An Unexpected Charge

Sovenia slept soundly, free from the terror of slender figures giving chase or the ultimate humiliation at the hands of Goblins.

Nor was she plagued by the Demon Queen’s lecherous gaze, fixed intently on her backside. The Demon Queen, with her smooth red skin, sat upon a towering throne, one leg casually crossed over the other, while four scantily clad Goblins knelt below.

These Goblins always wore smiles, their hands busy with “magical tools” for ‘connection’—iron rods, steel nails, and every other conceivable implement.

Countless formidable demons, whether due to wavering loyalty or perceived incompetence, had endured their torment. The Goblins believed that through these ‘connections,’ even their bodies, frailer than those of weak humans, could attain unparalleled demonic power.

This audacity stemmed solely from the Demon Queen’s backing, allowing them to constantly provoke even the mightiest of demons.

They would often cast expectant glances towards the First Heavenly King and Jimi the Cruel.

They watched with bated breath, anticipating the day they might feast their eyes upon a grand spectacle.

Sovenia frequently dreamt of such scenes, though they had been rare lately. This day, however, had brought her peaceful slumber.

Upon waking, the warmth of her dream slowly receded, yet her soul and consciousness lingered, perhaps reluctant to fully emerge from its pleasant embrace.

She opened her golden eyes, gazing at the spiderweb-draped ceiling, and murmured with a bewildered tone, “Mother?”

A mournful howl filled the air. The wind whistled through the boarded-up window, sweeping away the last vestiges of her dream’s warmth and stirring her back to lucidity.

She sat up, rubbing her eyes. ‘What in the world was I thinking?’

‘The corrosive ‘tenderness’ of it all was truly terrifying.’

Her clone, like a statue, stood motionless, its gaze fixed upon the window.

Sovenia mused on the remarkable utility of her clone. While seemingly unremarkable on its own, a deeper understanding of combat tactics revealed the immense strategic value of multiple clones, capable of controlling various battlefields simultaneously.

Pang of jealousy for Wawalde stirred within her at this thought.

How was it fair that Wawalde, a Paladin, possessed both the terrifying Holy Smite and the versatile ability to create clones?

Unfortunately, her own deck lacked a clone card. Otherwise, she could have learned the skill herself, making her far safer.

Sovenia rose, splashing her face clean with water from a basin. She then retrieved a twig and salt from her satchel to rinse her mouth.

‘This elven female body truly demanded constant maintenance.’

Having finished her ablutions, she took up her Moonpetal Blade and exited her room, knocking on Wawalde’s door with a distinct rhythm—three heavy taps followed by one light one.

“Come in.”

Sovenia pushed the door open, entered the room, and closed it behind her.

Wawalde sat cross-legged on the bed, clumsily carving a piece of wood with a dagger. His technique was crude, far from Sovenia’s delicate touch, and the resulting object resembled a burnt biscuit.

Sovenia examined the wood closely, finding it increasingly familiar the longer she looked.

Wawalde clutched the biscuit-like carving, uttering a prayer of praise. “My Lord…”

The moment the words left his lips, the wooden effigy spontaneously ignited, searing Wawalde’s palm and releasing plumes of white smoke.

Sovenia observed, “It’s Saint V.”

Wawalde opened his hand, revealing a large patch of blackened skin that contrasted sharply with the surrounding pale yellow. “The Holy Light rejects me,” he stated.

‘If that foolish dog hadn’t been so squeamish, had she simply accepted her destiny as the Demon Queen, would a share of this castle have been mine? But then, what would my role have been? The Demon Queen’s consort?’

A shiver of revulsion ran through her.

Sovenia vigorously shook her long ears, as if to dislodge the absurd thought from her mind.

She then asked, “Have you washed up?”

“No.”

“Let’s wash up together then.”

Of course, they didn’t use the latrine together. Instead, one would go while the other stood guard by the entrance. Sovenia insisted this was a matter of military-grade discipline, a tactical approach to restroom breaks.

The latrine was small but tolerable, free of filth or insects beneath the seat. It was an empty space, with waste dropping directly to the base of the outer castle wall.

After they had both attended to their hygiene, they encountered the old woman carrying a lamp.

Though the sooty lamp remained unlit, she carried it nonetheless, as if it could illuminate her path even in broad daylight.

The old woman chuckled. “You two are always together.”

Sovenia retorted, “That’s none of your concern.”

“The Lady wishes to see you.”

They followed the old woman through a narrow corridor, which led them to a room.

Lady Margaret was already waiting, her face adorned with the same warm smile she had worn yesterday, as if perpetual sunshine and hope resided within the dilapidated castle.

Beside her stood Sir Raymond, the Grand Helm Knight, and three other knights, their armor still gleaming brightly.

Lady Margaret spoke, “More people have gone missing. Last night, an entire farming family within the territory vanished without a trace.”

Sovenia remained silent, simply following along.

They soon arrived at the manor.

Villagers stood before a thatched cottage, its mud-brick wall marred by a gaping hole, crudely stuffed with a pile of straw.

The villagers watched in silence.

The cottage door hung open, revealing an empty interior.

Sovenia’s gaze swept across the faces of the villagers.

Each face was devoid of expression—no terror, no rage, only a bleak, washed-out numbness, like cloth soaked and ruined by rain. Their eyes were vacant, fixed on the door, yet seemingly seeing nothing at all.

Even their discussions were hushed, as if merely commenting on the day’s weather.

Only one old farmer showed a hint of anger. He crouched on the ground, clutching a piece of rope, to which a wooden spoon was tied, its surface etched with crooked patterns.

“This was carved by Thomas for his daughter,” he said.

No one responded.

The old farmer continued, his voice hoarse. “His daughter is only six this year. She always said she wanted to learn to weave. Thomas promised that once the harvest was good, he’d buy her a small loom…”

His voice broke off, and he lowered his head, his shoulders trembling.

A woman nearby said dispassionately, “Mrs. Thomas made the most substantial black bread. She’d bake it in the communal oven, never mixing in any odd ingredients.”

Another man chimed in, “His dog is gone too. Even the dog vanished.”

“The dog didn’t even bark.”

“What a waste. He traded several sacks of wheat for that dog.”

‘Those who weren’t numb likely fled long ago,’ Sovenia thought. ‘Those who remain either have nowhere else to go, or they’ve simply given up all hope.’

Wawalde stepped into the cottage, and Sovenia followed him.

The interior was sparsely furnished: a legless wooden plank bed large enough for the whole family, an iron pot, and a pile of dry straw in the corner. There were no bloodstains, no signs of a struggle.

Sovenia knelt, her gaze sweeping across the floor. The dirt was compacted, marked by a jumble of footprints, mostly from the villagers’ coarse cloth shoes.

She was about to give up when, at the edge of the bed frame, she spotted a faint footprint, distinct from all the others.

Though obscured amongst numerous everyday impressions, its shape was remarkably familiar to Sovenia.

She examined it carefully, distinguishing it from the other footprints.

The print was long and narrow, with a broad forefoot and five deep indentations where the toes would be, resembling claws.

Sovenia’s eyes narrowed as she stared at the footprint. She had seen countless such prints during her century of demonic existence.

She stood up and addressed Wawalde. “This footprint was left by a human who received the blessing of the Four Gods.”

Wawalde corrected her, “It’s not a blessing; it’s corruption and mutation.”

Hoofbeats echoed.

Hearing this, Wawalde stepped out of the cottage, and Sovenia saw.

Lady Margaret, mounted on a horse, arrived at the manor, flanked by the Canine Helm Knight and three other knights.

She dismounted and approached the numb villagers, her face still adorned with a gentle smile.

“My dear people,” she said, her voice soft, “the God of Light will not abandon us. Go to the chapel, pray to Him, and let your hearts find solace.”

The villagers slowly dispersed.

Lady Margaret turned to Wawalde, smiling. “Sir Hero, will you join us? In these trying times, prayer can grant strength.”

From behind his visor, the Canine Helm Knight beside them let out a scoff.

Wawalde’s body stiffened for a moment.

He replied, “I appreciate your kindness, Lady Margaret, but I… do not believe in the God of Light. I have already been abandoned by Him.”

Lady Margaret’s smile remained unchanged. “Is that so? What a pity.”

The Canine Helm Knight scoffed again. He stepped forward, his eyes, visible through the slits of his armor, fixed on Wawalde.

“In that case, you peasant-soldiers who call yourselves heroes, go after that slender, tall figure tonight. Remember to blow your horn; it will flee when it hears it, and you must pursue it like hunting dogs.”

“We knights are ready to depart at any moment to hunt down that monster. We only hope you can survive until we arrive.”

Wawalde offered no response, merely staring back.

Suddenly, Sovenia spoke up. “I want to go inside and see.”

Everyone turned to her.

“The chapel,” she clarified. “I want to experience human prayer.”

Wawalde glanced at her.

“Then I’ll wait for you by the door.”

Sovenia, carrying her black leather backpack, followed Lady Margaret and the knights towards the chapel.

Sir Raymond, the Grand Helm Knight, fell back a few steps, walking beside her. He scrutinized her from head to toe, his gaze lingering on her enormous backpack. “Miss, are you always prepared to flee?”

Sovenia ignored him.

Lady Margaret turned back, gently scolding, “Raymond, do not offend the beautiful Miss Sovenia.”

Sir Raymond snorted, then fell silent.

The chapel was small, with mottled stone walls and a cross on its roof tilted askew. Yet, its interior was surprisingly clean, the floor swept spotless, and rows of wooden benches neatly arranged.

At the front stood a simple altar, upon which rested a roughly carved, yet brightly polished, statue of a saint of the God of Light.

Sunlight streamed through the windows, casting cross-shaped patches of light upon the floor.

A priest, his patched robe and smiling face, stood before the altar. He was addressing the villagers, saying:

“…The God of Light watches over each and every one of us. Darkness will pass, and dawn will surely break…”

The villagers knelt before the wooden benches, hands clasped in prayer, some softly weeping.

Sovenia stood by the entrance, her gaze sweeping over the scene.

The short-handled steel hammer in her hand trembled.

The tremor was subtle, like a small creature stirring, yet she felt it distinctly.

Her eyes lit up. This humble chapel, it seemed, was a place of potent magic.

She turned to Lady Margaret, forcing a smile. She rarely smiled, and the curve of her lips was stiff, like rusted hinges being pried open.

“Lady Margaret,” she inquired, “May I take out my magical silver hammer here?”

Lady Margaret paused, then instinctively nodded. “Of course, dear.”

Sovenia unslung her backpack and retrieved the Blazing Gold Silver Hammer from within.

The hammer’s body glowed with a dark golden luster, its surface runes faintly shimmering.

She raised the hammer, its head pointed towards the altar.

In the air, a nearly invisible stream of light flowed from the altar to the hammer’s body, like a thin creek. The runes on the hammer flared for an instant, then dimmed.

The trembling ceased.

It was fully charged.

Sovenia returned the hammer to her backpack and nodded to Lady Margaret. “Thank you.”

She turned immediately and walked straight out of the chapel.

Lady Margaret remained standing, while Sir Raymond and the other knights exchanged bewildered glances, unsure how to react.

The patched priest looked up, watching the silver-haired elven girl’s back disappear through the doorway, a flicker of confusion in his eyes.

Wawalde stood by the door. Seeing Sovenia emerge, he asked, “Are you done so quickly?”

Sovenia replied, “The prayer is over. Time for an upgrade.”