The heavy oak doors of the private fashion atelier near the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré swung open, releasing the crisp scent of premium linen, old stone, and high-end industrial sewing oil. Li Hua stepped over the threshold, her sleek 59-kilogram Imperial frame instantly dominating the workspace.
This was the studio Ye Feng had purchased for her—a state-of-the-art facility equipped with the finest European looms and cutters.
But as she walked in, the rhythmic humming of the machinery suddenly died.
Six French seamstresses and three elite pattern-cutters stopped their work, turning to look at her with expressions of unadulterated disdain. At the center of the room stood Jean-Luc, a chief pattern-maker with a silver tape measure draped over his neck like a royal collar.
"So, this is the 'provincial miracle' Master Ye flew across the ocean?" Jean-Luc spoke in rapid, arrogant French, assuming Li Hua couldn't comprehend a word. He flicked a calloused finger against a bolt of her proprietary lavender Li-Steel bamboo weave. "She wants us to discard traditional French silk for this... stiff, industrial weed? This is an insult to Parisian haute couture. I refuse to cut rags for a country girl who doesn't even know how to hold a French needle."
The seamstresses snickered, crossing their arms in open rebellion.
Li Hua didn't flash a single hint of anger. Her active French Language Mastery allowed his insults to translate into pure data, while her newly unlocked Sovereign Intuition flashed a pulsing amber warning around Jean-Luc's luxury leather briefcase.
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[Ding! S-Tier 'Sovereign Intuition' Active.]
[Detection: Jean-Luc has accepted a 20,000 Franc bribe from Song Meili. His objective is to execute an immediate labor strike, leaving you with zero inventory forty-eight hours before the Louvre Gala.]
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Li Hua paced forward, her high heels striking the hardwood floor with a steady, military cadence. She stopped directly in front of Jean-Luc, her S-Tier Presence Matrix projecting an elite weight that made the arrogant Frenchman instinctively step backward.
"Monsieur Jean-Luc," Li Hua began, her French completely flawless, carrying the precise, aristocratic accent of the Parisian upper class.
Jean-Luc gasped, his face turning an immediate, sickly shade of white.
"You claim this material is an insult to haute couture?" Li Hua reached out, her long, elegant fingers clamping around his wrist with the terrifying, upgraded agility of her system. With a single, sharp twist, she forced him to drop his silver shears. "You have spent thirty years in this district, yet your eyes are so blind you cannot see that this 'weed' possesses a tensility three times greater than the silk your family has been bankrupting itself to import."
"You... you speak French?" Jean-Luc stammered, trembling under her grip.
"I speak the language of industry, which you seem to have forgotten," Li Hua shot back coldly, tossing his wrist aside. She turned her clinical gaze to the rest of the staff. "Jean-Luc will not be cutting for the Louvre Gala. In fact, he is fired, effective this second. And if any of you intend to follow his strike, pack your shears and evacuate my property before I have Ye Feng's legal council audit your tax records."
Jean-Luc scooped up his briefcase, his composure entirely shattered. "You are insane! Without my pattern blueprints, you cannot assemble a single sleeve! Your collection is dead!" He sprinted out the door, screaming about provincial barbarians.
The remaining seamstresses stood frozen, terrified by her commanding aura but whispering in panic. Without a chief pattern-maker, creating an entire runway collection in forty-eight hours was mathematically impossible.
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[Ding! Elite Atelier Mission Triggered: The Sovereign's Loom.]
[Objective: Leverage 'Industrial Machinery Mastery' and 'Master of Textiles' Level 4 to construct the debut 'Deconstructed Phoenix' collection alone.]
[Reward: +50 Business IQ, S-Tier 'Fabric Manipulation' speed multiplier, European Renown.]
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"Watch the floor," Li Hua commanded the remaining staff, her voice ringing like a crystal bell.
She stripped off her tailored trench coat, stepping up to the master cutting table. She didn't draw a single paper blueprint. Utilizing her Vogue Vision Level 4, she mapped the exact grunge-chic dimensions directly onto the lavender and midnight-gold Li-Steel fabrics using her mind's eye.
She seized the heavy industrial shears. Slash. Slash. Slash.
The fabric pieces fell across the table with mathematical perfection. She marched to the primary German-engineered loom, her Industrial Machinery Mastery allowing her to recalibrate the tension valves with lightning speed, increasing the mechanical output by two hundred percent.
Whirr! Whirr! Whirr!
Her fingers moved across the needles like a concert pianist executing a masterpiece. She executed raw, unhemmed, asymmetrical edges—the exact deconstructed aesthetic of the mid-90s Parisian underground—using the bamboo fibers to ensure the frayed borders would structurally never unravel.
The French seamstresses watched in absolute, paralyzed awe. One by one, their hands dropped to their sides. They didn't see a country girl; they saw a living goddess of industry whose speed and structural genius surpassed any master tailor in Europe.
By sunset, twelve completed, breathtaking garments of the Deconstructed Phoenix collection hung under the atelier spotlights, shimmering with gold threads and projecting the intoxicating scent of her Imperial Phoenix alchemy.
The lead seamstress stepped forward, tears of genuine artistic reverence in her eyes, and dropped to one knee before Li Hua. "Madame Li... forgive our blindness. This isn't fashion. This is a textile revolution. We swear our absolute loyalty to your brand."
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[Ding! Industrial Mission Complete! The Atelier Rebellion has been crushed!]
[Rewards Issued: S-Tier 'Fabric Manipulation' speed multiplier integrated, +50 Business IQ!]
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Li Hua stood at the window, her silhouette perfectly regal as she watched the evening rain wash over the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. The workshop was secure. Her inventory was absolute.
Suddenly, her satellite phone vibrated on the table. It was a encrypted text transmission from Ye Feng's private line:
Song Meili has just blackmailed the Louvre Gala Chairman. They are changing the runway security codes to lock your brand out of the building tomorrow morning. I am tracking her logistics asset now. Meet me at the Seine docks.
Li Hua's lips curved into a cold, predatory smile as she pocketed the device. "The inventory is ready, Chen," she murmured into the room. "It is time to go hunt a snake in the dark.