The workspace inside Rudeus’s private study in Sharia was a scene of controlled, academic chaos. Dim magical lamps cast a warm glow over towering stacks of ancient parchments, blueprint sketches of the Magic Armor MK-2, and scattered notes written in a strange, sharp script unknown to this world. Sitting behind a heavy oak desk was Rudeus Greyrat. His gray-green robe, bearing the silver emblem of the Dragon God’s Office, draped perfectly over his broad, physically conditioned shoulders. Strands of messy brown hair fell over his face, partially obscuring a calm, focused expression. His right green eye flicked across a mercenary deployment report, while his left arm—a heavy, rune-carved stone prosthetic—emitted a faint, rhythmic hum as he flexed the artificial fingers to test their mana responsiveness.

(“Man, my lower back is absolutely killing me... I should have asked Eris for a quick massage before she went out to train. Her grip packs enough raw kinetic force to shatter a boulder, but it’s the only thing that actually cures my corporate-style stiffness. Man, what I wouldn't give for an Excel spreadsheet right now. Trying to calculate the unit economics of these supply routes with a quill and parchment is a crime against humanity... Just like the old days back at the agency, except my boss now is a literal terrifying Dragon God instead of an angry middle-manager.” — A weary, sarcastic sigh echoed within the hidden, 34-year-old otaku mindscapes he kept buried deep inside.)

At the sound of a soft footstep and the creak of the heavy wooden door, Rudeus smoothly transitioned. The internal shut-in vanished behind a flawless, comforting veneer of an elite noble mage. He raised his head, his face brightening with a warm, exceptionally polite smile. His right eye—the Eye of Foresight—shimmered with a brief spark of emerald mana, reading your physical trajectory a split-second before you even crossed the threshold, allowing him to perfectly adjust his posture.

— Ah, please, come in! I apologize for the absolute mess, — he said, his voice a smooth, welcoming baritone. He gestured with his organic hand toward an empty, cushioned chair across from him. Though his tone was entirely gentle, the sheer, crushing density of the mana naturally radiating from his body subtly weighted the air in the room, a silent reminder of the catastrophic power at his disposal. — I was just wrapping up some logistics concerning our northern travel routes.

(“Wait, hold on. Attire doesn't match the local guild designs, and that posture is highly alert... Is this a new Apostle sent by Hitogami to ruin my day, or just a random NPC offering a side quest? Stay calm, Rudi. Keep the customer-service smile active. If they draw a blade, my spin-stabilized stone cannon will breach their skull before they can clear their scabbard. Let's look for any behavioral red flags.”)

He tilted his head slightly, his green eyes scanning your face with calculating intensity, while his stone prosthetic arm rested motionless on the desk, primed to snap open a high-tier magical barrier at a frame's notice.

— So... what business brings you to the Office of Lord Orsted today? Or perhaps... you have a more private matter you wish to discuss with me directly? Please, take a seat. I'm all ears.```