Strut, who had been observing with the cool detachment of a creative director watching a chaotic but ultimately promising rehearsal, finally gave a regal nod
"Assistants. Prepare the main stage. It's time for the final look.
The pièce de résistance."
Snap and Serve. Military precision. The red carpet. Became the centre of a manifested, slightly elevated platform, a foot high but perfectly lit, that appeared out of thin air. Shimmering. With tasteful, biodegradable glitter that caught the dappled sunlight.
Several small, intensely bright LED spotlights (manifested, looking like high-tech photography gear) snapped on. From... somewhere.
Perfectly illuminating this impromptu stage. Plunging the surrounding area into comparative shadow.
One brilliant beam found Strut. A star. Poised. Ready.
The main target bandit. Blinking away spots, smelling of lavender, and looking utterly bewildered by his recent encounter with a measuring tape, had found himself subtly herded by a stray gust from Snap's leaf blower and a "gentle" nudge from Serve's selfie stick. Right to the foot of the runway. Stunned. Mouth agape. Like a confused fish.
A… a catwalk? Keldric thought, eyes wide. In the middle of a robbery? During an Isekai battle? Are they going to have an impromptu runway show now? Is this the 'fashion victim' debuff I've read about in obscure JRPG forums? The one that makes you question all your aesthetic life choices before you die of sheer fabulousness? Because if so, sign me up for the spectator pass.
Music. Pulsing. Dramatic. Bass-heavy. Thrummed through the forest floor. Probably Linkin, having recovered enough from his earlier emotional marathon to provide a suitably stylish backtrack. Or maybe the universe just knew Strut demanded a soundtrack.
Strut. From the head of the catwalk. Began her walk.
Not a charge. A strut.
Impossibly high (and probably magically reinforced to withstand uneven forest terrain) stiletto heels clicking with rhythmic precision. A manifested designer gown, all shimmering void-black silk and strategically placed, razor-sharp sequins that looked like solidified shadows, flowed around her skeletal frame.
Fifi, her tiny skeletal poodle. Adorned with a diamond-studded collar and a miniature silk bow, was tucked elegantly under one arm.
A black luxury handbag, easily worth more than Keldric's entire earthly possessions combined, swung gently from the other.
Absolute confidence. Each step, perfect. Poised. She was, as she'd once declared, "serving 'fantasy forest realness'."
Bandit. Still dazed. Trying to make sense of the spotlights, the music, the sudden high-fashion emergency unfolding before his very eyes.
She's… she's literally walking the runway... at him?
Strut reached the end of the catwalk. Right in front of the bandit. Who just stared. Mesmerised. Possibly hypnotised. By the approaching vision of terrifying glamour.
She struck a pose. Dramatic. Impeccable. One hand on a non-existent hip. Head tilted. A silent, devastating judgment in her empty eye sockets. As if assessing his very soul for its thread count.
Then. The "attack."
A sharp, perfectly executed model's turn. A pivot on one stiletto heel that defied skeletal mechanics and possibly several laws of physics. As she spun, her (manifested, impossibly voluminous, probably sentient and conditioned with rare ectoplasmic serums) black hair whipped around. A dramatic, almost slow-motion arc of pure, weaponised style.
The ends of her hair. Stiffened for a microsecond. Like a thousand tiny, perfectly sharpened needles.
THWACK!
A sound surprisingly solid. Comically mundane.
The hair connected. Squarely on the bandit's temple.
His eyes didn't just roll back. They did a full 360-degree spin. Possibly two. With little cartoon stars.
Made a small, surprised "Oof?" sound. A puff of dust, or perhaps just shattered confidence, escaped his lips. Then collapsed. Utterly. Definitively. Knocked out cold.
A fashion fatality.
Strut completed her turn. Flawlessly. Not a hair out of place. Began her serene, victorious walk back down the catwalk. Paused at the centre. Blew a delicate, spectral kiss to an imaginary adoring crowd. Waved a perfectly articulated skeletal hand.
Snap and Serve. Went WILD. Literally bouncing up and down. Their tiny skeletal forms vibrating with excitement.
"YES QUEEN! SLAY! FIERCE! STUNNING!" "A COVER-SHOT KNOCKOUT! AN ABSOLUTE TRIUMPH OF TEXTURE AND FORM! THE HAIR-FLIP HEARD 'ROUND THE FOREST!" "THE POSE! THE POWER! THE PIROUETTE OF PAIN! TEN OUT OF TEN! NO NOTES!"
The catwalk and lights began to shimmer and fade. Strut stepped off it as if it were the most natural thing in the world. As if she concluded all her encounters with a runway takedown.
The remaining bandits were completely, utterly gobsmacked. Staring at their fallen comrade. Then at Strut, who was now delicately adjusting Fifi's bow. Then back. Their collective will to fight. Annihilated. Crushed. By the sheer, unadulterated, weaponised absurdity of it all.
One of them just quietly put his hands up. The other started to slowly back away, eyes wide with a new kind of terror. Not of death. Not even of academic critique or forced emotional breakthroughs. But of being deemed "unfashionable." Or worse, "basic."
Keldric let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. Defeated. By a hair-whip? A fashion-forward fatality... I've read hundreds of Isekai. Seen countless OP skills. Spells that shatter mountains. Swords that slice dimensions. But [Lethal Locks of Luxuriousness]? That's a new one. That's a straight-up legendary-tier unique skill. Probably has a cooldown measured in shampoo cycles.
He wasn't sure if he should be terrified or asking for an autograph from Strut.
Maybe both. Definitely both.
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