SUPREME STYLIST: RETURN OF THE HUMILIATED GENIUS

Chapter 0001: Bottom to the world.

And again, today wasn't going to end well.

Maybe it would be worse.

Rowan felt it immediately he stepped into the corridor of Golden thread Institute, bag slung on his shoulder, his cloth plain, threads that were too tired to hold fabrics together spiked out from his worn collar.

People like him like they say do not belong to a place like this where rich people lavish money to Oppression, his intelligence got him scholarship and everyday had been hell.

For Two years, he'd been at the starter class despite his outstanding performances. The institute refused to promote him but he didn't relent, studying everyday, innovating new patterns and designs burning on coffee just to stay awake while stitching with needle and thread because he couldn't afford machine and his family never supported his dream.

Hearing the voice of the mentor Kai booming in the hall, his heart raced with panic.

"Damn! I'm late." He hurried to the class.

Getting to the door, he paused, catching his breath from the race. He set his mind ready for whatever the morning had in place for him.

The moment he stepped into the class, Mentor Kai paused lecture, a matured man, forty with strands of grey hair mixed with black hair, adjusted his glasses staring Rowan hard. Snickers spread quietly through the 500 students seated from across him.

"Young man, are you for the class?" Mentor Kai toned in his Chinese accent, perching down his glasses to stare at him like he was an experiment once failed.

"He's always meant to be here, Mentor Kai," Someone chipped in from the back and Rowan didn't need to turn before he knew the speaker.

Charles Peterson.

His biggest bully, the richest guy in the institute. Family immunity covered him, family's lawyer had his back and that had been his confidence.

"...we all know he always comes late, Mentor Kai, stitching rag with... needle and thread.." his lips curled in a cruel smirk. "How miserably convenient." He said under his breath.

Laughter bounced off the high roofing hall. Mentor Kai didn't make an effort to stop it. He smirked faintly, leaning against the sleek lectern.

"Who wears ripped pants if not Rowan." Someone said.

"And that's why he's the reaper." Another jested.

Another wave of laughter erupted across the hall.

Mentor Kai giggled, controlling his laughter.

And Rowan at the door, allowing all their insults to wash him down. But today, he wasn't really bothered, the piece of craft that took him three nights heavy in his bag, a weapon to silence all of them today. And maybe he would finally earn the respect he deserves.

"Enough!" Mentor Kai's voice finally cut through the hall, a faint smile at the corner of his lips.

He leaned in, his voice dripping with mock sarcasm. "Now, Mr. Rowan," he began, "do you mind telling the whole class why you're coming to my class? Like you put everyone of us here?"

Rowan's lips moved. He wanted to say he'd been working through the weekend, through three nights, pouring all his energy, depriving sleep with caffeine to create the design inside his bag.

His heart lifted, his lips opened.

"I had.."

"I wasn't asking a question," He Mentor Kai cut him off, his expression hardening. Rowan's hope dropped.

"Go to the Elite department, the stitching section, and take enough offcuts. You're making a hundred yards from it with.. needle and thread before midday.

Rowan's stomach twisted.

His jaw dropped in shock as the punishment cut like a dagger to the chest.

"Sir...."

"It's too small, Huh?" Mentor Kai cut through his protest. "Maybe we make it two hundred. Get out of my class now!"

Rowan didn't protest again. He'd never been given the chance to. It doesn't always end well. He turned, stepping out the door while Mentor Kai looked away dismissively.

The Elite Department had two sections— the stitching wing where clothes are designed by experts and the Show room where designs are displayed for clients.

Students from the starter Class are prohibited from entering the Show room except led by their mentor.

"Hey, good morning." A rich voice called out behind Rowan as he headed for the stitching wing. He turned, expecting another jab from mannerless rich brats but behind him, a man dressed in an impeccable suit walked to him. His eyes narrowed.

"Morning, sir."

"Do you mind showing me the way to the Grand Show room?" The man asked kindly. "I suddenly lost connection with the Institute map on my phone. My first time here"

Rowan went silent for a second, his hesitation clear. The grand show room was prohibited for them.

"It's fine you're busy ," The man quickly said, seeing his hesitation.

Rowan shook his head. "No, just that— it's just against the Institute strict rules for students like me..." he quickly corrected, "I mean not everyone is allowed to enter the Grand show room."

"Such rule restrictions exist here?" The man mumbled then nodded in understanding.

"— but since it's your first time here, I can just take you there without having to enter."

"That'll be perfect." The man said in relief. "Thank you."

Two securities in uniform stopped Rowan at the door of the Grand show room.

"Starters not allowed here." One aid.

"He's with me," The man stepped forward, staring between the securities. "do you mind?"

The two Securities exchanged glances.

"Your access card, Sir."

The man pulled out a green card. One security scanned it on the door scanner.

Beep.

Green light flashed.

"Check. You're welcome to the Golden thread, Sir." He gave a gentle bow.

The man simply pocket his card.

"Let's go in." He said, taking Rowan inside to his surprise.

Before Rowan could protest, the interior arrangement of the Grand show room caught his breath. Chandeliers scattered light on the expensive marble, transparent glasses lined against the wall, displayed inside were designs of different styles, some embroidered with diamonds. Real diamonds that catch the roof light and scattered the crystal across the room.

"Oh my God." Rowan let out a soft gasp.

Mr. Grant, the manager quickly rushed to them. "Mr. Moore," He said, bowing gently. " You didn't inform me you'll be coming today, Sir."

His gaze flicked to Rowan at the side. Seeing his uniform, he frowned instantly.

"Who allowed you, a Star..."

"He's with me," Mr. Moore clipped, shifting the conversation immediately. "Is the design ready?"

The manager looked away from Rowan, his smile returning.

"Yes, Sir. Yes, Sir. Please come with me, Mr. Moore." He led him to one of the glasses, gesturing at a complete Navy suit design inside.

Mr. Moore observed the design, his frown deepening. "Was this the design I asked you to make?"

The manager quickly began to explain, his voice cracking slightly. "You see, Mr. Moore....the style, it's not something we can.."

"You can't make that simple style?" He cut the manager off, shaking his head in disappointment. "My wedding is tomorrow. I paid a million dollars for you to make this suit and the only thing you can produce is an excuse and disappointment?"

The manager's face went pale.

Rowan turned his attention to them, staring at the suit design in the glass box in surprise.

"I can make something better," he simply said, "It won't take more than twenty hours."

The room shifted. Mr. Moore stared at Rowan with a raised brow, agitated but curious.

Mr. Grant frowned.

"You mean you can do something like this?" He repeated.

Rowan nodded confidently.

"In fact, I made something more peculiar. Just a prototype. It's my life work..." He zipped his bag pack, retrieving a suit design, stitched with needle and thread. It isn't the kind with flashy diamond embroidery but the style, the perfection, and the neat stitching, it was top-notch, captivating both the manager and Mr. Moore's attention. It was the one he burned on cheap caffeine, worked on for three nights straight, pouring in all his efforts to bring it to perfection.

Mr. Moore took the suit, eyes widening in surprise as he took in the design . "How did you make this?" he asked, "with a needle and thread and it's so perfect!"

Mr. Grant stiffened at the side.

Mr. Moore had completely turned away from him, his focus on Rowan now.

"I need two of these. Can you make it within that twenty four hours? I'll make materials available. Anything you need. Tell me the Bill."

The manager's eyes darkened on Rowan. "Mr. Mo..." Mr. Moore shut him up with a dismissive wave.

"I'll do my best, Sir." Rowan said, confident, excitement bubbling inside. This would be his chance to prove everyone wrong.

The manager shot him a dead glare. Like you're dead! Very dead!

Mr. Moore nodded, satisfied. "Good. I'll wire $3 million into your personal account...that's just for doing your job. I'll handle the other expenses and materials."

Rowan's jaw dropped.

"$3 million grands?!" He choked on his gasp.