Sovinia sank into the warm water for the third time to conduct a tactical Weapon Maintenance session.
For the third time, she ran her fingers through her silver hair from roots to tips, lifted her slender leg, and watched as water droplets rolled down its smooth lines. That fair, spotless knee was scrubbed once more, even though it was already clean.
A thick, soft lather covered her calf, only to be washed away by the flowing water.
She examined her Elven female body for a moment. Maintenance seemed sufficient, so she stood up.
The surface of the water rippled, distorting her reflection. She gazed into the water at the face of the Elven maiden—golden eyes, silver hair… The rippling surface could not hide its beauty.
She scooped up a handful of water, turned to the mirror by the bath, and poured it over her head, watching the droplets roll down her cheeks, tracing gentle contours. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed the clock on the wall.
It was very late.
Only then did she realize she’d been in this damned bath for nearly an hour.
An hour!
The famed First Heavenly King of the Demon Race, Kimi the Coldhearted, had never wasted more than ten minutes bathing. Where did all this fuss come from?
The blood and filth of the battlefield—just wash it off with cold water and keep fighting after stitching up your wounds.
What’s wrong with me today? Could it be… I’m growing fond of this body?
What a “world-shaking” thought. Sovinia actually laughed at herself.
This body seemed to have its own rhythm, urging her to care for every inch of skin. As if, without this, the shell would dull like a rusted blade.
She muttered to herself, “It’s necessary maintenance, just like Weapon Maintenance. I can’t help it. The Weakness of Elf Female Body is just like that.”
***
Sovinia stood, water droplets sliding down her soft, pale waist. The mirror by the bath reflected her image.
In the mirror, the silver-haired maiden’s skin was almost unnaturally fair, now flushed faintly pink from the warm water. Her golden eyes were like twin flames in the dim candlelight.
Gentle cheekbones, pointed chin, sharp collarbone, and a calm rise and fall of her chest. Her legs were especially long and straight, with delicate ankles.
Sovinia stared at the mirror for several seconds, her gaze falling on her own legs—these were too long. She lifted her right leg, toes pointed, rising up past her waist, past her shoulder, until it pointed straight at the ceiling.
Her body was very flexible, she didn’t even need to use her hands.
In the mirror, the long-legged Elven maiden’s knee was pressed against her own face, slender calf against her silver hair and cheek. Turning her head, her lightly flushed lips touched the rounded knee.
Her mood eased, and she lowered her leg, reaching for the Moonlight Blade, and drew the longsword.
In the mirror, the silver-haired, fair-skinned Elven maiden held a gently gleaming silver sword, gazing back with a faint smile.
Sovinia gripped the hilt and gave the sword a few test swings. The blade was nimble and sharp, its balance four centimeters ahead of the hilt—just like the swords she was used to.
She liked swords: versatile, agile weapons. Almost unconsciously, she spun a Drifting Sword Flower—a habit of hers. When she spun the sword flower, the blade swept to either side of her body, letting her sense her own ‘collision volume.’
The tip of the sword sliced through the air, making a faint whistling sound, skimming past her ear—
“Hiss—!”
Pain exploded in an instant, like someone driving a red-hot nail into her sensitive ear.
Sovinia’s knees buckled from the pain, and she fell to the floor, clutching her ear with one hand, the other clutching the sword hilt with all her strength. Warm fluid seeped through her fingers, dripping down her wrist.
“Damn this Weakness of Elf Female Body!” Sovinia cursed through gritted teeth. “Even the ears get in the way!”
She’d forgotten. Forgotten she now had a pair of long, fair, delicate ears—far too sensitive.
***
Sovinia pressed the wound, waiting for the pain to subside. The blood was minor, just a surface cut, but the sharpness of it made her realize how fragile this body truly was.
She took a deep breath and stood, abandoning any further “admiring” of herself. She turned, tossed her dirty clothes into a wooden basin, added water, and sprinkled in soap powder.
Her washing motions were rough and efficient, like cleaning bloodstained combat gear. The gold-trimmed sleeves, leather corset, short skirt, and long boots—each was scrubbed and washed with care.
After washing, she stuffed everything into a woven bamboo basket, wrapped herself in her previous bath towel, and pushed open the bathroom door.
The bedchamber was quiet. Candlelight flickered, casting shadows on the walls.
Wohard sat at the table, sharpening his massive single-bladed battle-axe with a whetstone.
Hearing footsteps, he looked up and said:
“You finally finished your—”
He froze.
Sovinia didn’t notice his reaction. She walked straight to the fireplace; it was empty, no wood inside. She lifted a fair foot and nudged a certain brick.
Clatter. A dozen pieces of firewood dropped into the hearth. She called out, “Da.”
Sparks leapt up inside, igniting the wood, and flames danced in the fireplace.
Wohard watched her—her movements were so natural, as if she were in her own home. He opened his mouth but didn’t say a word.
Sovinia bent over, hanging each washed item from the basket on the drying rack by the fire, letting the warmth dry them out.
When everything was hung up, she turned, finally noticing Wohard was still staring at her.
Their gazes met.
Wohard’s face flushed a little, his eyes shifting as if he didn’t know where to look. His Adam’s apple bobbed; he coughed awkwardly and turned his head away.
Sovinia frowned.
What is this mutt doing?
She glanced down at herself. Oh, the bath towel—she’d simply thrown it on and held it to her chest.
But so what? These clothes needed drying. Was she supposed to wear them while still wet?
No.
Sovinia suddenly considered another possibility.
He was dissatisfied with how long she’d spent bathing.
An hour. It really was long.
Sovinia couldn’t help but feel a bit guilty.
***
By Demon Race standards, that was a sign of decadence and weakness—long baths meant you were pampered, unable to adapt, first to be eliminated.
At best, it was an eccentricity. Among the Demon Race, an eccentricity meant: if you don’t have the strength to back it up, you’re just useless.
Disgraceful!
Sovinia’s expression turned cold.
She said, “I’ll take first watch.”
Wohard blinked. “What?”
“I said, I’ll take first watch.” Sovinia repeated, lifting her chin, golden eyes staring straight at him. “You rest first.”
“No, Miss Sovinia, that’s not right—”
“Why not?” Sovinia interrupted. “You think I can’t do it?”
She stepped closer, the hem of her towel swinging with her movements, her slender, gleaming calves peeking out from beneath.
Candlelight danced in her damp silver hair; a few droplets ran from the tips, falling onto her collarbone.
Wohard’s face flushed even deeper. He stood up, flustered. “That’s not what I meant! I just—”
“Just what?”
“I just think—” He swallowed. “You should rest first. You’ve had a long day too.”
“I’m not tired,” Sovinia said coldly. “I’m not some pampered, burdensome weakling.”
Her tone was firm and final, like making a vow.
Wohard opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but only sighed in the end.
“Alright,” he said. “Then I’ll sleep first. The bed is yours, Miss Sovinia.”
Wearing his battered plate armor, he lay down on the carpet next to the bed.
Sovinia narrowed her eyes.
What’s this mutt doing? Sleeping on the floor suited him, but right now, what did it mean?
“You’re sleeping on the floor?”
“Yes.” Wohard used his arm as a pillow and closed his eyes. “The bed’s for you.”
Knightly Spirit. Noble Human Values. Willing to sleep on the floor to offer the bed to a woman—even when the bed was big enough for four or five, even when he wore armor and was their main combatant.
Sovinia stared at him, feeling as if this mutt’s actions were shouting at her: ‘You’re a pampered, spoiled person.’
Wohard’s back, facing her, felt like a needle stabbing at her pride.
As the First Heavenly King of the Demon World, she’d once worked thirteen hours a day in the mines, eaten foul gruel, drunk stinking water, slept on straw crawling with insects—she’d clawed her way up from the bottom of hell, climbing atop countless corpses to reach the summit.
And now, this mutt actually thought she needed special treatment?
Still, he wasn’t Demon Race—maybe this was just some soft, odd human value.
The uncertainty made Sovinia uneasy.
Time to use that trick on the mutt. Listen to his thoughts.
Sovinia, still clutching her towel, strode over and squatted beside Wohard, patting his head.
“Up.”
Wohard opened his eyes, confused.
Sovinia didn’t waste words. She reached out and grabbed Wohard’s hand.
The moment their skin touched, his inner voice flooded into her mind.
‘Heavens, what is she… she’s only wearing a towel… her hand… calm down, Wohard, calm down, you’re a knight, you mustn’t… her hand is so soft… no, no, I can’t think like this, she’s the Elven Princess, she trusts me, I can’t…’
Sovinia froze mid-motion.
She looked down at her hand, then at Wohard’s flushed face.
Oh.
So that’s it.
She suddenly realized how she must look right now—wrapped in nothing but a towel, squatting in front of a man, gripping his hand.
From his perspective—
Sovinia’s own cheeks flushed a little.
This feeling was odd.
She’d never cared about her appearance’s effect on others. Gender? In the Demon World, that was only a biological trait, tied to power and tactics.
But now—
She was a white-haired female elf.
That realization was like a bucket of cold water.
No, that’s not the point.
Sovinia forced herself to focus, continuing to read Wohard’s chaotic inner voice.
‘She must think I’m hinting at sleeping together… I just thought the princess was too delicate, should take the bed… but that look in her eyes… like she misunderstood something—’
No misunderstanding!
Sovinia abruptly let go of his hand and clenched her fist.
So he really did think she was pampered and spoiled.
Her anger flared again; even her wounded ear flushed with rage.
This damnably weak body—slender, fragile, in need of care, such a bother.
She stood, looming over the prone Wohard, unconsciously tugging at the towel that could just as well be her burial shroud.
“Listen,” she said icily. “That bed is big enough. You’re in armor—lie there.”
“You’ll sleep on the floor?”
“Only a dog sleeps on the floor. I’ll take the bed.”
“But—”
“You’re our main combat power.” Sovinia cut him off. “You need rest to recover your strength. Sleeping on the floor can’t do that. But the bed can, understand? I’m not some delicate princess.”
She sounded perfectly reasonable, like she was issuing tactical orders.
Wohard opened his mouth, but couldn’t find a retort.
“So get up.” Sovinia said. “Sleep on the bed.”
Wohard hesitated for a moment, but finally gave in. He got up, his armor clinking, and walked to the large black bed.
“Is it really okay?”
“You’re so soft,” Sovinia said. “I’ll take first watch. If anything happens, I’ll wake you.”
Wohard nodded like a golden retriever, obediently heading for the bed, which was big enough for two to spar atop. The sheets were thick and smooth, reflecting a dusky gleam in the candlelight. There were two pillows, plump and soft.
He lay down, turned his back to Sovinia, and let himself sink into the mattress, his head buried in the pillow. The bed seemed to embrace him. His eyelids grew heavy, and soon his breathing evened out as he drifted into deep sleep.
Sovinia stood by the door, watching Wohard.
This mutt fell asleep even faster than he could swing his axe against the Demon King Army, trusting her with his back, despite her being a “elf” who couldn’t even speak Elven.
Human trust was cheap and incomprehensible. He didn’t even know if her name was real.
Sovinia began to feel sleepy too. She touched her wounded ear, inhaled sharply at the pain, and hugged her sword, standing up for the night watch.
She planned to wait until Wohard was completely asleep, then take care of some secret matters.
Sovinia was certainly a cautious and vigilant one.