Chapter 234: Looking Important
And yet here he was, sitting in an old armchair, pizza grease on his fingers.
Victoria groaned, dragging her hands through her hair. "Unbelievable. My little brother’s out here forgetting he’s some kind of industrial tycoon."
Merlin chuckled, though the sound was more strained than amused. "I didn’t exactly have time to focus on my portfolio."
"Still!" She jabbed a finger at the screen. "What are you gonna do? They’ve been spamming you with meetings. You’re not just some silent investor anymore, eight percent makes you one of their biggest shareholders. They probably think you’re dead!"
He leaned back, staring at the glowing logo. His mind spun with images of the story he remembered, Invoke’s rise, its role in future conflicts, its hidden importance to the overarching plot.
Owning a piece of it wasn’t just wealth. It was leverage. A foothold in the currents shaping the world.
"...I’ll deal with it," he said finally.
Victoria gave him a flat look. "That better not mean ’ignore it until it explodes.’"
Merlin smirked faintly. "No promises."
Still, even as he joked, a new weight settled in his chest. This wasn’t just about being rich. It was another thread tying him deeper into the story he’d once only read. Another chance to change the script.
And another responsibility he couldn’t afford to forget again.
He pocketed the phone, staring at the ceiling as Victoria flopped back down onto the couch.
Tomorrow, he’d have to decide what to do.
But for tonight, the smell of cold pizza and the sound of his sister’s soft humming were enough to hold the world at bay.
—
The morning air was thin and cool, drifting in faintly through the cracked balcony window. Pale sunlight stretched over the city’s skyline, soft amber brushing across rooftops and chimneys, catching the glass towers in the distance. The city never truly slept, but in the early hours, it breathed slower, gentler.
Merlin opened his eyes.
The quiet hum of Victoria’s soft snoring filtered from the other room, punctuated occasionally by the rustle of bedsheets when she rolled over. She’d stayed up too late last night, half watching a cheap drama series and half lecturing him about financial responsibility between slices of pizza.
He sat up on the edge of his bed. His body still carried that lingering heaviness of recovery, as if the labyrinth and everything that followed had carved deep scars into his muscles. But each day the weight lessened. Today, his legs felt steady. His breathing clear.
And his thoughts sharp.
He glanced at his phone again, the Invoke Industries notifications still glowing at the top of his screen. Board of Shareholders. Mandatory attendance.
Strategic decisions. Terms like production line expansion and military contracts flashed in bold headers, reminding him that this wasn’t just a game system reward or idle worldbuilding fluff anymore.
This was real.
Eight percent.
Enough to make him someone they couldn’t ignore. Enough to drag him into a world of polished suits and whispered negotiations. A world far removed from swords, affinities, and academy duels, yet just as dangerous in its own way.
He exhaled slowly and rose, careful not to let the bed creak too loudly. His footsteps were silent as he pulled on casual clothes, tucking his wallet and phone into his pocket. He paused at the doorway, listening.
Victoria stirred faintly, mumbling something incoherent in her sleep, then rolled over again.
Merlin smiled faintly. "...Sleep well."
He slipped out.
The streets were almost empty at this hour, only the early shopkeepers preparing their stalls and the occasional carriage clattering over cobblestones. Merlin drew the hood of his jacket higher, the morning chill brushing his face.
For years, at least in his old world, he’d been just another nobody, scraping together part-time jobs, browsing forums, binging late-night stories. And now? He was about to walk into a high-rise building and sit across from the men and women shaping the future of this world.
’...If I don’t look the part, they’ll eat me alive.’
He knew that much from the novel. The board of Invoke was full of sharp minds, opportunists, and wolves dressed in elegance. They wouldn’t care about affinities or combat strength.
They’d care about perception. Appearances. Whether he seemed like someone worth listening to, or someone to corner and strip of power.
Which meant one thing.
A suit.
Not just any suit. One that fit. One that spoke before he even opened his mouth.
Merlin’s footsteps carried him deeper into the city, to the uptown district where luxury stores stood like miniature fortresses of glass and marble. His eyes trailed upward at a sleek sign embossed in silver script: "Fletcher & Co. Tailors."
He pushed open the door.
The air inside shifted immediately, warm, faintly perfumed with cedar and pressed linen. Rolls of fabric lined the walls, suits displayed on mannequins that looked sharper than most real men Merlin had ever seen.
A middle-aged man in a crisp vest and white gloves appeared almost instantly, his bow practiced, his smile polite but calculating.
"Good morning, sir. Welcome to Fletcher & Co. May I assist you?"
Merlin inclined his head slightly. "...I need a suit. Something formal. For a meeting."
The man’s eyes flicked over him in a single smooth sweep, his posture, the faint fatigue in his shoulders, the way his jacket sat too casually. Merlin felt the assessment like a blade, but he didn’t flinch.
"Of course," the tailor said smoothly. "Do you have a preferred style, or shall I suggest something... befitting?"
"...Suggest."
The man gestured for him to follow.
The fitting took longer than Merlin expected. Fabric draped across his shoulders, sleeves tugged, numbers murmured into notebooks.
The tailor never asked about money, not directly. But Merlin noticed the subtle pauses, the way fabric choices were suggested in order of cost, the quiet tests to see if he’d balk at the prices.
He didn’t.
When you owned eight percent of a future giant like Invoke, you didn’t flinch at a few thousand Lonar for a suit. Besides, perception mattered more than the number on the receipt.
Finally, the tailor stepped back, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes as Merlin stood before a long mirror.
The reflection almost startled him.
The black suit was cut to perfection, the fabric sharp yet fluid, shoulders squared, waist drawn just enough to emphasize lean strength. A deep silver tie knotted precisely at his throat, paired with polished shoes that whispered wealth with each step.
For the first time since waking in this world, Merlin didn’t see a recovering student, or a lost reader trapped inside a novel. He saw someone else entirely, someone who belonged at the table with wolves.
"...It’ll do," he said quietly.
The tailor’s smile widened. "It will do more than that, sir. It will speak for you."
Merlin paid without a word, sliding his card across the counter.
—
He left the shop with the suit bag slung over his shoulder, the city buzzing more alive now as morning unfolded in earnest. Carriages and trams filled the streets, shops unlocked their doors, voices rose in chatter and laughter.
Merlin walked among them, his thoughts heavy but steady.
This was only the beginning.
Tomorrow, he’d step into Invoke’s boardroom not as a forgotten shareholder, but as Merlin Everhart—the man with the weight of knowledge, the scars of survival, and the quiet determination to never again be a pawn in someone else’s story.
But for now?
He just hoped Victoria wouldn’t scream when she woke up and realized he’d slipped out without telling her.
Merlin sat cross-legged on the bed, the newly purchased suit hanging in its garment bag across the back of the chair.
The apartment was still quiet, Victoria’s soft breathing muffled behind her bedroom door. The smell of last night’s pizza clung faintly to the air.
The city outside was waking, its hum pressing faintly through the glass windows.
He stared down at his phone.
Unread notifications scrolled across the screen, meeting reminders, system updates, documents flagged as urgent. It all looked normal, professional.
Almost mundane.
The kind of thing he might’ve ignored back in his old life, half asleep on a bus ride home from some pointless shift.
Except it wasn’t mundane. Not here. Not now.
Merlin’s thumb hovered above one particular message, the bold letters stamped across it:
Invoke Industries: Shareholder Meeting Request
Time: TBA — confirmation required.
Contact: +48-310-599
He exhaled slowly. "...Alright."
This wasn’t the labyrinth. Not a duel. Not gods whispering in the corners of his vision. It was a boardroom full of men and women who, in the novel, would go on to shape weapons powerful enough to shift the tide of wars.
And every one of them thought their eighth-largest shareholder was some faceless investor sitting comfortably behind the walls of generational wealth.
They had no idea it was a seventeen-year-old academy student.
Merlin tapped the number.
The phone rang once, twice. His pulse kicked up.
On the third ring, a crisp voice answered. Female. Professional. "This is Invoke Industries, Investor Relations. May I ask who’s calling?"
Merlin adjusted his grip, his voice low, steady. "Merlin Everhart. I hold eight percent of your company. I need an appointment with the board."
Silence.
He could almost hear the blink on the other end. "...Everhart?" Her voice faltered slightly, caught between skepticism and caution. "Sir, could you please repeat that?"
"I said," Merlin leaned back against the headboard, letting the weight of his words settle, "Merlin Everhart. Shareholder. Eight percent."
There was a sharp shuffle of paper. The clack of keys. Then the voice returned, tighter now, almost strained. "One moment, please."
The line went quiet, filled only by the faint hiss of static.
Merlin’s reflection stared back at him from the black screen. His own golden eyes looked too sharp, too old for someone his age. His fingers tapped idly against his thigh.
He remembered the novel vividly. The way the shareholders were described, aristocrats, tycoons, old bloodlines with names sharp enough to cut.
He remembered how Invoke grew from their greed, their arguments, their power plays.
And here he was, wedging himself into that story, into their world, not as a reader but as a character.
The line clicked back.
"...Mr. Everhart?" The woman’s tone had shifted, now carefully respectful. "Your name is listed on the registry. Eight point zero two percent, confirmed."
"Good." Merlin’s lips curved faintly. "Then I expect to attend the next board meeting. In person."