April 22nd, 2012, Phenex Marquisate, Morning.
Sunlight streamed through the tall, adorned and arched windows of the wardrobe chamber, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air like tiny fairies.
The room was vast, more akin to a luxury boutique than a simple closet, with walls lined from floor to ceiling with mahogany wardrobes and full-length mirrors in gilded frames.
Within this temple to vanity, Riser Phenex, the third son of the prestigious Phenex family, stood whistling a satisfied tune, his mind already dancing through the festivities of his impending wedding at the month's end.
The youngest son of the house was engrossed in his own reflection, a canvas upon which he projected his triumphant future. He held up an elegant red jacket against his torso, its surface intricately embroidered with silver thread that mimicked the delicate pattern of phoenix feathers.
The lining was a vibrant, sun-like yellow.
"This one?" he muttered to himself, tilting his head critically. After a moment of contemplation, his nose wrinkled slightly. "Nah, too basic and ordinary."
With a dismissive flick of his wrist, he tossed the garment onto a growing pile of rejected finery on a velvet-upholstered chaise lounge, a mound of silks, satins, and brocades that testified to hours of indecision. He immediately pulled another option from the depths of a wardrobe, this one a bold orange waistcoat with gold filigree.
"Brother, are you sure you should be worrying about clothes and not about the incoming Rating Game?"
The question came from the room's other occupant. Ravel Phenex, his younger sister, sat perched on a delicate silk-upholstered stool, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She had been waiting with practiced patience, her expression a mask of composed concern that was beginning to fray at the edges.
Riser didn't even turn from the mirror, his attention fixed on how the waistcoat complemented his hair.
"What are you talking about, Ravel? Are you seriously entertaining the possibility of us losing to Rias?" He let out a short, derisive laugh, the sound echoing lightly in the spacious room. "If that was a joke, it is banal, yes, but still fun enough."
He dismissed the notion as one would shoo away a mildly irritating fly, his focus returning to his reflection as he discarded the waistcoat to join its brethren on the pile.
"I'm not saying that," Ravel insisted, her voice firming with a hint of frustration. She clasped her hands tighter. "But... Lady Rias will surely prepare for it. I'm just suggesting we shouldn't risk anything and do something about it, just to be sure."
It took a conscious effort for her to hold her brother's gaze in the mirror, challenging the complacency that seemed to radiate from him.
The older Phenex sighed, a long-suffering sound as he finally turned to face her fully. "Ravel, you don't need to worry. They have less than ten days. Moreover, we have a significant numerical advantage and the inherent immortality of our clan on our side."
He stated it as if reciting an immutable law of physics, his confidence as unshakeable as the castle foundations. "There is no scenario where we lose. It is a mere formality, a public demonstration of the inevitable."
"Do you remember the human with Lady Rias?" Ravel began, leaning forward slightly. "The one with the blue hair?"
That gave Riser pause. His satisfied expression soured. "That insolent guy?" he interrupted, waving a hand as if to erase the memory. "Pfft, I still wonder what reasons the Queen of Lucifer had to defend him. What about him?"
The memory of Makoto Yuki's calm, unimpressed demeanor in the face of his authority was an inconvenient itch he preferred to ignore.
"I have a bad presentiment about him," Ravel admitted, her crimson eyes earnest. "He was... different. Can't you just prepare a contingency plan, please? Something beyond just relying on our numbers and regeneration?" Her plea was genuine, born from a sister's concern and a strategist's instinct that something was amiss.
Riser shook his head, a patronizing smile on his lips. "No sense, Ravel. You're letting your imagination run wild. Just go for a walk in the gardens. The morning air will clear your head. You're being far too nervous about this." His dismissal was final, his attention already drifting back to the sartorial paradise surrounding him.
Before Ravel could muster another argument, a gentle, precise knock echoed through the chamber, a sound that was both polite and commanding.
"Enter," Riser called out, his tone shifting back to its usual, self-assured cadence.
The door opened silently, and a man stepped inside. He was tall and slender, with long, sleek black hair that artfully covered the right side of his face. His eyes were a warm brown, and his skin was pale, almost porcelain-like.
He was dressed in impeccably tailored light blue attire, with polished black shoes and a single, vibrant yellow flower pinned to his shirt.
This was the disguise of Nyarlathotep, the Crawling Chaos, who had taken immense pleasure in adopting the form and history of one "Jun Kurosu," a persona whose memories he had twisted and reshaped for his own amusement.
"Lord Riser, Lady Ravel," the man said, bowing with a fluid, graceful motion. His voice was a smooth, soothing baritone, each word carefully measured and placed. "It is an honor to be here. Lord Phenex informed me of your predicament regarding a suitable outfit for the upcoming ceremony. He mentioned you required a new item, tailored specifically to your impeccable taste, Lord Riser."
"That's right, Mr. Jun," Riser said, stepping forward and offering a handshake, which the tailor accepted with a firm, dry grip. "I hope your talents are as renowned as they say. As you can see," he gestured vaguely at the mountain of discarded clothing, "I'm struggling to find anything adequate. What do you suggest?"
Nyarlathotep, as Mr. Jun, produced a tailor's tape measure from a small leather pouch. "A blank canvas is always the most exciting prospect," he replied, his movements as he began taking Riser's measurements were a performance in themselves—efficient, graceful, and hypnotic.
"Is there anything you particularly desire, my lord? Specific colors, materials, accessories you wish to incorporate?"
Riser stood patiently, enjoying the attention. "Obviously, I want to wear the main colors of my house: red, yellow, and orange. They are the colors of our glorious heritage, the flames of our rebirth. Yet, nothing among my current possessions has managed to capture the essence of the occasion." He spoke as if commissioning a royal portrait, not a piece of clothing.
Ravel, who had been observing the tailor with a keen eye, found herself intrigued despite her worries. His movements were too fluid, too perfectly controlled.
"You are quite proficient with your movements, Mr. Jun," she commented, a thoughtful note in her voice. "It seems more like watching a dancer than a tailor."
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched Nyarlathotep's lips. "Thank you, young lady. I find that grace in one's craft leads to grace in one's creations." He finished his measurements and took a step back, tapping a finger to his chin.
"I have an idea, Lord Riser. What would you say to a bordeaux tuxedo, a deep, wine-like red, with buttons of polished, brushed gold? Underneath, I would suggest a black shirt to provide a stark, powerful contrast, paired with a yellow tie that would elegantly recall the gold of the buttons. But, let me show you."
He snapped his fingers. There was no flash of light or puff of smoke, but the air in front of Riser shimmered, and a perfect, three-dimensional illusion of the proposed outfit materialized, draped over a phantom form matching Riser's own proportions.
The bordeaux fabric looked rich and heavy, the gold buttons gleamed, and the combination was undeniably striking.
"This is quite the interesting magic trick," Riser admitted, circling the illusion. "Useful for your line of work. I like it... but I still find something is missing. It lacks the final, defining touch, don't you think?"
"I thought you might say that," Nyarlathotep said, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. "I suggest pairing the tuxedo with a set of unique cufflinks. I have a contact with some of the most esteemed dwarven jewellers in all of Nidavellir. They could craft something truly singular, imbued with a subtle, elegant magic, perhaps even a minor protective charm for good fortune on your wedding day."
Riser's eyes lit up with avarice and vanity. "You must have excellent connections to make such an offer. Very well, let's proceed with it. Did my Father already settle your fee?"
"Unfortunately, the financial arrangements are yet to be finalized," Nyarlathotep replied smoothly. He then drew forth a single, pristine page of parchment from an inner pocket. It was a page he had torn from the Shadow Compendium, though to any observer, it appeared to be a standard contract.
"This is the order form. If you would be so kind as to sign it, I can then present it to the treasurers of your House for payment."
Riser took the document, his eyes scanning the text. It seemed straightforward enough: an agreement for the House of Phenex to hire the tailor Jun to design and produce one formal outfit for Lord Riser Phenex, third son of the Marquis.
The language was clear, the terms standard. He saw no hidden clauses, no subtle traps. His arrogance and preoccupation with his own image blinded him to the unnatural perfection of the parchment, the faint, almost subliminal whisper of power that emanated from it.
"I know how it works," Riser said dismissively. He walked to a small escritoire, selected a peacock-feather quill, and dipped it into a crystal pot of black ink. With a flourish, he signed his name at the bottom of the contract. The moment the ink touched the page, a shiver ran through the room, so faint it was felt rather than heard.
Nyarlathotep's satisfaction was a deep, cold well hidden behind a professional smile. "Thank you a thousand times, Lord Riser. Your order shall be delivered within two days. I bid you both a good day." He offered another respectful bow, collected his tools, and exited the chamber as silently as he had entered, the door clicking shut behind him.
The moment they were alone, Ravel turned to her brother, her concern now laced with a new, undefined unease. "Brother, can we please talk about the Rating Game now?"
Riser, still admiring the memory of the illusory tuxedo in his mind's eye, glanced at his sister from the corner of his eye. The minor irritation was gone, replaced by a magnanimous mood brought on by his successful shopping.
"Fine, fine," he conceded, waving a hand. "So, what is it you are so desperate to propose, sister?"
Relieved, Ravel stepped closer. "We could prepare something specific with the other girls, discuss new formations or strategies. Something Rias would never anticipate."
Riser nodded, though his attention was already half elsewhere, mentally accessorizing his new outfit. "Yes, yes, we can do that. Later."
Meanwhile, Nyarlathotep walked the spacious, sun-drenched hallways of the Phenex castle, his footsteps making no sound on the polished marble floors. He appeared to be a simple craftsman departing after a successful consultation. Once he was clear of the main keep and in a secluded, shadowed colonnade overlooking the gardens, he paused.
From within his jacket, he produced the Shadow Compendium. The ancient tome felt warm in his hands. He leafed through its pages, past records of Shadows and Personas, until he came to the section where a page had been torn.
For a moment, there was only a ragged edge. Then, as he watched, the parchment began to regenerate. But it did not recreate the missing page. Instead, new fibers wove themselves together, forming a fresh leaf, blank at first, then slowly filling with dark, elegant script.
At the top, a title burned into existence: Reverse Phoenix.
A slow, wicked smile spread across the face of Jun Kurosu. "Very good," Nyarlathotep mused, his voice a soft whisper that was swallowed by the morning breeze.
He closed the Compendium, the sound a definitive snap in the quiet air. His work here was done. The seed had been planted. Now, it was time to watch it grow. He continued his walk towards the castle gates, a harbinger of ruin disguised as a simple tailor.