe, casually holding her hand out while a terrified-looking attendant meticulously painted her nails.
Raila glanced up at the elevator chime. A slow, predatory smile spread across her lips. "My, my, Composer. You have your mask on already."
Dorian walked forward, Ratik matching his pace perfectly at his side. Beneath his half-mask, Dorian's eyes narrowed slightly. 'What is this woman's angle?' he thought. She had practically saved him during the explosive Goldclick Records drama, completely shifting the media narrative in his favor. And yet, her only requested payback for that massive favor was for him to attend her label's private masquerade party tonight.
As he stepped deeper into the suite, his gaze swept past Raila and landed on the colossal, king-sized bed in the adjacent open-plan room.
Dorian froze.
Sleeping soundly in the tangled silk sheets were two heavily muscled men and one beautiful woman. Even from a distance, the absolute disarray of the pillows and the flushed state of the sleepers made the trace of recent, exhausting 'activity' impossible to ignore.
Raila followed the Composer's gaze and let out a low, throaty laugh.
"Fufufufu... don't worry, Composer," Raila purred, her eyes dancing with wicked amusement. "I'm not some sort of freak who only watches. I join them."
Dorian felt his soul briefly leave his body. He thanked the stars and every single god on Olympus that he was wearing a mask, because if he wasn't, his utterly scandalized, incredulous expression would have been glaringly obvious.
'You're still a freak, woman!' Dorian screamed internally.
He cleared his throat, forcing his voice to remain flat and strictly professional. "Good afternoon, Mar Raila. Your invitation came with a specific note to rendezvous in this room before the gala. Is there something you needed?"
Raila hummed softly. She stood up from the sofa, dismissing her nail technician with a flick of her wrist. As she stood, the silk robe fell completely open, revealing a dangerously sensual, tightly fitted black and red dress underneath.
She began to walk slowly toward Dorian, her hips swaying with practiced allure. She leaned in close, dropping her voice to a sultry whisper. "What I want... I want–"
She was abruptly cut off by Ratik.
The manager didn't even blink. She simply took a smooth, calculated half-step sideways, perfectly inserting her body like a physical shield between the powerful label executive and her masked prodigy.
Raila stopped, tilting her head at the manager. A highly amused smile touched her lips. "My, my. Protective, aren't we? Just like the old Gil."
"We are here in an official capacity, Mar Raila," Ratik stated steadily, her posture rigid and unyielding.
Raila let out another soft fufufu and merely tilted her head to look past Ratik's shoulder at the Composer.
"Fine, fine," Raila sighed dramatically. "I gave you that note to rendezvous here so I could make sure your outfit fit the occasion."
It was only then that Dorian noticed what was occupying the entire back wall of the suite. Behind the foliage were rows upon rows of rolling racks, completely filled with ultra-high-end designer clothes. There were glass display cases filled with sparkling accessories; rings, heavy bracelets, chains and dozens of pristine, expensive shoes. It looked like the backroom of Sela's most exclusive boutique.
Raila looked Percival up and down, her critical eyes taking in the tailored jacket and the sharp silver shoulder pad Lyra had painstakingly adjusted.
"Great choice," Raila nodded approvingly. "It seems silver matches your aesthetic really well."
She snapped her fingers. The attendant from the corner immediately rushed forward, bowing her head.
"I want you to pack up the silver sets," Raila ordered casually, pointing a manicured finger from one end of a massive clothing rack all the way to the other end of the room. "From that piece, all the way to that one. Send it all directly to the Composer's ship."
Dorian's jaw dropped behind the mask. She had just casually gifted him a literal lifetime supply of obscenely expensive outfits he would probably never wear on a farm.
"There is absolutely no need–" Dorian started, raising a hand to decline.
"Take it," Raila cut him off smoothly, turning her back to him. "I bought all of these for you to begin with. It would be a waste to throw them out. Ciao."
Without another word, she walked back to the velvet sofa, sat down, and extended her hand for her attendant to continue painting her nails, completely dismissing the most talked-about figure in the music industry.
Ratik and Dorian stood there for three seconds in total silence. Realizing the meeting was over, they just gave up, turned around, and walked back to the elevator.
The moment the silver doors hissed shut and the elevator began its descent, Dorian ripped his professional posture away and slumped against the wall.
"What the fuck was that?!" Dorian exhaled, thoroughly baffled.
Ratik pressed the button for the lobby, her eyes narrowed in deep thought. "I don't know. But she is playing a game we don't have the rules for yet. We still have to keep our guard completely up."
Dorian nodded in agreement. Mar Raila was a terrifying, unpredictable variable.
But from the corner of the elevator, a soft, ethereal glow illuminated the space. Aphrodite floated near the ceiling, her chin resting thoughtfully in her delicate hand as she stared at the closed doors.
"Hmm," Aphrodite mused aloud, her divine voice cutting through the silence of Dorian's mind. "There is not a single ounce of lust in that mortal when she looks at you, cousin."
Dorian's eyes widened behind the mask. He looked up at the goddess. 'What does she mean?' he thought wildly. Raila had practically oozed sensual energy the entire time she was walking toward him.
Aphrodite crossed her arms, her divine senses easily piercing through the mortal executive's theatrical facade.
"Weird mortal," the goddess concluded simply.
…
The polished, gull-wing doors of the luxurious EMG speeder opened with a sharp hydraulic hiss, releasing a plume of cooled air into the humid Selanian evening.
Inside the cabin, Dorian closed his eyes and took one deep, centering breath. He pushed the farm boy, the indie game developer, and the nervous teenager into a locked box in the back of his mind.
When he opened his eyes, he was Percival.
He stepped out onto the plush crimson fabric of the red carpet. The flashbulbs were instantly blinding, a chaotic strobe light of galactic media attention. As he adjusted his silver-accented cuffs, Percival observed the other high-profile artists and celebrities walking ahead of him.
They were all attending a masquerade gala, but they were treating it like a prop. They wore elaborate, jewel-encrusted masks, only to immediately pull them down or take them off the second the photographers called their names, desperately ensuring their faces were seen in tomorrow's headlines.
Walking slightly behind him, Ratik leaned in and murmured, "See what I mean? Roundabout ways of thinking. They want the aesthetic of mystery without sacrificing an ounce of their fame."
Percival just gave a single, knowing nod. He straightened his spine and took a step forward, walking with a slow, powerful, unhurried cadence as if he owned the very ground he stepped on.
As he approached the first cluster of the press line, the cameramen hesitated. They saw the striking silver shoulder pad and the sleek, dark half-mask that entirely obscured his eyes and upper face, leaving only a sharp jawline and an impassive expression.
The photographers kept their cameras half-lowered, waiting for the inevitable moment. They waited for him to pause, smile, and peek out from behind the mask to reveal his identity to the galaxy.
But the moment never came. Percival simply kept walking, his gaze fixed straight ahead, utterly ignoring the lenses.
"Who the fuck is that?" one of the lead photographers muttered, lowering his heavy recording rig.
"Don't bother," another paparazzi grunted, waving a hand dismissively. "Probably just some nobody executive or an eccentric plus-one trying to be edgy. Save it for Briane Taleini."
But Ratik, ever the master manipulator of the media machine, didn't let that stand. As she walked past the barrier, she deliberately leaned toward one of the red carpet hosts and stage-whispered just loud enough for the nearest directional microphones to catch it.
"I think he is Composer Percival."
She didn't stop to confirm it. She just kept walking, letting her words ripple outward like a stone dropped in a still pond.
The murmur traveled down the press line with terrifying speed. Wait, Percival? Composer Percival? Here? At an EMG gala?!
The press line jolted awake as if struck by lightning. The realization hit them like a physical blow. The mysterious phantom of the music industry, the man who had just shattered streaming records and hijacked a stadium was walking right past them.
"COMPOSER PERCIVAL!!" one of the cameramen near the middle of the line shrieked, his voice cracking with pure desperation.
Percival paused. He turned his head slightly toward the shout and offered a single, elegant wave.
Click-click-click-click-click!
The second half of the press line erupted into a blinding frenzy of flashes, capturing the majestic, masked figure bathed in the strobe lights. The first group of cameramen, the ones who had called him a 'nobody,' cursed loudly and viciously, violently shoving each other to try and get a terrible angle of his back. They had just missed the photographic shot of the decade.
The rest of the red carpet walk went smoothly, but as Percival approached the main media spot near the venue doors, something strange began to happen.
The area was packed with interviewers from media conglomerates that Mar Raila either owned or had massive shares in. But as Percival walked closer, the very air seemed to be sucked out of the space.
It wasn't just the reporters. Every single A-list celebrity, governor, and industry mogul lingering near the entrance suddenly stopped talking. They all turned to look at him. A heavy, intoxicating, almost magnetic pressure settled over the red carpet. People literally swayed on their feet, their breath catching in their throats, overwhelmed by a sudden, inexplicable feeling of deep infatuation and physical weakness just from looking at him.
Beneath his mask, Percival's eyes widened slightly as he realized what was happening.
The Eternal Rose.
Because he was the center of attention, the passive 'Charm' and 'Weakness' aura of the Hades Keepsake was currently operating at maximum, terrifying potency, blanketing the entire VIP area in Olympian allure.
'Okay, let's tone down the weakness infliction a bit,' Percival muttered internally, furiously trying to dial back the system's output. 'I want to look good, but I don't want these people actually feeling physically weak when they look at me.'
Floating effortlessly above the crowd, entirely invisible to the hyperventilating celebrities below, Aphrodite let out a musical, tinkling laugh.
"Sure, my little godling," the Goddess of Beauty smiled, twirling lazily in the air. "Whatever you wish."
The oppressive, suffocating weight of the aura lifted slightly, leaving only a lingering, breathtaking charisma in its wake. Percival let out a tiny breath of relief, acutely realizing that an Olympian's charm in the mortal realm was far more potent than he had ever anticipated.
The reporters, finally shaking off the daze, immediately surged forward with their microphones, desperate to get a quote from the most elusive man in the Accord.
But before a single question could be asked, the chief event organizer stepped smoothly in front of the barricade. He bowed deeply to the press.
"Apologies, everyone," the organizer announced, his voice projecting over the chaos. "Composer Percival does not take interviews on the red carpet."
Without breaking his stride or offering a single word to the media, Percival glided past the velvet ropes and stepped through the grand doors of the masquerade venue.
He left behind a sea of gawking celebrities, deeply flushed reporters, and a red carpet that would be talking about his arrival for the next ten years.
**A/N**
~Read Advance Chapter and Support me on [email protected]/SmilinKujo~
~🧣KujoW
**A/N**