[Check Out My P4treon For +50 Extra Chapters On All My Fanfics!! And get chapters before publishing them here for free on my p4treon][https://p4treon.com/roooaaa]
===
The time Sylphie and Allen spent alone in the room was brief—less than a minute.
But when the door opened and Sylphie stepped out in her evening gown—
The parlor had fallen silent. At some point, everyone had stopped talking.
Confused, she turned toward the sofa.
Five people.
Ten eyes.
All fixed on her with blazing intensity.
Sylphie froze for a second before realizing—
A changing room. Just the two of us. Alone.
Changing clothes.
Her already flushed cheeks turned nearly purple.
I just wanted to show Allen Hilda's wardrobe! I-I didn't mean anything else—!
"Just now… that was…"
She instinctively tried to explain, but—
Unfortunately.
There was no salvaging this.
The expressions around the sofa were a spectacle unto themselves.
Each person's reaction was blatantly obvious—
And none of them were focused on the same thing.
No way to smooth this over in a few words.
Sylphie's face burned. She could only cover it helplessly with her hands.
By the sofa—
Eris raised an eyebrow. She hadn't even noticed the "Sylphie invited Allen to change together" incident until the others' exaggerated reactions clued her in.
But her attention wasn't on something as trivial as two people sharing a dressing room—a common occurrence in the Boreas household. After all, Sauros had beastfolk attendants assisting him with everything from changing clothes to sleeping.
In her eyes, Allen—her mentor, role model, and someone she admired—shared certain traits with Sauros.
So what if he changed clothes with Sylphie?
Even if they slept together, what did it matter? Hell, throw in a few beastgirls too, and she still wouldn't bat an eye.
Right now, she was more captivated by Sylphie's gown, her gaze trailing from the girl's face down to the snugly fitted bodice and cinched waist.
She gave a firm nod.
Good call not picking this dress! How are you supposed to move properly in something so restrictive? You couldn't even do the foxtrot in this!
Rudeus, meanwhile, was the polar opposite—beaming with pride, arms crossed as he nodded approvingly.
Perfect! Is there anyone in this world better at romance than a galgame connoisseur like me?
Look! Just a few words from me, and Allen's grown so much in three months! He doesn't avoid Sylphie anymore—hell, when Lady Hilda's not around, his eyes are glued to her!
He's so much more open now.
And what could be more "open" than this?
Go forth, Allen! Charge ahead!
I've seen your stats—your fighting spirit burns eternal!
Ghislaine's focus was on Sylphie's long ears, then dropped to the hem of her skirt.
No handprints there.
Years ago, before Zenith joined their party, Paul had met Elinalise at an adventurer's mixer. Sylphie's elf traits reminded Ghislaine of the time those two slipped away mid-event—only for her to later find them emerging from the tavern's restroom together.
Arefa, watching Sylphie's ears darken to violet, covered her own face.
So it's true… Allen really does like long ears?
Maybe I should take Lilia's advice and visit him tonight…
Then—creak.
The door beside Sylphie opened.
Allen stepped out.
Sylphie, Ghislaine, Rudeus, Arefa—even Eris, who'd been right beside him—all turned and stared.
The tailcoat fit him perfectly.
At 12 years old, Allen already stood 175cm tall. His lean frame and broad shoulders filled out the aristocratic cut effortlessly, with none of the awkwardness of a child playing dress-up.
The collar of his shirt—reminiscent of styles from the Burion region—wasn't buttoned tightly. Instead, it lay open against the tailcoat's lapels, casual yet refined.
His glasses, removed while changing, now rested in the coat's breast pocket.
The necklace Roxy had given him was visible at his throat, glinting faintly in the evening light spilling into the room.
He stood there.
At ease.
Yet his presence demanded attention, forcing its way into their vision.
The aura of a swordsman—so intrinsic to him in his training garb—had vanished entirely. In their minds, the image of "Allen the Warrior" faded rapidly.
Replaced by—
A nobleman.
Elegant.
Eyes aloof with quiet arrogance.
What stunned them wasn't just the transformation itself—
But how natural it felt.
The sharp, battle-honed confidence in his gaze melted seamlessly into the unspoken superiority of aristocracy. The grace of his sword forms translated flawlessly into the poise of high society.
It was too smooth.
As if—
This was always meant to be.
As if he'd always belonged in Boreas Manor.
As if he'd always been one of them.
While the others were still dazed—
Hilda rose from the sofa.
Clad in a thick nightgown, she shuffled toward Allen in slippers, steps unsteady from illness.
Arefa, who'd been staring at Allen with flushed cheeks, suddenly snapped back to reality and moved to support her.
But Hilda waved her off.
"No need, Arefa."
Step by step, she advanced. At first, her gait was shaky—but it soon steadied, her strides growing longer, quicker.
Until finally—
She stood before Allen.
Studied him.
Allen met her gaze evenly.
Slowly, Hilda smiled.
"Just as I imagined, Allen."
"It suits you."
As she spoke, her hand brushed his wrist—where the sleeve fell slightly short. She pinched the excess fabric between her fingers, measuring roughly.
"The cuffs need adjusting. About three centimeters. I'll fix that later."
Allen looked down at her hand.
Warmth.
Spread from the contact, ghosting up his arm like a whisper against his skin.
Hilda's fingers were cold.
And yet—
He'd never felt anything warmer.
A sensation foreign across two lifetimes.
Similar to what he'd once felt from Zenith.
Yet entirely its own.
"So? Do you like the style? The color, Allen?"
Hilda lifted her eyes to his.
===
Note: So far this story is published up to chapter 265 on my patreon, go check it out and remember that if we reach the goal of 80 power stones I will publish the next chapter.