The Script of Deception and a Gold Card Ambush

Following behind Wawalde, Sovenia’s mind was split, one part devising how to make this foolish dog meet his scripted demise, the other painting the exquisite scene of her plan’s successful culmination.

Wawalde, scarred and weary from countless battles, would eventually partake in his final meal, which she would endeavor to make as delicious as possible. He would remark on its exquisite taste, yet wonder at its peculiar flavor.

Then, with a flourish of her sword, she would declare, “How could his final meal be anything but delicious? Oh, I merely added manticore venom.” Following this, she would reveal her true identity: “I am, in fact, Jimi the Cruel. Thanks to you, I can finally reclaim my true form.”

With a single furious strike, she would sever the foolish dog’s astonished head, sending it tumbling across the ground as golden, shimmering cards and treasures burst forth.

‘What a perfect tool,’ she would think.

A faint smile played upon her lips.

As she indulged in these ambitious visions of the future.

The air within the corridor grew increasingly heavy, punctuated by intermittent sounds of combat echoing from a distance. Wawalde strode resolutely forward, his dilapidated plate armor clanking with a low, metallic rasp.

Sovenia raised a hand, pointing towards a recessed section of the left wall.

“Go that way.”

Wawalde, following her direction, changed course. They skirted a seemingly intact section of the floor, beneath which lay a spike trap, precisely as Sovenia remembered.

Wawalde, walking too close to the edge, inadvertently triggered a trap. The floor flipped open, revealing a pit of spikes containing three demon corpses.

They continued onward for another ten minutes or so.

Sovenia guided Wawalde through two diverging paths, skillfully avoiding two more traps: one that unleashed venomous darts, and another featuring a collapsing ceiling. Near each hazard lay the corpses of fallen demons; some were frozen in a desperate attempt to flee, while others had been flattened into grotesque pulps.

Sovenia found herself lamenting that these unfortunate souls hadn’t yielded any cards before their demise.

Half an hour later, they arrived at a corridor culminating in a darkened doorway.

A faint, flickering firelight emanated from within the doorframe, pulsing erratically as if something periodically obstructed its source.

The corridor ahead remained eerily silent, as though nothing lay beyond.

Sovenia’s long, white ears twitched. They registered a medley of subtle sounds: the rustle of leather, hushed breathing, and the faint clink of weapons against the ground.

She sniffed, detecting the familiar, musky scent of a demon kin, specifically the bovine odor of a promoted minotaur.

Immediately, she reached out and seized Wawalde’s arm.

The clatter of his dilapidated plate armor abruptly ceased.

Wawalde turned his head in the gloom, casting a curious glance at Sovenia. Her deer-like eyes glowed with a faint golden light in the darkness, pupils constricted into thin slits, much like a cat’s.

Those golden eyes reflected the distant firelight, the interplay of light and shadow sculpting the delicate contours of her oval face.

Sovenia raised a slender finger to her lips, signaling for silence.

Wawalde lowered his voice.

“What is it?”

Sovenia whispered, “I hear enemies inside.”

Wawalde inclined his head, listening intently, but detected nothing. He nodded.

“Alright, we’ll launch a surprise attack now.”

“The enemy’s strength is unknown,” Sovenia stated, stepping forward. “I’ll scout ahead.”

“No,” Wawalde immediately countered. “You are too fragile; I must protect you.”

Sovenia looked up at him.

“Your dilapidated plate armor makes too much noise.”

Without waiting for Wawalde’s assent, Sovenia had already sheathed her Moonpetal Blade, its faint glow instantly vanishing. She advanced, moving past Wawalde, her swaying, snow-white fishtail braid brushing against his shoulder plate.

A subtle fragrance wafted through the air, the unique scent of Sovenia herself—cool and sharp, like pine needles beneath the ice and snow.

Wawalde inhaled the fragrance, watching her depart.

Sovenia tiptoed towards the doorway, each step as light as a falling feather, utterly devoid of sound.

Reconnaissance was undeniably crucial.

Sovenia was also adept at such stealth. She approached the doorway but did not immediately enter. Instead, she lifted her gaze to a tiny crevice high on the wall—a discreet peephole, designed for observing the outside, yet easily overlooked.

With no demons positioned behind the peephole, it now served as an ideal vantage point for internal observation.

Her slender fingers hooked into a nearly invisible groove on the wall. With a push from her right foot, her calf muscles subtly tensed, her leather boots scraping softly against the surface, and the hem of her short skirt swayed gently with the movement.

She scaled the wall with effortless grace, then pressed herself against it, her eye fixed to the peephole.

Inside was a crossroads where four corridors converged. Several corpses of demon kin, who had evidently failed in their advancement, already lay on the ground, their blood still fresh.

The firelight emanated from a brazier in the corner, its flames wavering and flickering.

Seven demons were concealed in various corners of the intersection, poised for ambush, their positions varying in height.

Sovenia’s gaze swept coldly over these individuals.

‘A truly pathetic ambush,’ she mused.

Her eyes settled upon the most conspicuous figure: a towering minotaur, wielding a pair of bronze double-bladed axes still stained with blood. A potent scent of gore emanated from him, and the mark of the Blood God was tattooed upon his chest.

Sovenia’s eyes narrowed.

She recognized this individual.

This minotaur was called Bloodaxe Balrog, a fanatic among the Blood God’s devotees, who attained the deity’s blessings through incessant slaughter. His strength was considered upper-middle tier among demons, which was why he had earned a place in her intelligence network.

His weakness lay in his left knee, which had sustained a severe injury in the past. Though it had healed, the bone structure remained unstable, leaving him with a slight limp.

Astonishingly, a golden question mark card hovered above Bloodaxe’s head. When she had last encountered him, he had been merely a bronze-tier foe.

A gold-tier enemy.

Her heart quickened its pace.

‘This is a gold card!’ she thought. ‘Killing him would almost certainly yield a gold card drop.’

After moving to several other peepholes and noting the enemies’ positions.

Sovenia dropped silently from the wall, her landing making no sound whatsoever. She returned to Wawalde’s side.

Wawalde said, “You should seek my permission before undertaking such risks.”

Sovenia replied directly, “There are seven demons inside. One is a minotaur wielding double-bladed axes, a Blood God worshipper whose weakness is his left knee. The positions of the others are…”

Wawalde nodded, stating concisely, “I’ll charge in to draw their fire; you find an opportunity to attack.”

“Wait,” Sovenia interjected. “Try to leave the enemies for me to execute; it’s part of my abilities.”

Wawalde said, “You said the same thing when we killed the Slime King last time. What did you gain from delivering the finishing blow then?”

Sovenia’s expression stiffened momentarily.

‘Why is this foolish dog suddenly asking about that?’ she wondered.

Her mouth opened, poised to speak, but her mind was utterly blank. She was never adept at lying, especially when caught off guard.

“I… well…”

Her voice trailed off, ultimately ceasing altogether as she clamped her mouth shut.

Wawalde did not press the matter further.

Sovenia’s deer-like eyes fixed on him, and she felt a sudden tightening in her chest, sensing that the foolish dog’s gaze had grown complex.

‘Oh no, is he suspicious of me?’ she fretted. ‘This perfect “final meal” script must continue.’

Hastily, she reached out and grasped Wawalde’s hand beneath his gauntlet, her fingertips brushing his palm. His thoughts then flooded into her mind:

[She seems so nervous… Could that past experience have left her feeling insecure? Poor princess, she must have been terribly tormented, to hide even such small things… Her hand is so cold. Why does she always grasp my hand?]

Sovenia exhaled a silent breath of relief.

‘It was merely another misunderstanding,’ she realized.

Yet, for the sake of her “final meal script,” she had to solidify her position and quash any nascent suspicions. She decided to turn his thoughts to her advantage.

Sovenia took a deep breath, steeling herself through an internal struggle, and calmly stated, “I feel afraid if I don’t hold your hand.”

Wawalde’s heart instantly softened. He gently clasped Sovenia’s hand in return, his voice tender.

“Don’t be afraid. I will protect you.”

His words sounded like a soothing lullaby for a child.

Wawalde’s hand was large, completely enveloping Sovenia’s delicate one.

Sovenia’s hand trembled, and she yearned to pull it away, but having come this far, she had to maintain the deception. She lowered her eyes, a nameless sense of humiliation rising within her.

When had she ever stooped so low as to feign vulnerability for protection, merely to ensure the beheading of her enemy?

She bit her lip lightly, once more envisioning the final act of her “final meal script”: “The foolish dog’s cry of defeat.”