The Delicate Vessel and the Knight’s Chivalry

Sovenia had submerged herself in the warm water for tactical weapon maintenance for the third time.

For the third time, she ran her hands through her silver hair, from root to tip. Lifting a slender calf, droplets cascaded from its graceful curve; though her knee bend was pristine, Sovenia scrubbed it once more.

Fine, snowy foam enveloped her calf, only to be swiftly washed away by the flowing water.

She scrutinized her elven female body for a moment, deeming the maintenance sufficient, and then rose.

The water’s surface rippled, and her reflection shimmered. She gazed at the face of the elven maiden in the wavering image—golden eyes, silvery hair—a beauty even the disturbed water could not conceal.

Cupping a handful of water, she turned to the mirror by the bath, pouring it over her head. She watched the droplets trace paths down her cheeks, observing the water flow over her soft contours, her peripheral vision catching the clock on the wall.

It was late.

Only then did she realize she had spent nearly an hour in this accursed bath.

An hour!

Jimi the Cruel, the renowned First Heavenly King of the Demon Realm, had never wasted more than ten minutes on bathing. What was all this fuss about?

On the battlefield, bloodstains were simply rinsed away with cold water; once wounds were stitched, one resumed the fight.

What was happening today? Could it be… ‘I’ve grown to like this body.’

This was truly a “world-shattering” thought, prompting Sovenia herself to chuckle.

This body seemed to possess its own rhythm, urging her to meticulously care for every inch of her skin, as if, should she neglect it, this vessel would dull like a rusted blade.

She murmured to herself, “This is necessary maintenance, much like caring for a weapon. There’s no help for it; a frail elven female body is simply like this.”

Sovenia stood, water beads tracing a path down her soft, pale waistline. The mirror beside the bath reflected her image.

The silver-haired maiden in the mirror possessed skin excessively white, now flushed with a delicate crimson from the warm water. Her large golden eyes glowed like twin flames in the dim candlelight.

Her facial lines were soft, her chin tapered, collarbones prominent, and her chest rose and fell gently. Her legs were notably long and straight, her ankles delicate.

Sovenia stared at the mirror for a few seconds, her gaze falling upon her own legs. They were rather too long, she mused, before raising her right leg, toes pointed, upwards past her waist, past her shoulder, finally extending straight towards the ceiling.

Her body was remarkably flexible, requiring no assistance from her hands.

In the mirror, the long-legged, silver-haired elven maiden’s knee already touched her face, her slender calf pressing against her silver hair and cheek. Turning her head, her pale red lips met the curve of her knee.

Her mood lightened. She lowered her leg, retrieved the [Moonlight Blade], and drew the longsword.

In the mirror, the silver-haired, snow-skinned elven maiden, holding a faintly gleaming silver sword, regarded her with a faint smile.

Sovenia gripped the hilt and swung the sword a few times. It was agile and sharp, its balance point four centimeters ahead of the hilt, just like the swords she typically wielded.

She favored longswords for their versatility and agility. Thus, she instinctively performed a sword flourish—a habit of hers. When flourishing, the sword would sweep from side to side, allowing her to gauge her own ‘collision volume.’

The sword tip sliced through the air, emitting a faint whisper of displaced wind, brushing past her ear—

“Hiss—!”

Pain exploded instantly, as if a searing hot iron nail had been driven into her sensitive ear.

The agony was so intense that Sovenia’s knees buckled, sending her to the floor. One hand clutched her ear, the other gripped the sword hilt tightly. Warm liquid seeped through her fingers, trickling down her wrist.

“Damn this frail female elven body!” Sovenia cursed through gritted teeth. “Even these ears are a nuisance!”

She had forgotten. Forgotten that she possessed a pair of pristine, long ears, and that they were excruciatingly sensitive.

Sovenia pressed down on the wound, waiting for the pain to subside slightly. Not much blood flowed; it was merely a superficial cut, yet the sharp agony made her keenly aware of how fragile this body truly was.

Taking a deep breath, she stood, her vanity forgotten. Turning, she tossed her discarded clothes into a wooden basin, added water, and sprinkled in soap powder.

Her scrubbing motions were rough yet efficient, like cleaning blood-stained armor. The gold-embroidered long sleeves, leather waist cincher, short skirt, and long boots—each piece was meticulously scrubbed or washed.

After washing the clothes, she placed them in a bamboo basket, then casually grabbed her previous bath towel to wrap around her now slender frame, and pushed open the bathroom door.

The bedchamber was quiet. Candlelight cast flickering shadows upon the walls.

Wawalde sat by the table, sharpening his colossal single-edged battle-axe with a whetstone.

Hearing footsteps, he looked up, beginning to speak:

“You finally finished bath—”

He froze.

Sovenia paid no heed to his reaction. She walked directly to the fireplace, which was empty of wood. Lifting a foot, her pristine sole nudged a particular brick.

“Clatter.” A dozen pieces of firewood tumbled into the hearth. She uttered a single word: “Da.”

Sparks flew within the hearth, igniting the firewood, and flames danced within the fireplace.

Wawalde watched her; her movements were as fluid as if she were in her own home. He opened his mouth, but ultimately said nothing.

Sovenia bent down, hanging the clothes from the basket one by one on a rack beside the fireplace, allowing the warmth of the flames to dry them.

Only after completing these tasks did she turn, finding Wawalde still staring.

Their eyes met.

Wawalde’s face was flushed, his gaze flickering as if unsure where to look. His Adam’s apple bobbed, and he coughed twice, awkwardly averting his eyes.

Sovenia frowned.

‘What is this idiot dog doing?’

She glanced down at herself. ‘Oh, the bath towel. I just draped it over myself and held it against my chest.’

‘But what of it? These are clothes that need to dry. Am I supposed to wear wet clothes?’

‘No, that’s not right.’

Sovenia suddenly considered another possibility.

‘He’s complaining that I took too long to bathe.’

An hour was indeed a long time.

Sovenia couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt.

After all, by demon standards, this was a display of luxury and weakness; extended bathing implied pampering, an inability to adapt, and a readiness to be eliminated first.

At best, it was an eccentricity, and among demons, an eccentricity without sufficient power to back it up simply meant one was trash.

‘Disgraceful!’

Sovenia’s expression turned cold.

She declared, “I will take the first watch.”

Wawalde paused, “What?”

“I said, I will take the first watch,” Sovenia repeated, lifting her chin, her golden eyes fixed on him. “You rest first.”

“No, Miss Sovenia, that won’t do—”

“Why won’t it do?” Sovenia cut him off. “Do you think I’m incapable?”

She took a few steps closer, the hem of her bath towel swaying with her movement, her slender, smooth calves subtly revealed behind it.

Candlelight danced on her damp silver hair, a few droplets trickling from the ends, falling onto her collarbones.

Wawalde’s face deepened in color. He stood up, saying in a flustered tone, “That’s not what I meant! I just—”

“Just what?”

“I just thought—” He swallowed, “You should rest first. You must be tired today.”

“I am not tired,” Sovenia said coldly. “I am not some pampered weakling who would hold others back.”

Sovenia’s tone was resolute, almost like an oath.

Wawalde opened his mouth, as if to speak, but ultimately just sighed.

“Alright,” he said. “Then I’ll go to sleep first. The bed is for you, Miss Sovenia.”

Still clad in his tattered full plate armor, he lay down on the carpeted floor beside the bed.

Sovenia narrowed her eyes.

‘What is this idiot dog doing? Lying on the ground certainly fits his idiot dog persona, but what does this gesture mean now?’

“You’re going to sleep on the ground?”

“Yes,” Wawalde replied, closing his eyes and resting his head on his arm. “The bed is for you.”

‘Chivalry. Human values. Preferring to sleep on the floor themselves rather than let a woman do so—even if the bed was large enough for four or five people, and even if he, clad in armor, was the primary combatant.’

Sovenia stared at him, feeling only that the idiot dog was shouting at her with his actions: ‘You pampered individual.’

Wawalde’s back, turned to her, stung her pride like a needle.

As the First Heavenly King of the Demon Realm, she had once toiled thirteen hours a day in the mines, subsisting on foul-smelling gruel, drinking putrid water, and sleeping on insect-ridden straw—she had clawed her way from the lowest depths of hell, ascending to the peak over countless corpses.

And now, this idiot dog actually thought she needed special treatment?

However, he was not a demon; perhaps this was just another of humanity’s strange, weak values.

This uncertainty made Sovenia quite uneasy.

‘Time to use that trick on the idiot dog—to hear his thoughts.’

Thinking this, Sovenia strode over, still clutching her bath towel, and crouched beside Wawalde, patting his head.

“Get up.”

Wawalde opened his eyes, looking at her with confusion.

Sovenia wasted no words. She reached out and directly took Wawalde’s hand.

The moment their skin touched, his thoughts flooded her mind.

‘Gods, how could she… She’s only wearing a bath towel… Her hand… Calm down, Wawalde, calm down, you are a knight, you cannot… Her hand is so soft… No, I can’t think like this, she is an elven princess, she trusts me, I cannot…’

Sovenia’s movements paused.

She looked down at her own hand, then at Wawalde’s flushed face.

‘Oh.’

‘So that’s it.’

She suddenly realized her current appearance: merely “draped” in a bath towel, crouching before a man, holding his hand.

From his perspective—

Sovenia’s face also grew warm.

This feeling was strange.

She had never cared about the impact of her appearance on others. Gender? In the Demon Realm, such a thing was merely a physiological characteristic, unrelated to power, but rather to tactical choices.

But now—

‘She is a white-haired female elf.’

This realization felt like a splash of cold water.

‘No, that’s not right. That’s not the point.’

Sovenia refocused, continuing to read Wawalde’s chaotic thoughts.

‘She must think I’m implying she should sleep with me… I just thought a delicate princess should sleep in the bed… But that look she just gave me… it seems she misunderstood something.’

‘No misunderstanding!’

Sovenia instantly released his hand, clenching her own into a fist.

‘So he *did* think she was pampered.’

Her anger flared anew, even her injured ear reddening in her fury.

‘This accursed, frail body. Slender, delicate, needing care—it’s too much trouble.’

She stood, looking down at Wawalde on the ground, and instinctively tugged at the bath towel that could have served as her shroud.

“Listen,” she said, her voice icy. “That bed is large enough. You’re wearing armor; lie there.”

“You sleep on the ground?”

“Only dogs sleep on the ground. I’ll sleep on the bed.”

“But—”

“You are our greatest source of combat power,” Sovenia interrupted him. “You require ample rest to recover your stamina. Sleeping on the floor won’t achieve that. The bed will, understood? I am not some delicate princess.”

Her words were logical, delivered as if stating a tactical deployment.

Wawalde opened his mouth, but found no reason to refute her.

“So get up,” Sovenia commanded. “Sleep on the bed.”

Wawalde hesitated for a moment, but ultimately conceded. He rose, his armor clanking with metallic sounds, and walked towards the large black bed.

“Are you truly alright with this?”

“You are truly delicate,” Sovenia retorted. “I will take the watch. Should there be any movement, I will awaken you.”

Wawalde nodded like a golden retriever, obediently heading towards the large bed, spacious enough for two people to spar. The sheets were of a thick, smooth fabric, reflecting a dim glow in the candlelight. There were two pillows, appearing plump and soft.

He lay down on his side, his back to Sovenia, his body sinking into the mattress, his head into the pillow; the bed seemed to embrace him. His eyelids grew heavy, and closing his eyes, he soon fell into a deep, even sleep.

Sovenia stood by the doorway, watching Wawalde.

This idiot dog fell asleep faster than he could swing his sword at the Demon King’s army, leaving his back exposed to this “elf” who didn’t even speak Elvish.

Human trust was truly cheap and inexplicable; he didn’t even know if her name was real or fake.

Sovenia, too, began to feel weariness. She touched the wound on her ear, wincing in pain, then held her sword and stood to keep watch.

She planned to wait until Wawalde was soundly asleep before attending to some secret matters.

‘Sovenia is truly vigilant and cautious.’