I Was Reborn in Another World, But I Awoke Inside a Corpse

Chapter 200: A Crown Too Many

The ballroom sparkled like a starlit lake.

Suspended crystals hovered in the air, enchanted to scatter soft blue light across silver pillars and gleaming glass floors. Nobles in silk and mana-threaded robes floated across the dance floor with practiced grace, their laughter light, their eyes calculating.

At the center of it all, awkward and uncomfortable, stood Isaac.

He tugged at the stiff collar of his high-court tunic—something Sylvalen had insisted he wear—and stared down at the untouched glass of fruitwine in his hand.

"Remind me again," he muttered to himself, "how I ended up at a matchmaking ambush disguised as a diplomatic ball."

—

The host of the event, Lord Tharellian of the Third Dynasty, had made the invitation sound harmless: "A small gathering to welcome your newest companion and celebrate your contributions to the kingdom."

What it really meant was: "Every unmarried noble of worth will be in attendance, and we're throwing you into the center like fresh meat in a drake den."

He had already danced with a merchant's daughter, politely declined a veiled proposal involving twin priestesses, and received no fewer than seven embroidered handkerchiefs—a court custom for expressing romantic interest.

He'd barely survived the first hour.

And his support team had yet to arrive.

—

Whispers swirled around the ballroom like enchanted fog.

"He hasn't pledged himself to any one of them."

"Is it true he's soulbonded to the Princess?"

"What of the red-haired one? The lightning girl?"

"And the third… no one knows where she came from."

"But look at him. That power, that presence…"

"The perfect match."

—

Then the doors opened.

And the ballroom went quiet.

Sylvalen entered first—radiant in a sapphire gown trimmed with ethereal silverleaf. Her bearing was serene, but her gaze was razor-sharp. The hem of her dress barely touched the ground as she walked with the grace of royalty… and the air of someone who had absolutely no patience for scheming nobles.

Next came Lira—smirking, dressed in elegant black trimmed with electric violet. Her shoulder-length hair was tied with a streak of blue mana-ribbon, and she wore heeled boots that clacked sharply against the glass floor. She didn't walk into the room. She challenged it.

And then Selene.

A vision in white and lavender, her hair cascading like golden fire. She wore no jewelry, no crown—but everyone's eyes found her. Her steps were slow, controlled, regal. Not haughty—just certain. She didn't demand attention. The room simply gave it to her.

They approached Isaac in synchronized silence.

And the entire ballroom stepped back.

—

"Well," Isaac murmured, "nice of you all to join me."

"We saw the handkerchief count," Sylvalen said evenly. "You looked like you needed rescuing."

Lira folded her arms. "I was ready to electrify the punch bowl just to make a point."

Selene tilted her head toward a noblewoman lingering a bit too close. "She's been watching you for nine minutes. Should I smile at her until she leaves?"

"She'll faint," Lira whispered. "Do it."

Selene smiled softly.

The noblewoman did faint.

—

What followed was not a formal announcement. No declaration. No grand ceremony.

But when the three women took positions—Sylvalen standing just beside Isaac's right shoulder, Lira leaning casually on his left arm, and Selene gliding close with her hand loosely brushing his sleeve—no one needed a declaration.

The room understood.

This man was claimed.

And not by one. By three.

Powerful, distinct, and united in one thing: him.

—

One particularly brave nobleman stepped forward, his expression nervous but proud.

"Lord Isaac, might I—"

Lira raised an eyebrow and crackled her knuckles. "No."

He backed away.

Another tried. "My Lady Sel—"

Selene's eyes glinted. The nobleman forgot what he was saying and walked into a wall.

A third approached, trying his luck with Sylvalen.

"I am a cousin to the Elaraiyan Second Line and was hoping to—"

Sylvalen didn't speak. She simply turned and gave him a look so subtle, so coldly dismissive, it could have frozen molten lava.

He bowed and left immediately.

—

After that, no one dared.

Isaac turned to the three of them.

"You do realize," he said dryly, "that you've just publicly established a new political nightmare."

Sylvalen smiled faintly. "Let them sort it out."

Lira grinned. "They'll call us the Anomaly's Harem."

"Or his Sentinels," Selene added.

"Or his Doom," Lira said cheerfully.

Isaac groaned.

But he couldn't stop smiling.

—

As the music resumed and the nobles kept their distance, the four of them stood quietly together at the center of the glass floor, ringed by starlight and whispered awe.

No royal decree had been made.

But the court had seen enough.

The three flames that surrounded Isaac needed no titles.

Their presence alone had rewritten the dance.

And no crown in the world could compete with that.