Chapter 40: Present: A Magical Banana Leaf Defends My Dignity?

Fukuro ignored the dangerous, low vibration of Cassius’s voice, waving a hand in the air as if swatting away a persistent housefly. The high-pitched, aggressively proper bureaucrat routine evaporated, replaced by a sudden, incredibly smug confidence that transformed his soft features.

"You look entirely too royal in that outfit," Fukuro said, a sharp, teasing smirk cutting across his face as he looked Cassius up and down. He pointed a stubby, ink-stained finger at the dark, elegant coat holding the sorcerer’s broken form together.

"The work is over now. You can lend that back to me."

As soon as Fukuro said this, Cassius’s eyes widened. The tall, imposing entity froze in a rigid, absolute composure on the damp cell floorboards, his long fingers twitching where they were locked behind his back. The sheer, unadulterated audacity of the demand seemed to short-circuit his ancient mind.

"Yah? What are you thinking, even?" Cassius said, his voice dripping with incredulous venom. He didn’t move his head; he merely pointed his sharp, dark grey eyes downward, piercing Fukuro with a look that should have turned the clerk to ash.

Fukuro didn’t blink. Instead, he closed his eyes, maintaining that same infuriating, tight-lipped smirk. He looked entirely content with himself, perfectly aware that he held a bizarre, temporary leverage over a creature that had terrorized empires.

"I WOULD KILL YOU!" Cassius shouted.

The roar erupted from the depths of the sorcerer’s chest, a burst of raw, unbridled rage that rattled the loose mortar between the stones and caused the stagnant water on the floor to splash against their boots. The sound was deafening, filling the narrow confines of the dungeon cell with a theatrical, violent malice.

Yet, beneath the surface of that explosive anger lay a sharp, hidden tactical reality. Because these sentences were coming out of pure, chaotic rage, Madam Florianthum was perfectly safe to hear them from Cassius’s mouth. Anyone listening from the upper corridors or through the structural scrying wards would hear nothing more than a legendary, unhinged monster threatening to slaughter a bumbling captive clerk. No one would have known what was going on in real. The true nature of their conspiracy- the secret alliance, the fabric-stitched magic shielding them, and the hidden instructions of Florianthum’s captive left hand- remained completely buried beneath the noise of a vampire’s tantrum.

The explosive roar of Cassius’s voice was still bouncing off the stone walls when Fukuro casually lifted his hands. He didn’t offer a dramatic hand gesture or a complex incantation. Instead, with a sharp, metallic snick, two silver knitting needles- the long, pointed tools used to stitch raw wool into heavy yarn- appeared magically between his fingers.

Fukuro gave his wrists a sudden, brief shake.

A blinding, microscopic flash of white light erupted in the center of the damp cell. It lasted less than a heartbeat, but the reality of what followed hit the ancient sorcerer with the crushing force of an avalanche.

With a soft, synchronized whoosh, every single thread of cloth vanished from Cassius’s towering frame. The royal purple outfit that had given him the majestic, imposing silhouette of a dark king was completely gone. The meticulously stitched grey threads, the heavy leather doublet, the elegant trousers- all reeled backward through the air, dissolving into raw, glowing fibers that sucked directly into the tips of Fukuro’s silver needles.

The heavy, suffocating pressure of a legendary entity was instantly replaced by a sudden, freezing truth of reality.

Cassius stood entirely exposed to the icy dungeon air. His bare shoulders, his scarred chest, his long legs, and his pale hands were completely bare to the world. The only thing left protecting his ancient dignity was a single, inexplicably large piece of a green banana leaf, which he had instinctively clutched in both hands, pinning it desperately between his upper thighs.

The dungeon went dead silent for a solid two seconds. The cool, damp draft of the prison crawled over his exposed skin, sending an uncharacteristic, involuntary shiver through his aristocratic frame.

"MY UNDERWEAR WAS NOT THE PART OF YOUR RUBBISH MAGIC!" Cassius roared, his voice cracking with an unprecedented, high-pitched fury.

His pale face instantly flushed a violent, dark crimson, his cheeks burning with a deep, unadulterated shy rage that he hadn’t experienced in over three centuries. His eyes dilated wildly, the fangs slipping over his bottom lip not out of bloodlust, but out of pure, mortified panic as he clutched the rustling leaf closer to his body.

"I WOULD KILL YOU! GIVE THAT BACK!" he howled, his terrifying presence completely derailed by the sheer absurdity of his current wardrobe.

Fukuro didn’t even look up. He merely tucked the newly spun ball of purple yarn under his arm, adjusted his crooked spectacles with a click of his fingers, and gave the legendary, banana-leaf-wielding sorcerer a thoroughly unimpressed, deadpan look.

Madam Florianthum did not look away.

In fact, her response completely defied the gravity of the high palace and the freezing gloom of the royal dungeons. She remained perfectly still behind the viewport, her head tilted slightly as her sharp, amber eyes locked onto Cassius’s completely exposed torso. Instead of averting her gaze to afford the ancient sorcerer a shred of dignity, she stared continuously at his sharply defined abs. Her eyes scanned the ridges of his stomach, silently praising the immaculate physical conditioning with a slow, appreciative look that spoke volumes without uttering a single word.

The silence stretching from her intense gaze hit Cassius harder than any silver-tipped arrow ever could. The realization that an ancient, high-ranking royal captive was treating his bare midriff like a display piece in a high-end marketplace made him go entirely more shy and furious.

"Stop looking! That’s enough of your torture" Cassius hissed through his teeth closing his eyes from shyness and frustration, his pale cheeks burning an even deeper, more violent shade of crimson. He tried to puff out his chest to look intimidating, but the frantic, rustling movement of the large banana leaf between his upper thighs completely ruined the theatrical menace.

Fukuro’s small, busy hands stopped mid-motion. He looked up from his silver knitting needles, his eyes darting from Cassius’s exposed body to Madam Florianthum’s continuous, unblinking admiration.

A sudden, sharp wave of petty jealousy washed over the clerk’s face. His brow furrowed behind his crooked spectacles, and his jaw tightened as he realized his supreme magical tailoring display had accidentally turned his sworn rival into a piece of dungeon eye candy.

"Alright, that is quite enough management appreciation for one afternoon," Fukuro muttered, his voice dropping into a harsh, bitter whisper.

With an aggressive, irritated flick of his wrists, Fukuro magically snatched a pile of old, dusty hemp rags from the corner of the cell. His silver needles clicked together with a frantic, vindictive speed. In a flash of dim, grey light, he wove the rough, scratchy material into a normal, dusky slave uniform- the exact coarse, sleeveless tunic and oversized trousers worn by the lowest tier of laborers in the Kingdom.

"Here," Fukuro snapped, aggressively throwing the rough garment directly at Cassius’s head.

"Put this on. Management requires you to look like a functional member of society, not an exhibit at a royal gallery."

The rough, dusty fabric smacked Cassius square in the face, cutting off his next angry retort.

Madam Florianthum did not offer a grand exit or a dignified royal farewell. Instead, her head remained perfectly still as she blinked her eyes twice in rapid succession. Maintaining her unblinking, analytical stare at his midsection, she began walking backwards into the corridor. She moved with the strange, rigid cadence of a malfunctioning robotic child, her boots making a rhythmic, ticking sound against the stone floorboards until the deep dungeon shadows swallowed her whole.

The utter absurdity of her departure left the air in the cell thick with an awkward, stinging silence. Cassius stood frozen for a half-second, his face still burning a violent, dark crimson beneath the rough, dusky slave uniform that now hung loosely over his tall frame.

The sheer humiliation finally broke his dam of restraint.

"YOU ARE THE ONE WHO MADE ME AN EXHIBIT, YOU STUPID RASCAL!" Cassius roared, his voice cracking with a high-pitched, unbridled fury that shook the very foundations of the cell. He took a predatory step forward, the coarse, scratchy hemp of the slave tunic rubbing uncomfortably against his bare shoulders. He pointed a shaking, pale finger directly at the clerk Fukuro’s nose. "GET OUT!"