The next time she made an impression was during the spring of my hundredth year. Having been worshipped by a hundred million souls, I had finally come of age and become a full-grown adult. For our species, the two concepts were strictly linked. It was the extent of our divinity that determined our size and strength. Back then, the system was different. Levels were hidden from end-users, and it was only by amassing one's heavenly might that ascension was possible.

Our species was peculiar, even among those that lived through the seventh divine age. We were born as aspect-equivalents and harboured the power to match. By adulthood, we were celestial, demi-gods that served as symbols of luck and prosperity.

Personally, I didn't care much for the changes in my body. The extra power was needless and the change in my standard size was more obnoxious than not. I had to expand and rebuild the workshop to suit my newfound default size.

It was right around the time of my ascension that I naturally began shifting from smithing to artificy. It wasn't an explicit switch. I simply started working on items imbued with magic and additional effects. And then I started optimizing their forms to suit their functions and their equippers' needs.

Everyone knew that I had stopped caring for anything but the magical formulae that I so carefully carved into my work. I was so obsessed that I asked my parents to cancel the party they'd planned to celebrate my growth just so I could spend more time by the forge. Exasperated, they'd ultimately relented at my continued insistence and allowed me to do as I pleased.

But for some reason I didn't understand, she showed up regardless.

She invaded my space with snacks and decor and forced me to take part in a makeshift celebration.

And she never left.

Day after day, she came to the forge, almost as if to purposefully disrupt my work.

___

Claire fought back the urge to yawn as she lazily inspected the ballroom door. It'd been a few years since she last attended anything in person, but it looked exactly as she remembered. The castle hosted so many balls—a minimum of one per month—that the sight had long been burned into her eyes. The only aspect she found unusual was the Vel'khanese presence. Everyone was dressed to the nines; even the men had their faces slathered in cosmetics.

Technically, the ball had already started. The hall was full of people eating, dancing, and chatting as they did their utmost to probe at each others' intentions, but the Northern Brigade had been asked to wait for a window to make their entrance.

Their opportunity came right as one of the faster songs came to an end. The servants opened the entrance meant for special guests and beckoned them inside while a particularly burly knight took a breath and raised his voice.

"Now entering, the Vel'khanese delegation, led by Queen Arciel Vel'khan!"

It took only a moment for the hall to fall silent. They tried not to make it too coordinated or obvious, but the many guests soon reared their heads and curiously inspected the foreigners. Eventually, the noise started to stir anew, beginning first as a series of quiet murmurs spoken by the particularly bold. It was the sort of reaction that almost drove the brigade to question its outward appearance. But they were fine. Claire had long vetoed the suggestion for them to arrange a set of matching garbs, and there was nothing wrong with anyone's appearance.

Arciel had a low-cut, monochrome dress that emphasized her curves and complimented her hat. It wasn't the most modest outfit, but that much was clear even without the focus on her cleavage. One only needed to look at the translucent, frilly ruffles that lined the usual pointed head ornament to see that it was bold. Still, she was perfectly comfortable, not even the slightest bit bothered by the excess exposure.

Her servant didn't quite share her confidence. Chloe also wore a fairly revealing dress, but hers wasn't quite as extreme. The sky-blue fabric wrapped around her shoulders, revealed a glimpse of her chest, and extended past her knees. Apparently, she was embarrassed by the prospect of showing off. Even though she was technically a succubus.

Jules and Krail were feeling just as uneasy, perhaps bothered by their powdered faces and their accompanying whitened complexions. Neither had known much about the usual processes, and had asked the castle's maid to provide assistance, albeit only after Arciel had insisted on following the local norms. To that end, both had chosen to wear outfits that came straight from the display case. The clam had a flamboyant purple hat accompanied by a cane and an equally purple suit, while the old elf was effectively a knife-eared flamingo. His rosy dress shirt was topped with a hat that'd started its life as a stockman's cap, only to be pierced with more feathers than one could reasonably be bothered to count. There was nothing traditionally elven about the outfit, but it was in fact prepared precisely for his species, though that was true of nearly everything worn by the brigade's members.

The only other styles that fit their frames were lamian, but the snake people's outfits were largely devoid of lower halves. The few that had them came paired with large, singular stockings meant to fit over the tails that none of the members had.

Lana was one of the few capable of wearing anything different. Upscaled cottontail garbs more closely fit her frame and worked better alongside her fluffy fur coat. As such, she equipped herself with an elaborately detailed dress. The petticoat beneath the skirt gave a bit of a puffier impression, but it wasn't quite as modest as most dresses of the style. The neckline was cut low enough that her shoulders hung out in the open and the sleeves themselves mostly left her arms exposed.

It was in a completely different style than the fairy-like outfit Sylvia had reluctantly donned. The fox's dress was about as revealing as Chloe's, but came with a few extra frills, a hat like Arciel's, and a silken, see-through train. The overall colour was green; Sylvia had insisted on account of its familiarity. It did fit, given that she was technically half greenwood elf, but one had to wonder if red would've been a better colour. And in fact, she had almost chosen it, just to better match her serpentine cervine of a companion.

The crimson dress that Claire had ultimately draped over her armour was in the same style as the fox's; in the end, she'd decided to attend the event in her known form. Sure, it might've been fun to crash the event as a giant snake-moose, just as how it would've been fun to convert her flesh to true ice and wear her dress atop it, but both solutions were too contrived or otherwise required too much work to be worth their output. Claire couldn't be bothered to sculpt herself a face out of ice and perfectly reproduce it every time, nor was she willing to come up with a logically consistent backstory about her species and its origin.

Sure, one could see through the living armour facade with the right magical tools, but she doubted it would be much of a problem. Anyone that did discover the truth was more likely to use it to further their own gain than to press ahead. In the first place, anyone that really wanted to know could probably figure it out in no time. Sure, Claire was actively going out of her way to sabotage any magic spectrometers that actively scanned her, but they weren't impossible to repair and she couldn't be bothered to track every artificer in town.

"I can't believe we actually fucking blend in," muttered Jules.

A quick look around the room affirmed that Rubia's sense of style was perfectly on point. Most of the elven women were dressed in provocative dresses, while the men wore flashy, eccentric outfits in the brightest colours that one could possibly find. There were even a few other suits of armour scattered throughout the room. But of course there were, with so many guards on duty.

Though the guests weren't quite as well-protected, they were ready to spring into action regardless; every single attendee had a weapon hanging from their back, strapped to their waist, or taped to their wrists. As was the norm in such a formal setting. One always had to be ready to initiate or accept a duel at a moment's notice.

Perhaps, some of the nobility was considering just that. Their eyes were practically hungering as they looked upon the Northern Brigade, though few were quite so rude as to immediately approach. They whispered to each other as they bided their time and waited for a chance to naturally initiate a conversation. That much was obvious from the occasional glances they casted in the foreigners' directions, the vast majority of which were focused on the scummy rabbit who may or may not have been present.

Not everyone seemed to catch on—Jules was silly enough to wander off in search of a drink. Chances were, the poor soul would be swarmed as soon as he grabbed one and find himself incapable of seeking help or procuring another. Either that, or the room would soon be flooded with explosions.

Sylvia and Lana were just as foolish. They exchanged a look and a nod before heading straight for the buffet. Claire joined them as well. Unlike Krail, who'd foolishly stood around with Arciel while debating what to do, she'd identified the splinter as the safest group. After all, the queen, her maid, and the potentially-present rabbit had all long resigned themselves to a night of unwilling discussion. It wouldn't be long before the crowd was upon them.

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"Holy crap, this is delicious!" said Sylvia, as she inhaled a pork chop.

"Mhm. Juicy and sweet," said Lana. Though not quite as fast as the dog, the wolf girl was also stuffing her face to the best of her ability.

"You should try some of these funky white asparagus! They're really good."

"Let's see…" Lana grabbed a spear and snapped it in two with a bite. "It's good. Super lemony and buttery."

Claire smiled awkwardly as she watched the hungry canids go about their business. Both their plates were piled high enough that they looked ready to topple at a moment's notice. The behaviour was rude beyond words, eccentric enough that the Cadrians hesitated to approach despite having already surrounded the unfortunate clam.

"You should try some too!" Sylvia grabbed a piece of steak and pushed it towards Claire's helm.

The lyrkress paused for a moment before lifting it off of her head, accompanying hat and all, revealing her empty armour, and placing the steak between her invisible lips.

"It's about as good as I expected," she said.

"Right? It's totally amazing!"

One of the slightly wider barons, Lord Gieronymus of house Esquilinus, finally worked out a plan of attack and started working his way towards the trio whilst piling his own plate high, but the VIP door swung open again before he was able to close the distance.

"Now entering, King Ragnar of Kryddar!" announced one of the guards. The moth in question was looking slightly more presentable than when he met the Vel'khanese. Though his outfit was wrinkled and unironed, he was technically dressed in a priest's formal robe. He even had the silly hat that marked him as one of his church's highest-ranking members, as was to be expected of an aspect placed directly under a god.

There was only one caveat. The man was totally plastered.

He tottered into the hall, his blood so filled with alcohol that his level was the only thing that kept his liver from failing. It didn't help that he had a fresh barrel of Vekratt in hand. And often at his lips.

Claire shook her head and sighed. The man had completely given up on keeping up appearances. But of course he would. Though defeated by Virillius, he already had the Cadrians' respect. He was the only person they could name that could feasibly threaten their god-king.

"Try the mushrooms," said Lana. "They're nice."

"Oh, wow! They're so meaty!" said Sylvia. "And the sauce is really good too. It's really creamy even though it tastes kind of spicy?"

"It's a rum sauce," said Lana. "A good one."

"All of Amereth's recipes are good," said Claire.

"We should steal them," said Lana.

"She'd probably be happy to hand them over if you asked." Baron Esquilinus finally managed to make his way over and insert himself into the conversation with a smile. His social skills were perfect. He smiled naturally at Claire, the group's quietest member, before speaking directly to the other two and addressing their topic of choice.

Still, one could easily tell that he was pushing himself. Determining that was as easy as looking at his trembling hand. Though a centaur, he was a pure mage and a fairly low-leveled one at that. With only a few hundred levels and almost no investment in strength, he found his muscles trembling, even though his plate was only a third as heavy as the girls'.

"Are you sure?" asked Sylvia. "I doubt she'd just hand over her secrets."

"I've heard that she's quite amicable. I highly doubt she'd mind," said the noblehorse.

"No harm in trying." Lana picked up a turkey drum and crunched through it in three bites, bone and all.

"I guess we can ask her tomorrow or something," said Sylvia. She also picked up a drumstick and finished it in a heartbeat, though her approach differed from the wolfgirl's in that there wasn't much audible noise. It simply vanished when she put it in her mouth.

Seeing that two of the three had pulled the stunt, the baron tried his best to match their pace, but even skipping the bone, it took him a solid twenty seconds to chew all the meat and swallow. The pitiful attempt earned him a number of snickers from the surrounding onlookers, all of which he ignored with a smile.

"The two of you are awfully quick eaters. Is that perhaps the norm in Vel'khan?"

"Uhhhh… maybe?" The very uncertain fox-elf looked towards the bipedal wolf.

"No," said Lana. "Everyone else eats slow."

"O-oh…" Lord Esquilinus blinked. It clearly wasn't the answer he'd been expecting, but he managed to stutter out a response. "Y-your culture must be quite accepting to support such a wide variety of formal approaches."

Thankfully for him, he was saved by the bell, for the same knight that'd led the Kryddarian king into the room had flung open the door again.

"Now entering, King Virillius Augustus, Princess Claire Augustus!"

The crowd changed gears in a heartbeat. There was still the odd person interested in one of the foreigners, but almost everyone else had at least briefly shifted their attention towards the royals. Everyone who was ever a soldier—nearly three quarters of the party's participants—stopped what they were doing to salute the pair as they entered.

The reaction was far too dramatic for a non-military event, but so too had it always been the norm. After all, it was not for a sense of duty that they had stood at attention. Burned into everyone one of their eyes, worked straight into each fighter's soul no matter how experienced, was an ardent respect.

"At ease." Though quiet, his voice echoed through the room and into the people's minds. Just as Claire's did in her true form.

The many present and former soldiers visibly relaxed as he voiced the command. The smarter among them returned to their prior business, but many kept their eyes upon him, entranced in spite of his lack of charisma.

With how much they clearly adored him, it only stood to reason that they'd be on their best behaviour in his presence. Alas, not everyone was so prone to reason.

Thinking that it was perhaps his chance to appeal, one of the new faces pushed his way through the crowd, approached Virillius directly, and kneeled down in front of him.

"My King, I am Dragus of Lamoria, a humble warrior in your service. I was hoping that you might take notice of my skills."

Claire winced. She almost couldn't bear to watch or listen. The second-hand embarrassment was killing her.

"I have gained over five hundred levels since I set off on my journey last year. I believe I have all of the necessary aptitude, and would blossom under your tutelage. I wish for nothing more than to be accepted into the ranks of your squires and leverage my skills for my country."

His claim only deepened her frown. When most made such a claim, they included only their racial improvements, but Dragus' centaur level was nowhere near five hundred. Sitting at less than half the total, he hadn't even secured his second ascension. A quick peek at some of the system's messaging confirmed that the levels he had gained had all gone to horribly weak classes. He was an advanced spearman and a veteran shielder—the man had picked basic evolutions that required only an increase in levels.

Her father surely knew that as well. He could access all the same systematic functions if he wished. But he needed none of those things to judge him.

"I will have to reject your application," said Virillius. "You're weaker than most your level, and you lack any semblance of self-awareness. Frankly, you would likely die if subjected to even the standard military training."

"Weak!? Me!?" Dragus furrowed his brow. "I am not weak! I was one of the stro—"

Another person rushed from the crowd and clasped a hand over the teenage horse's face. "I'm terribly sorry, Your Majesty. Please excuse my servant's stupidity."

"I don't mind," said the god-king. "But I would've expected better education from you, Count Titus."

The rabbit laughed. "It can't be helped. He was one of the ones we took in from the Pollux march, following the incident."

"I see."

"I do apologize for his poor training. We've unfortunately found ourselves with a lack of competent instructors, following a series of unfortunate events."

Claire almost rolled her eyes. It was an obvious ploy. Titus had only loosed his rabid dog so he would have an excuse to speak to the king. And it very well would have worked had he been the dumbest person in the hall.

Alas, while his brain certainly threatened to prove its needle-tip size, his title was snatched from between his fingers.

"Lady Claire Augustus!" Lord Mercury of House Cento, a centaur with a head of curly, shoulder-length hair stepped out from the crowd with a shout. "I challenge you to a duel!" He drew his weapon, an extremely long foil, and pointed it straight at the tiny homunculus standing in the god-king's shadow.

Rubia, of course, was floored. She tilted her head and blinked as she curiously observed him. She couldn't tell if he was stupid, joking, or both. The lattermost option seemed most likely, but he kicked off the floor and broke into a charge before she could reason it through.

The guards drew their weapons, but the battle was decided before they could arrest him.

Headhydra launched off of Rubia's head and collided with her attacker. She started pummeling him with her faces, a series of rapidfire headbutts that disabled him in an instant. His nose broke, his teeth shattered, and his jaw flew from its place by the time he hit the ground.

He tried to beg for mercy, but Headhydra ripped out his vocal chords. He raised a hand when he realised that talking was impossible, but a convenient headbutt shattered the limb every time it threatened to regenerate. Hissing, the phantom continued to beat him, not even relenting as bits of bone scattered all over the carpet.

Some of the guests did consider stepping in and offering their comments. But after looking between the man, whose head had been forcibly reduced to half of its volume, and the maiden still innocently gazing in his direction, they decided that, maybe, just maybe, they were best off holding their tongues.

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