A Tactical Disguise

Sovenia had already returned the used needle and thread, along with the wine bottle, to her voluminous black backpack.

She stood up, her golden doe eyes sweeping across the “Crossroads” room.

The air was thick with the coppery tang of blood, mingling with the acrid stench of burnt protein, a combination that stung her nostrils.

Several towering demon corpses lay sprawled on the ground in grotesque, twisted forms. Their dark crimson blood had pooled into viscous puddles, reflecting the faint glimmer that seeped through the cracks in the stone ceiling.

She glanced down at herself. Her body remained slender, her skin unblemished; save for a drying bloodstain on her thigh, there was hardly any trace of the recent battle.

Meanwhile, Wawalde was struggling to pull his tattered battle suit back on. With every movement, the muscles surrounding his newly stitched wounds visibly twitched.

Sovenia instinctively stepped forward, helping him don his battle suit. Then, kneeling, she assisted him in securing his leg armor, using the suit’s ties to fasten it tightly.

Plate armor, it seemed, had but one drawback: donning and doffing it required assistance.

Nevertheless, Sovenia could outfit someone in armor even with her eyes closed.

She gazed at Wawalde, then at the uneven plate armor clutched in her hand.

‘What a durable tool.’

Sovenia mused inwardly.

Yet, at the same time, another thought surfaced, irrepressible:

‘That flying axe just moments ago… if Wawalde hadn’t managed to restrain Bloodaxe Balrog, if her [Blazing Strike +1] hadn’t cleaved through that battleaxe, just a slight graze from it against her head would have spelled her end.’

‘Her card deck was streamlined, yet it sorely lacked a “defensive aspect”—in other words, her defenses were woefully inadequate.’

‘All her meticulously crafted plans hinged on this body remaining perfectly intact, at least for the next three days.’

‘A single oversight, a misjudgment, or even a stray arrow flying from an unknown direction, could render all her careful machinations utterly meaningless, a mere jest.’

‘She could not tolerate such a thing.’

Thus, the former First Heavenly King of the Demon Queen’s Palace began to rummage through the piles of her erstwhile subordinates’ corpses, much like a common scavenger.

Her gaze swept over the fallen demons, but their helmets were all far too large, capable of engulfing her entire head.

At last, her eyes settled on a demon corpse of comparatively “petite” stature.

This one, she surmised, must have been a follower of the Pink God or possessed elven lineage.

He stood perhaps only a head taller than she did. The demon lay face down, the back of his skull caved in by a blunt instrument.

A black helmet was embedded within his skull, encircled by a dark crimson substance composed of pulp and shattered bone fragments.

A wave of intense nausea surged from her stomach.

Sovenia’s throat constricted, and she forcibly swallowed back the rising bile.

She frowned, her gaze fixed on the nauseating mixture.

This sensation was utterly alien to her. She recalled how, in her past life, she had personally crushed countless heads to intimidate her foes; blood and brains splattering her entire body had been a common occurrence, never once causing her discomfort.

Yet now, merely observing it, this body of hers was already protesting.

‘Useless thing.’

Sovenia inwardly cursed the frailty of her current form.

Approaching the corpse, she knelt down and extended two fingers, cautiously pinching the edge of the helmet, attempting to dislodge it.

The helmet was stubbornly fused to the skull by coagulated blood and tissue. She had to deploy a few more fingers, giving a forceful tug. With a sickening, teeth-grinding tear, the helmet finally separated from the shattered cranium, bringing with it several strands of grayish-white viscous matter.

She set the helmet aside and scoured the ground for a relatively clean piece of fabric from a fallen demon’s attire, using it to vigorously scrub away the grime.

Her cleaning was meticulous; she scraped away all visible bloodstains and tissue fragments until the helmet’s true black iron hue was revealed.

Yet, a pervasive stench seemed etched into the metal’s very crevices, proving utterly impossible to remove.

Sovenia held the helmet aloft, hesitating for a moment. The object reeked like a putrid garbage bin; worn on her head, its stench would perpetually cling to her nostrils.

‘To survive,’ she told herself.

Holding her breath, as if enduring a grim punishment, she clamped the malodorous helmet onto her head.

The clammy lining pressed against her scalp, and a shiver of cold traced its way down her spine, spreading throughout her body.

The helmet’s size proved still considerably too large, causing it to wobble precariously. Even worse, the design of its sides utterly failed to account for elven physiology, with the metal edges painfully pressing against her long, pointed ears.

Her ears, already tender from a previous sword-dancing injury, now throbbed with sharp, insistent pain.

Discomfort, nausea, and pain—a cacophony of negative sensations intertwined within her.

She shook her head, causing the ill-fitting helmet to wobble in tandem, further restricting her vision, while the throbbing in her ears intensified. Involuntarily, her gaze fell upon her reflection in a puddle of blood on the ground:

A slender elven maiden, adorned in a lavish, gold-embroidered long-sleeved top and a short skirt, yet ludicrously crowned with a black iron helmet that was utterly disproportionate to her delicate frame…

‘How hideous!’

A surge of nameless ire flared within her. As the esteemed First Heavenly King under the Demon Queen, when had she ever concerned herself with her own appearance, whether beautiful or plain?

‘Such a thought was, in itself, a degradation!’

Wawalde, now fully armored, had discarded the unwieldy great axe and instead picked up a longsword from Bloodaxe Balrog’s corpse.

Upon seeing Sovenia’s “new look,” he paused for a moment, then nodded.

“This helmet is good, very sturdy. Are you ready to leave?”

His tone held no hint of mockery, only the straightforward approval of a seasoned warrior. Yet, to Sovenia, this compliment sounded exceptionally grating.

She opened her mouth to speak, “…It’s merely for safety. Does it appear terribly cumbersome?”

Wawalde, clearly oblivious to her underlying meaning, replied:

“Cumbersome is far better than a sudden, violent death,” he stated. “Staying alive is what truly matters.”

Sovenia fell silent. Stepping forward, she extended a hand and said, “Allow me to examine your new weapon.”

Her hand naturally settled upon the back of Wawalde’s hand, which still gripped the sword hilt, and she heard his unspoken thoughts:

‘Miss Sovenia… this helmet does look a bit incongruous on her, like a delicate flower crammed into a rusty tin can. Still, it’s good that she’s thinking of protecting herself. She’s stronger than I imagined.’

‘A flower crammed into a rusty tin can? What idiocy is this brute thinking?! This is clearly a highly tactical choice; a helmet is far more crucial than any other piece of armor. So what if it’s not pretty? What does “a flower crammed into a rusty tin can” even imply? Is there no beauty in tactical necessity?’

‘Never mind, there’s no need to pay attention to this brute; he only has two and a half days left to live.’

She released his hand and proceeded towards another exit from the room.

“Follow me. We have no time to waste.”

Her voice, emanating from beneath the helmet, carried a metallic echo that made her sound even more aloof than usual.

The journey that followed unequivocally proved that Sovenia’s chosen “dangerous route” was no idle boast—though Wawalde, of course, remained blissfully unaware.

The chaos within the Demon Queen’s Palace far surpassed all imagination; the power vacuum had transformed the entire place into a colossal and bloody gladiatorial arena. They encountered combat almost every two or three rooms they traversed.