The soft black panties fitted into place, their smooth, seamless elastic hugging the newly broadened flare of his hips.
The snug gusset pressed firmly against his groin, compressing his shrunken, resting dick and flattening against the sensitive slit beneath it.
The gentle, frictionless pressure sent a faint, electric tingle through his pelvis, but it gave him the solid support he desperately needed.
Right above, the matching black bra formed around his large chest.
The structured cups cupped the plump, heavy mounds of his D-cup breasts, lifting the soft weight and pushing them together so that his darkened pink areolas and his nipples were held firmly beneath the fabric.
Then, the outer outfit materialized in a clean and solid matte black stretch fabric.
The bodice was a form-fitting tank style featuring wide, supportive shoulder straps that framed his delicate collarbones and a low, rounded scoop neckline that exposed the valley of his cleavage without spilling out completely.
At his torso, the fabric cinched tightly around his natural waistline, accentuating his dramatic, feminine hourglass contour.
Flowing seamlessly from the waist was a short, flared A-line skater skirt with soft, elegant pleating that fell to his mid-thigh, brushing lightly against his bare skin with every shift of his weight.
To complete the outfit, a matching wide black fabric choker, which even he didn't notice quickly fastened around his slender throat, giving his striking, jade-white features and grey eyes a sharp, gothic elegance.
Alex shifted his weight off the sheets, testing the outfit… feeling completely exposed and embarrassed as the fresh air touched his skin below the short skirt.
The fabric was light. Too light. Cold air from the corridor slid up the inside of his legs and kissed the taut gusset of the panties, flattening his resting cock against the slit beneath it.
In fact, this was his first time wearing such a short skirt, but he had no choice… it was the only outfit left in his spatial storage, as most of his newly purchased clothes had been taken by Elena.
The stretch fabric tightly clung to his curves like a second skin, durable and elastic enough to accommodate the explosive kinetic movements of his swordsmanship, yet undeniably feminine in silhouette.
"My, my... look at you," the Empress whispered again in the back of his mind, her phantom presence inspecting him with a low, appreciative hum. "A little skater skirt and a choker to match those heavy tits? If your cousin or that other old man saw you right now, they wouldn't even recognize their little boy. You look like a lethal little enchantress going out on a midnight stroll."
"Fuck you… It's all because of you. If not for you, I wouldn't have been in such situations…" Alex muttered under his breath, adjusting the waistband of the short skirt.
Alex didn't have time to dwell on the short skirt or any other exposed parts of the dress. The midnight deadline was hanging over his head like a guillotine.
He didn't even notice until now how much time had passed… According to the ghost maids, he only had about six to seven hours of time left before the wedding ceremony to start.
He looked down at the two ghost maids kneeling beside the bed.
Mia and Selene still remained paralyzed.
"Both of you," Alex commanded, his soft, melodic voice vibrating with the cold authority of The Silent Whisper. "Clean yourselves up and dress. You will act as my vanguard."
"Y-Yes, Master..." both maids whispered in unison, their bodies trembling as they forced their sluggish limbs to move.
Alex turned toward the large door. With a flick of his slender right wrist, his Blackiron Longsword materialized from his system storage, humming softly as his fingers curled tightly around the familiar hilt.
—
While Alex stood inside the third-floor bridal suite testing the unfamiliar flutter of the black skater skirt around his bare thighs, the world outside the Ghost domain was experiencing a living nightmare.
For over a day and a half, an unnatural, bone-chilling fog had been creeping outward from the old industrial drainage canals of Sector 4.
What the local patrolmen had initially dismissed as heavy autumn dampness soon mutated into something foul and suffocating.
Deep within the core of the Spectral Graveyard, the Ashen-Bone Wraith Lord Vincent had known his time was limited.
To quickly form his physical body and evolve into a True Evil Spirit, ordinary soul fragments were nowhere near enough.
He needed vast quantities of fresh, living vitality.
Before submerging his skeletal body into the depths of the Necrotic Spirit Pool atop the obsidian tower, Vincent had issued a ruthless command to his wraith legion: harvest everything with life energy within reaching distance.
Under the cover of night, the domain's boundary had quietly expanded, swallowing street after street of the outer residential alleys and the many merchant quarters of Sector 4.
When dawn broke, the streets were completely silent.
No bakery chimneys smoked. No merchant carts rattled across the cobblestones.
The only thing that spread among the people that were still alive was panic… Many didn't even know what happened to their missing parents, family members. relatives or friends and their own children.
In a span of less than eight hours, more than five hundred people… bakers, street vendors, shopkeepers, night-shift warehouse workers, and low-level mercenaries, simply vanished without leaving behind a single cry or drop of blood.
Because most people were really scared, they left multiple blocks completely abandoned under the pale morning sun.
Not even a single person dared walk outside their house, without any network connection… they couldn't even call anyone for help but pray that they could survive.
The cold snow clinging to the walls wasn't natural winter frost… It was necrotic decay eating away at the mortar of the city itself.
Far beneath the streets, down in the abyssal trenches of the ghost domain, the kidnapped citizens and a few unlucky professionals were experiencing what true horror meant.
In the dark, hundreds of captured humans hung suspended over jagged chasms of bone dust.
Heavy iron chains bound into their wrists and ankles, clinking continuously against the frozen rock.
"P-Please... someone let us out! Mercenary Guild! Night Guard! Someone please help us!!" a young man cried out for help, his voice raw and broken from hours of screaming.
His knuckles were bruised bloody from fruitlessly clawing at the black chains. "My daughter... she's only four, she was sleeping right next to me! Where is she?!"
Beside him, an experienced middle-aged mercenary who had fought mutated beasts in the outer wasteland could only stare blankly at the floor, his face drained of all color.
"Shut up... save your breath," the middle-aged man whispered, his teeth chattering from the ghostly chill. "Those aren't prison guards up there. Look at them..."
Standing along the iron railings overhead were dozens of lesser wraiths and armored skeleton sentries, their empty eye sockets glowing with faint crimson flames as they watched the suffering of the living.
Suddenly, a dull, resonant thrum echoed from the high tower above, like the beating of a gigantic heart.
The chains bound around the prisoners glowed with dark red runes.
"Aaargh!!!"
"Aaargh—! No! Stop... it's tearing my chest apart!"
"Please stop..!!!"
Horrible screams rippled through the trenches as glowing crimson ribbons of vital essence were forcefully ripped from the hands of the captives.
The stolen life-force rose into the stagnant air like streams of liquid gases, swirling into a thick river of vitality that flowed upward through the spire's conduits.
Every drop of that vitality was being channeled straight into the ritual chamber, feeding the bubbling Necrotic Pool to help regrow the flesh of the Wraith Lord.
With every pulse, the captives slowly withered further… their skin slowly turning papery and grey, their hair losing its color, and their weeping growing fainter as their lives slipped away drop by drop.