Chapter 83: Chapter 83: Dayat’s New Look

The footsteps of the group came to a halt in a chamber that defied every definition of a “waiting room” Dayat had ever known back in Jakarta. In his world, a waiting area was typically a sterile box defined by whitewashed concrete, fluorescent lighting that hummed with a headache-inducing frequency, and a struggling air conditioner that hissed as it fought the tropical heat.

The Kenanga Waiting Room, however, was a botanical masterpiece.

Located in the sprawling western wing of the Emerald Palace, the room was not built so much as it was woven. The massive, primary branches of Vaelith had been guided by elven druids to form intricate, aesthetic lattices that served as walls. Through these gaps, the soft, amber light of the late afternoon sun filtered in, creating a mosaic of warmth across the floor. Instead of cold tiles or worn carpets, the ground was a lush bed of velvet-moss—dry to the touch but incredibly springy and soft. The air was thick with the heavy, sweet fragrance of Kenanga and wild jasmine, providing an instant, sedative effect on the nervous system.

Yet, despite the tranquility, Dayat could not find his center. Captain Elian and the Paladin honor guard stood as rigid as statues outside the entrance, their Ironwood armor gleaming in the fading light. Lunethra, on the other hand, had already claimed a seat on a chair that grew directly from the wooden floor, her posture radiating a grace that made the entire room feel like her stage.

Lunethra observed Dayat with a gaze that was difficult to decipher—a mix of amusement, critique, and something more predatory. She rose slowly from her seat, her silver hair shimmering like moonlight, and began to circle him like a jeweler inspecting a rough, unpolished stone.

“Dayat,” she began, her voice a low purr. “Are you aware that within the halls of Vaelith, first impressions are not just social niceties? They are everything. Especially when you are about to stand before my sister, the Queen.”

Dayat looked down at himself, suddenly acutely aware of every stain and tear on his gear. He was wearing his black tactical jacket—now caked with the fine, gray dust of the Terragard bunkers and marked by the salt of dried sweat. His cargo pants were heavy with pockets designed for magazines and survival tools, and his military boots were bulky and utilitarian. In the industrial grime of Brassvale, this outfit was a symbol of elite efficiency. In the dark tunnels of the underworld, it was the mark of a survivor.

But here, amidst the ethereal majesty of Verdia, he looked like a splash of black ink on a pristine silk gown. He felt painfully out of place.

“Your clothing screams ’Brassvale’ far too loudly,” Lunethra continued, reaching out to touch the synthetic fabric of his jacket with a delicate fingertip. “This rigid textile… this abyssal black… to the Elves, these are symbols of destruction and the cold, unfeeling heart of industry. You will be judged as a threat, or at the very least, as street-trash from the iron cities, before you even have a chance to open your mouth.”

Dayat let out a weary sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t have a change of clothes in my pack, Lun. And Elian has my gear chest locked up tight. What do you want me to do? Borrow a tunic from the guards?”

“Then what is the point of that miraculous ability of yours?” Lunethra winked, her lips curving into a playful, enticing smile. She stepped closer, her scent—reminiscent of morning dew on wildflowers—filling his senses and momentarily clouding his thoughts. “Use your head, my hero. Create something that will make the Elves of this palace catch their breath as you pass, yet something that clearly shows you are not from this world. Show them that you are a legend in the making, not a common soldier.”

Dayat went silent. He closed his eyes, drawing a deep breath and reaching back into the recesses of his memories from Earth. This time, he didn’t summon the blueprints for metallic alloys, firing pins, or explosive compounds. He didn’t visualize the cold rigidity of a railgun or the complex circuitry of a sensor array.

Instead, he focused on textures. He thought of the softness of premium cotton, the rugged but flexible weave of denim, and the effortless breathability of high-grade linen. He wanted a silhouette that felt at home in Verdia—using the colors of the forest like olive green, earthy brown, and cream—but with the sharp, modern tailoring of a Jakarta lifestyle model. He wanted a look that suggested “Urban Elite” met “Fantasy Noble.”

I need something organic, but stylish. Olive green… a soft-processed denim texture… a linen shirt that can breathe in this humidity.

Dayat extended his hand into the air. The sapphire-purple particles of his manifestation ability began to coalesce, swirling with a rhythm that was softer, more fluid than when he created weapons. This time, the drain on his mind felt different—it wasn’t the sharp “Data Burn” of a machine, but a gentle pull of creative visualization.

ZRAAAP!

In a flash of violet light, Dayat’s old, grimy tactical gear dissolved into raw energy. In its place, new layers of fabric began to weave themselves directly onto his body.

When the light faded, Dayat stood transformed. He was now wearing a crisp, White Linen Shirt with an open collar that gave him an air of effortless elegance. Over the shirt, he wore a Dark Olive Green Denim Jacket—a custom creation with a slim-fit cut that emphasized his shoulders. The jacket featured intricate stitching and reinforced panels but lacked any conspicuous metal buttons, adhering to Verdia’s anti-metal protocols. His trousers were made of a rugged, Earth-brown cotton twill, tapered perfectly to lead into a pair of sleek, Suede Leather Boots in a matching sand-color.

He looked like he had just stepped off a high-fashion runway in an upscale Jakarta mall, yet the colors allowed him to blend into the arboreal architecture of the palace like a shadow in the leaves.

“How’s this?” Dayat asked, adjusting his collar and checking the fit of the denim.

Lunethra stood frozen for a moment. Her eyes traveled over the unique texture of the denim—a fabric she had never seen before. It possessed a structure and a weight that suggested strength, yet it draped over his frame with a perfection that surpassed any elven weaver’s hand.

“Incredible…” she whispered, stepping closer to run a hand over the sleeve of his jacket. “What is this cloth? The texture is so… unique. It doesn’t look like it was woven by a loom or grown from a vine. It has a soul of its own.”

“It’s called denim, Lun. But I modified the weave to match your forest’s palette,” Dayat replied, a small smirk of pride playing on his lips.

However, Dayat wasn’t finished. He turned his attention to Dola, who had been standing in the corner, observing the transformation with her usual silent intensity. He extended his hand toward her. “Your turn, Dola. My assistant can’t exactly walk into the throne room looking like she just crawled out of a bunker.”

Dayat visualized a garment that would bridge the gap between Dola’s Bio-Synthetic nature and the high-fashion expectations of the Verdia court. The violet light enveloped her, swirling like a cyclone of stardust.

When the radiance dissipated, Dola stood there in a breathtaking Emerald Green Modern Dress that reached just past her knees. The material looked like heavy silk, but it possessed a subtle, metallic shimmer that hinted at her true nature. The cut was minimalist yet sophisticated, featuring a high collar and sleek lines that emphasized her flawless, human-like silhouette. It was a political masterstroke in fabric—the colors of Verdia, but the design of a future world.

Dola raised her hands, feeling the smooth texture of the emerald silk. She walked toward a large, crystalline water-mirror in the corner of the room, staring at her reflection. For a long moment, she was silent, her sapphire eyes scanning every detail of her new appearance. Finally, she turned to Dayat, a rare, flickering light of emotion in her gaze.

“Master… do I… appear beautiful to your optical sensors?” Dola asked softly.

Dayat felt a sudden, intense heat rush to his face. The redness spread from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. “E-eh… yeah, Dola. You look… you look stunning. The green really brings out your eyes.”

Dola’s smile widened just a fraction—a genuine, emotional reaction that was becoming increasingly frequent ever since they had entered the Mana-rich atmosphere of Verdia. Lunethra, watching the exchange, let out a soft, mocking huff and stepped between them once more.

“She’s pretty enough, I suppose,” Lunethra whispered into Dayat’s ear, her tone dripping with mock boredom. “But your assistant still stands as rigid as a garden statue. Perhaps you need someone a bit more… animated to stand by your side when the Queen starts her questioning?”

Dola immediately moved, stepping into Lunethra’s personal space with a movement that was perfectly polite but undeniably assertive. She placed herself between the Princess and Dayat. “My visual functions have been optimized to maintain Master Dayat’s social standing. Your additional interventions are not required for this audience, Princess.”

Lunethra simply laughed, clearly relishing the friction she was causing. “You really are an amusing little machine, Dola.”

Finally, Dayat focused on Kancil. He manifested a set for the boy—a Dark Brown Leather Vest over a cream-colored cotton shirt and durable, functional trousers. Kancil, who had looked like a desperate street urchin from Bakasa only minutes ago, now looked like a respectable young page or an elite apprentice.

“Whoa! This is amazing, Big Bro! It doesn’t itch at all! It feels like I’m being hugged by a pillow!” Kancil yelled, spinning around in circles until he nearly tripped. He smoothed out the fabric of his vest with a look of immense pride, though he quickly straightened his posture, trying to look as dignified as the Paladins outside.

The doors to the Kenanga Room creaked open, and Captain Elian stepped inside. He had intended to deliver a final set of instructions regarding palace protocol, but he stopped dead in his tracks. His amber eyes swept over the three individuals before him, his jaw tightening as he took in their high-standard aesthetic.

“Remarkable,” Elian muttered, a genuine spark of respect finally breaking through his stoic mask. “I do not know the origin of these textiles, but you now look like emissaries from a far-off, prosperous land. This… this will make the audience much smoother. My Queen values beauty as much as she values tradition.”

Dayat nodded. Although he knew he could manifest a Glock or a ceramic blade in a fraction of a second if things turned violent, he felt a strange sense of power in his new appearance. It gave him a psychological edge he hadn’t realized he needed.

“Let’s go,” Lunethra said, leading the way out. “Let’s see if my sister still remembers how to welcome the sister she thought was dead.”

They walked through the long, vine-draped corridors of the palace, flanked by elven servants and lesser nobles. Dayat could feel the palpable shift in the atmosphere. Where there had once been sneers and whispers of “iron-smell,” there was now a hushed awe. The servants paused in their duties, whispering to one another about the “Emissaries from the Sea” or the “Jade Nobles.” They saw Dayat as a high-ranking diplomat or a lost lord from a foreign shore.

Their journey ended at a pair of gargantuan double doors made of shimmering White-Wood, guarded by the Elite Paladins of the Inner Circle. Behind those doors sat the throne of Verene, the Queen of Verdia.

Dayat adjusted the sleeves of his moss-green jacket one last time, glanced at the calm but alert Dola, and nodded. The time for hiding was over. The audience had begun.

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