The grand hall of the Dwarven Kingdom buzzed with respectful silence as Rimuru Tempest entered, escorted by elite guards. The polished stone pillars gleamed under the golden torchlight, and the red carpet laid out before the throne was freshly brushed. King Gazel Dwargo, seated on his towering throne of carved obsidian and gold, nodded in welcome.

Rimuru casually approached, holding a beautifully sealed bottle of translucent amber liquid—apple wine from Tempest. Gazel accepted the gift with a gruff but appreciative nod.

"You always bring something new, Rimuru," he said, swirling the bottle in one hand. "And you always know how to leave an impression."

The two leaders chatted briefly—updates on alliances, movements in the Western Nations, and a few joking remarks about their shared challenges. But then Gazel's expression shifted just slightly. His deep voice lowered, more personal, almost contemplative.

"...You know, Rimuru," he said, eyes narrowed with a rare vulnerability, "You've got this way about you. Somehow you managed to get the Demon Lords to gather, drink with you, even listen to you. It's like you're good at... seducing them."

He leaned forward a little, resting his arms on the sides of his throne. "So tell me—what's your secret? Because I've been trying to win over a certain someone in this very kingdom for months. A baker. A local. Quiet, always calm, never flustered. No matter what I do... nothing. She treats me like a regular."

A heavy sigh.

"I've fought dragons. Negotiated with nobles. But winning her heart? Impossible."

He glanced at Rimuru with something halfway between desperation and stubborn pride.

"So, Rimuru—got any of that magic charm to spare? Or am I doomed to keep buying bread I don't even eat?"