Night falls on the Olympus district.

This place rests atop mountains, where the Star of Art is closest to the Stars, a place countless people yearn for, yet spend their lives unable to unveil its mysterious veil, akin to the dwelling place of gods in Greek mythology; many great artists have risen here, leaving a bold stroke in the history of the Star of Art that echoes throughout the Cosmos.

An invisible hand gently wipes away shadows from the starry canvas, teases apart the somber clouds, wields a brush, spilling silver moonlight into the woods, tinting the tranquil night with a dreamlike hue.

The lake surface is like an enormous piece of blue crystal, clear and bright, reflecting fragmented moonlight amidst half-covered depths of the forest; reminiscent of Kashmanthos Spring, the Spring of the Gods at the summit of Mount Olympus, believed to be the fountainhead of wisdom and art, where minstrels and artists worldwide yearn to draw inspiration to create great works.

The youth slowly stands up from the lake surface, his agile physique a model of the golden ratio that countless artisans pursue, with each muscle line perfectly sculpted, as if carved by an artisan's meticulous hand.

Droplets fall from his perfectly proportioned body, creating a splashing sound as they gracefully dance on the lake surface.

Beside the lake, a young girl has been waiting for some time; she wears a brown waist-cinching vest, neatly buttoned over a white shirt, beneath a pleated skirt with light gray stripes, her straight legs a healthy wheat color, a beret with a little painter's style, and a pair of round-toed Marten boots, adding vibrancy and spirit to her aura.

"Ah, what a beautiful scene, so full of poetic beauty, it's an image one cannot help but want to indulge in."

The youth, mimicking a talented poet, sings a tune filled with deep emotion, then smiles slightly as he looks at the girl: "I wonder if you, my assistant, can comprehend how I feel right now?"

The youth stands naked in the lake, the girl looking at his unadorned body, bathed in holy light, speechless, clicking her tongue: "Please put on your clothing before speaking, Mr. Everme."

Everme opens his arms confidently, his wet crimson hair dripping: "This flawless body, this beautiful face, naturally is the greatest work of art."

"And a work of art should be displayed for others to appreciate."

Seeing the assistant's undisguised annoyance, Everme then spreads his hands: "Just joking."

Draping the long robe handed over by the assistant, the two walk a distance in the mountain woods heavily veiled by trees, and see the small secluded villa in the distance.

The villa is built along the mountainside, nestled in nature's embrace, with symphonies of clear springs. Several people surrounded sculpted columns support a polygonal granite platform, clear water streams from lion-shaped sculptures along the granite edges into the artificial spring below, with countless emerald stones lining the bright pool bottom, describing this scene in the mountains as luxurious falls short, akin to a fairyland; the crystallization of the labor and wisdom of numerous artisans and architects.

The villa's ground floor foyer is spacious and bright, with a large marble round table placed in the center, surrounded by intricately carved chairs, the floor laid with snow-white thick and dense carpets.

This is not Everme's residence; he would not tolerate residing in such a small villa, to be precise, the entire villa merely serves as his workspace; normally the place where he designs and tailors clothes.

Due to long periods of neglect, the villa's ground floor appears somewhat cluttered, gowns, dresses, suits, trench coats, woolen jackets, various satisfactory designs from Everme's past are worn by mannequin models.

But now, mannequins are toppled everywhere, these valuable expensive garments are casually tainted by dust, in intimate contact with the ground.

Everme doesn't mind, stepping over one of the mannequins, he has no obsessive-compulsive disorder, rather this disordered feeling suits him, an untamed and bold environment allows him to ceaselessly burst forth with new inspiration in fashion design.

"Messy like a pigsty," the assistant behind him complains.

"I heard that, oh assistant, no need to be so self-defeating," Everme says.

The assistant's face turns ugly from being thwarted, finally snorting, mumbling: "I have my own name."

"I'll change clothes, wait for me a bit," Everme says, heading to the second floor.

The assistant wants to ask why she was suddenly dragged up in the middle of the night, then sent to the mountain studio without a chance to object, but she knows, even if she asks, she won't get an answer.

Her boss is as enigmatic and unpredictable as can be, actions are difficult to fathom, asking would only get her perfunctory responses about great art.

He can even refrain from eating for three days and nights during an inspiration drought, just to force himself when at a critical point, or simply decide on a whim to forgo other fashion design commissions just because someone's design request seems agreeable, offending quite a few aristocrats.

The difference between an artist and a madman is often a mere thought, perhaps it's for this reason he has become the foremost fashion designer in the entire Star of Art, a distinguished guest among countless upper-class individuals.

Countless fashion masterpieces have emerged from his hands, nearly every high-end fashion brand behind the Star of Art bears his shadow, casually mentioning a renowned name could list youth's designed Elements from any private custom clothing under his name.

No matter how ordinary, even if it's just a piece of rag, as long as it lands in the youth's hands, he can turn it into something.

Thus, many come continuously to commission youth for clothing design, from the Cleaners of major offices to aristocrats and family scions. He's that kind of big-hearted, oblivious guy, without any sense of crisis, welcoming everyone, and the burden of arranging his schedule daily falls on her as the assistant.

Three hundred sixty-five days a year, his schedule is packed to the brim every single day, he doesn't care, commission expires, he could just grandly flake, no problem, just wing it.

The matter of visiting to apologize, enduring people's sour faces and rebuke, all falls on her.

Thinking about this, the assistant's fists harden, wishing to pound a few blows on that carefree guy's head upstairs, venting the accumulated grievances over the years.

Soon, Everme changes into his attire, radiantly coming down the stairs, appearing before the assistant.

The youth dons a black and purple smoking jacket, with a heart-shaped spade chest design from playing cards, the stripes of his chest muscles clearly defined, the exaggerated golden velvet collar truly resembles a jewel peacock spreading its fan, grand and noble, the degree of refinement of the fabric revealing the attire's high value.

The assistant seldom sees the counterpart dressed so formally, in her memory, only when receiving important guests or attending formal events would he dress this way.

"Are we meeting an important guest?" the assistant instinctively asks.

Everme walks to the corner where peony blossoms bloom, plucking a bloom with his fingertips and bringing it to his nose, smelling its fragrance.

He slowly turns his eyes, a serene expression in his beautiful eyes:

"Indeed, and the beautiful guest is already before us."

The assistant turns around, seeing a figure with dazzling golden hair emerging.