The White Uniform That Claimed Me

After that seemingly casual, yet profoundly difficult “tea chat” with Demon King Iris, Furenna passed several days that were exceptionally calm and exceptionally heavy.

Lalania did not appear, and there was no word from Lilie or Iris either.

The daily routine of the Contemplation Hall continued unchanged.

Xiaoling’s companionship brought a small measure of solace, but more often, there was prolonged silence and the turbulent, wordless thoughts churning within each of their minds.

The weakness within her, like a ship’s anchor sinking ever deeper, dragged at every shred of vitality in her body with increasing clarity.

Yet, precisely because of this, Furenna’s performance of that role became ever more refined, reaching a degree that was almost instinctive.

Every action was standard, every response was proper.

The humility and deference on her face blended seamlessly.

She was like an object repeatedly polished and buffed until it had lost all its rough edges, leaving only a cold, smooth surface, perfectly slotted into that unremarkable position within the vast machinery of the Demon King’s castle—the position of the ‘competent one at the bottom.’

However, beneath the surface calm lay deeper vigilance.

Iris’s final words, “This play has only just reached an interesting part,” hung over her head like the sword of Damocles, keeping her last nerve perpetually taut.

She knew the Demon King would not let her remain long in the relatively peripheral position of “trainee maid.”

Some kind of “change” was undoubtedly being brewed.

The change arrived on a completely ordinary morning.

That day, as usual, Furenna arrived early at the Contemplation Hall and began the routine tasks of opening windows for ventilation and checking supplies.

Before she could finish the first item, the door to the training area opened.

The visitor was not the head maid responsible for daily supervision, but two male demons clad in the uniforms of the Demon King’s personal guard.

Their auras were restrained and sharp, their gazes keen as they fell upon Furenna with an official, appraising look.

“Furenna?” one of them spoke, his tone flat.

“Yes, sir.” Furenna immediately stopped her actions and bowed in response.

“Come with us immediately. His Majesty summons you.”

The command was concise and brooked no argument.

Furenna’s heart sank slightly, but no change showed on her face.

“Yes.”

She set down the tools in her hands and followed the two guards out of the relatively secluded eastern Contemplation Hall she was familiar with.

They did not head towards the study or the teaching hall where the Demon King usually summoned her, but instead turned towards a more central, heavily guarded area of the fortress.

The number of demons encountered along the way increased noticeably, and their identities varied—from reserved military officers to sharp-eyed officials.

As their gazes swept over Furenna, flanked by the two guards, they would linger for a moment, more or less, with curiosity, scrutiny, or indifference.

Finally, they stopped before a pair of imposing double doors adorned with dark gold magical runes.

This was an outer reception area adjacent to the Demon King’s private quarters.

The guards motioned for Furenna to wait outside while one of them entered to announce her.

A moment later, the door opened from within.

The guard signaled for her to enter.

The reception hall was spacious and opulent.

Light filtered through stained glass windows high above, casting variegated and magnificent patterns.

The air carried the cool scent of black orchid and an indescribable, silent pressure belonging to the absolute center of power.

Iris was not seated in her usual place of honor.

Instead, she stood before a massive mural depicting an ancient demon legend, her back to the door, seemingly in appreciation.

Today she wore a deep purple, high-collared robe that was exquisitely tailored.

The hem was embroidered with intricate patterns in dark silver thread.

Her silver hair was meticulously tied back, revealing the elegant yet powerful lines of her neck.

Even from her silhouette, she radiated an unquestionable authority.

“Your Majesty, Furenna is brought.” The guard bowed in report, then silently withdrew, closing the door.

Only the two of them remained in the room.

Iris slowly turned around.

Her crimson eyes fell upon Furenna.

Her gaze was calm, yet carried a new kind of focus, as if evaluating a final product.

“It seems the ‘apprenticeship’ life in the Contemplation Hall has not worn away your last remaining edges.”

Iris spoke, her voice not loud, yet exceptionally clear in the expansive room.

“Or perhaps, you have learned to hide those edges deeper, polishing them to… better fit the mold.”

Furenna kept her eyes lowered, offering no response.

She knew that any words now could be superfluous, or dangerous.

Iris did not seem to expect an answer.

She paced to one side of the room, where there was a stand draped with black velvet.

She reached out and lifted the cloth.

Beneath it hung a set of women’s attire.

But this maid’s uniform was completely different from the rough, plain dark grey dress Furenna currently wore.

The main body was of a pristine, flawless white, the fabric a high-grade blend with a delicate sheen.

The cut was fitted and elegant, the skirt hem reaching the knees with clean lines.

The collar, cuffs, and edges of the apron were adorned with exquisite, minimalist yet mysterious embroidery in silver thread, depicting intertwining vines and gears.

The apron itself was made of the same stiff, pristine white material, the ends of its ties tipped with small silver tassels.

Beside it was a matching white headscarf with delicate lace trim, and a pair of soft white indoor shoes.

“This attire is still clearly in the ‘maid’ style, but its texture, details, even its color, exude a refinement and… sense of specialness that transcends ordinary servitude.”

“It no longer signifies conscripted labor, but rather resembles a… meticulously designed, somewhat emblematic ‘uniform.'”

“Change into it.”

Iris’s command was simple and direct, her crimson eyes leaving no room for misinterpretation.

“As of today, your ‘apprenticeship’ in the Contemplation Hall is over.”

“You, Furenna, will become my personal maid.”

Those four words, like a cold brand, instantly seared Furenna’s heart.

What did this mean?

It meant she would leave the relatively independent Contemplation Hall and formally, permanently, and intimately enter the sphere of Demon King Iris’s personal life and work.

It meant more surveillance, less freedom, higher demands for “performance,” and it also meant… she would be completely exposed under the gaze of the entire Demon King’s castle, becoming a conspicuous label marking Iris’s “possession.”

Humiliation, vigilance, icy calculation, and a deep-seated, sobering wariness towards unknown variables instantly intertwined within her.

But on her face remained that trained, near-numb calm.

She even bowed slightly.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Then, she walked to the stand and began silently changing her clothes.

Shedding that rough grey dress felt like shedding a layer of relatively “safe” disguise.

Putting on this pristine, elegant, yet prison-like new attire, every button fastened, every tie tightened, felt like adding more intricate locks to these shackles.

The fabric was soft and fitted, the cut indeed tailored, outlining her thin yet still upright frame.

But this “fit” brought not comfort, but another kind of inescapable feeling of constraint.

When she finally fastened the apron, put on the headscarf, slipped on the soft indoor shoes, and stood before the massive mural, the mirror-smooth black marble floor reflected a pale, pristine, impeccably postured image that seemed to have lost all “humanity”—the image of a refined “doll.”

Iris’s gaze swept over her from head to toe, and finally, a clear, almost pleased light of satisfaction flashed in her crimson eyes.

“Very good,” she stepped forward, reaching out as if to adjust the angle of Furenna’s headscarf, but ultimately only brushed her fingertips lightly over the silver-embroidered pattern.

“This color suits you well.”

“White… best accentuates certain qualities. Purity, for instance. Susceptibility to staining, for instance. And also… absolute belonging.”

She took a step back, admiring her “handiwork.”

“Now, follow me.”

Iris turned and walked towards another exit on the opposite side of the reception hall.

“It is time for you, and for everyone else in this castle, to become acquainted with your new identity.”

Furenna followed silently.

The white skirt swayed gently with her steps, casting a clear, solitary shadow on the dark marble floor.

They exited the Demon King’s private quarters and entered the main public corridors of the fortress’s core.

This area was far more grand and expansive than the eastern sub-fortress.

The walls were of heavy dark gold metal or magically reinforced stone.

The towering vaulted ceilings were painted with magnificent yet oppressive murals of demon epics.

Enormous magical lanterns floated in the air, casting a steady, cold glow.

The demons traversing the corridors—officers, officials, mages, various attendants—their attire, auras, and bearing were all markedly more capable, more solemn, and carried a stronger sense of hierarchy compared to the outer regions.

Whenever Iris’s figure appeared in the corridor, all demons approaching or moving in the same direction, regardless of rank, would immediately stop, step to the side, and bow deeply, holding the posture until the Demon King had passed.

This was the unspoken iron law within the fortress.

However, today, the figure following a step behind the Demon King, clad in that special maid’s uniform, was like a stone thrown into a calm lake, stirring ripples that could not be ignored.

Shock, curiosity, scrutiny, assessment, disdain, comprehension, calculation…

All sorts of complex gazes, like invisible arrows, shot from all directions, converging on Furenna.

“What is that… a newcomer? His Majesty’s… maid?”

“White? I’ve never seen that uniform before…”

“Wait, look at her face… and her hair…”

“Silver hair? A human? Could it be… the one from the rumors…”

“The Light Hero? Furenna? Wasn’t she locked away…”

“To be kept by His Majesty’s side? And dressed like this…”

“Personal maid? Hah, interesting…”

“It seems His Majesty is serious this time…”

“Stay away. Don’t ask questions.”

Hushed whispers, like faint insect chirps, spread uncontrollably among the rows of respectfully standing demons.

The gazes felt tangible, scraping against Furenna’s skin.

She could clearly feel the weight in those looks—curious, contemptuous, wary, gloating, thoughtful.

Iris seemed utterly oblivious to the commotion behind her.

Her steps were unhurried.

Occasionally, she would give a slight nod to an important minister, or issue a brief command to a general, her tone calm yet leaving no room for doubt.

She never once looked back at Furenna, but Furenna knew all of this was within her expectations and control.

Taking her on a public walk through the core areas was itself a declaration, a display, a new “teaching” segment designed to place her completely under everyone’s gaze.

Furenna kept her eyes lowered, her gaze fixed on the moving rhythm of Iris’s deep purple robe hem, trying hard to ignore her surroundings.

The white attire seemed so glaring at this moment, like a mobile, silent label reading “Possession of the Demon King,” “Former Hero,” “Prisoner,” “Maid.”

Each small step felt like treading on invisible needles, the humiliation cold and sharp.

But her face showed no expression.

Her back was ramrod straight, her steps steady, her breathing even, perfectly playing the part of a well-trained “personal maid”—absolutely obedient to her master, indifferent to the outside world.

They passed through the administrative district, skirted the stern atmosphere outside the military command headquarters, passed the entrance to the magic research area suffused with magical fluctuations and strange odors…

Each new area triggered a new wave of stares and whispered discussions.

Furenna endured all the scrutiny like a precious artifact being displayed by its owner.

Finally, Iris stopped before a relatively quiet, wide corridor where shelves of books reached the ceiling on both sides.

This was one of the passages leading to the Demon King’s Castle’s central library.

“Wait for me here.”

Iris gave the order to Furenna, then walked towards a nearby room marked “Archives Management,” pushed the door open, and entered, as if she had business to attend to.

Iris had commanded Furenna to wait alone in the middle of this bustling corridor.

This was undoubtedly a test, exposing her alone to even more curious, probing, and potentially hostile gazes.

Furenna stopped as instructed, turning slightly to face the bookshelves lining one wall, assuming a posture of attentive waiting.

But her mere presence was the focal point.

Whether it was scholars carrying heavy tomes or clerks hurrying past, they would involuntarily slow their pace or cast undisguised looks of appraisal.

Some gazes held pure curiosity, others were mixed with contempt, jealousy, or complex evaluation.

She could hear the whispers more clearly now.

“It really is her…”

“Dressed like this… what exactly is His Majesty planning?”

“A human, and a former enemy at that…”

“Shh, keep your voice down. Don’t you see that’s the ‘personal’ insignia?”

“Personal? Looks like another form of imprisonment to me.”

“But… she does look quite ‘docile.'”

“Putting on an act, surely? After all, she was the Light Hero…”

“Hero? Now she’s just a maid in a uniform…”

Fragments of conversation drifted to her ears.

Furenna paid them no mind.

She simply stood quietly, her gaze fixed on the titles on a row of golden book spines.

Her white-gloved fingers tightened almost imperceptibly, then quickly relaxed.

Iris seemed to have intentionally kept her waiting for quite some time.

Finally, the door to the archives room opened.

Iris emerged, holding an ancient scroll tied with a dark blue ribbon.

She glanced at Furenna, who still maintained her standard posture, though her face was a shade paler than before.

Her crimson eyes showed no emotion.

“Let’s go.”

She said flatly and continued walking forward.

Furenna followed silently.

The white figure once again followed behind the deep purple robe, traversing the long corridor lined with books and gazes, disappearing into deeper, more unknowable regions of the castle.

This journey was a declaration, a display, a branding.

From today onward, the identity of “Furenna, Demon King Iris’s Personal Maid”—an identity laden with humiliation, danger, and endless scrutiny—would cling to her tightly, like this pristine, elegant, yet unbearably heavy maid’s uniform she wore, becoming her new, even more inescapable “skin” within this Demon King’s Castle.