Sovinia had already put away the used needle and thread and the wine bottle back into that enormous black backpack.
She stood up, her golden deer-like eyes sweeping across the “Crossroads” room.
The air was thick with the pungent smell of blood mixed with the stench of burnt protein, stinging the nostrils.
Several tall demon corpses lay twisted on the ground, their dark red blood pooling into sticky puddles that reflected the faint light seeping through the cracks in the ceiling stones above.
She looked down at herself.
This body was still slender, her skin smooth and clean—almost no signs of battle could be seen, except for the drying bloodstain on her thigh.
On the other side, Wohard was pulling his tattered arming coat back on.
Every time he moved, the muscles around his freshly stitched wounds would twitch.
Sovinia naturally stepped forward to help him put on his arming coat, then crouched down to help him fasten his leg armor, tying it with the straps from the arming coat.
That was the one bad thing about plate armor—putting it on and taking it off required cooperation.
But Sovinia could help someone put on armor even with her eyes closed.
She looked at Wohard, then at the uneven surface of the plate armor on his hands.
‘What a durable tool.’
Sovinia thought to herself.
But at the same time, another thought surfaced uncontrollably:
That flying axe from before—if Wohard hadn’t restrained Xue Fu, if her [Blazing Strike +1] hadn’t managed to cleave through that battle-axe, if that axe had just lightly grazed her head… she would have been gone.
Her deck was streamlined, but it lacked a “defense end”—in other words, insufficient defense.
All her plans were built on the premise that this body remained intact.
At least long enough to survive three days.
One oversight, one miscalculation, one stray arrow flying from who-knows-where, and all her schemes would become a joke.
She couldn’t tolerate that happening.
So, this former First Heavenly King of the Demon Castle began scavenging through the corpses of her former subordinates like a scavenger.
Her eyes swept over the demons.
Their helmets were all too big—putting one on would completely swallow her whole.
Finally, her gaze landed on a relatively “petite” demon corpse.
He must have been a follower of the Pink God, or perhaps had some elf bloodline.
He was only about a head taller than her, lying face down, the back of his skull caved in from a blunt force strike.
A black helmet was embedded in his skull, surrounded by a ring of dark red matter—a mixture of pulp and bone fragments.
A strong wave of nausea surged up from her stomach.
Sovinia’s throat moved as she forcefully swallowed back the bile.
She furrowed her brow, staring at that disgusting mixture.
This feeling was unfamiliar.
Back in the day, she had personally crushed countless heads to intimidate her enemies, blood and brain matter splashing all over her body being an everyday occurrence.
She had never felt any discomfort.
But now, just looking at it, this body was protesting.
‘Useless thing.’
Sovinia cursed this body’s weakness in her mind.
She walked over to the corpse, crouched down, and extended two fingers, carefully pinching the edge of the helmet, trying to pull it out.
The helmet was firmly stuck on by blood plasma and tissue, so she had to use a few more fingers.
She yanked hard, and with a teeth-grinding tearing sound, the helmet finally separated from the shattered skull, pulling out a few strands of grayish-white sticky substance.
She took the helmet aside, found a relatively clean section of a dead man’s clothes on the ground, and vigorously wiped away the filth.
She wiped very carefully, scraping off all the visible blood and tissue fragments until the helmet revealed its black iron true colours.
But a stench seemed etched into the gaps of the metal, impossible to remove.
Sovinia held up the helmet, hesitating for a moment.
This thing smelled like a rotten trash can.
Wearing it on her head, that smell would linger around her nose the whole time.
‘In order to survive.’
She told herself.
She held her breath, as if accepting some kind of punishment, and placed that stinking helmet onto her head.
The sticky inner lining touched her scalp, and a chill ran down her spine.
The helmet was still a bit too big, wobbling as she moved.
Worse still, the design on both sides of the helmet completely failed to account for elven physiology—the metal edges pressed against her long, pointed ears.
Her ears, which had been injured during the sword dance earlier, now sent sharp stabs of pain through her.
Uncomfortable, disgusting, and painful.
All kinds of negative sensations intertwined.
She shook her head, and the helmet shook with it, her field of vision restricted, the pain in her ears growing more pronounced.
She inadvertently caught a glimpse of her reflection in a pool of blood on the ground:
A slender elf girl, wearing an ornate gold-patterned long-sleeved shirt and short skirt, yet topped with a completely ill-fitting black iron helmet…
So ugly!
A streak of anger flared up.
Since when did the First Heavenly King under the Demon King care about being beautiful or ugly?
This kind of thinking was itself a degeneration!
Wohard had already finished dressing.
He had discarded the giant axe that was awkward for him to use and picked up a longsword from beside Xue Fu’s corpse.
He saw Sovinia’s “new look,” froze for a moment, then nodded:
“That helmet’s not bad. Very sturdy. Ready to set out?”
There was no mockery in his tone, only the recognition of a fellow warrior.
But this compliment sounded particularly grating to Sovinia’s ears.
She asked, “…It’s just for safety. Does it look like it would get in the way?”
Wohard clearly didn’t catch her implied meaning:
“Getting in the way is better than dying on the spot. Staying alive is what matters most.”
Sovinia fell silent.
She stepped forward, reached out her hand, and said, “Let me see your new weapon.”
Her hand naturally rested on the back of Wohard’s hand that was gripping the sword hilt, and she heard his thoughts:
‘Miss Sovinia… wearing that helmet really does look a bit incongruous, like a delicate flower stuck in a broken iron can. But the fact that she thought to protect herself is a good thing. She’s stronger than I thought.’
‘A flower stuck in a broken iron can? What is this vicious dog thinking?! This is clearly a tactical choice—a helmet is more important than all the armor on the body. So what if it’s not pretty? What does “a flower stuck in a broken iron can” even mean? Isn’t it full of tactical beauty?’
‘Forget it. No need to care about this vicious dog. He still has two and a half days to live.’
She let go of his hand and walked toward another exit of the room.
“Follow me. We don’t have time to waste.”
Her voice came from under the helmet, carrying a metallic echo, sounding even colder than usual.
The path ahead proved that Sovinia’s choice of a “dangerous route” was no empty claim—though Wohard didn’t know that.
The chaos inside the Demon Castle far exceeded imagination.
The power vacuum had turned this place into a huge, bloody arena.
They would encounter a fight almost every two or three rooms they passed through…