Chương 7: Chapter 6 — The Perfect Outfit

"I am starving. Mind if I go sit and finish this?" Chelsea asked, clutching her plate as though someone might steal it from her.

"By all means," the king replied. His voice carried the weight of expectation as much as permission.

"You will need your strength for what lies ahead today." She smiled and dipped her head in gratitude, though a faint line creased her brow. What exactly is ahead today? she wondered as she turned away. Chelsea found a relatively quiet stretch of table near the wall, two empty chairs forming a buffer on either side. It wasn't privacy, not truly, but it felt safer than being crowded.

She set her plate down carefully, picked up the knife and fork, and cut into the slice of liver with as much refinement as she could muster. She wanted to at least look civilized, even if her appetite betrayed her. Only a few minutes passed before Adriane reappeared, gliding in like a shadow but carrying something far less subtle, a wide silver platter that she set in the middle of the table with a soft clink.

The smell hit Chelsea first, a coppery tang of blood and fat that cut through the room's roasted meats and spiced wines like a blade.

"I took the liberty of having them prepare a few different things to try," Adriane said, her voice composed but her complexion paling as she gestured toward the rows of offerings. Everything had been arranged in meticulous order, a morbid rainbow of raw and barely seared flesh, each piece presented as though it were part of some grotesque banquet.

"We have organs from duck, chicken, pig, and cow. These..." she pointed to the row furthest from her, "are the livers." She moved her hand downward.

"Next are hearts, then tongues, marrow, then actual meat, and finally..." Her voice faltered.

"Brains." Chelsea blinked. If she had still been her human self, she might have gagged at the sight. But instead she felt her stomach leap with anticipation. The neat rows of glossy reds and pinks didn't repulse her. They called to her. And that frightened her almost as much as it thrilled her. Why was she not disgusted? Why did it look... good? She picked up the first morsel, a sliver of duck liver, slick and trembling on her fork, and slipped it past her lips.

Her mouth was flooded with richness, dense and silky, the faint bitterness smoothed by a warmth that made her eyes flutter shut. By the third bite, tongue this time, chewy but somehow perfect, she knew. This is it. This is what demons eat. She worked her way down the rows, each bite telling her something new about her new body's desires. The hearts were her favorite: taut and springy, full of iron-sweet vitality that seemed to hum against her teeth.

The marrow was buttery and decadent, coating her mouth in a way that felt almost indulgent. The raw muscle meat, however, left her cold. It was texture without flavor, a ghost of a meal. She pushed it aside. Adriane, meanwhile, had stopped watching altogether. The first time Chelsea's fork pierced into the glossy flesh of a pig heart, Adriane's throat had bobbed, her eyes darting away as she took slow, measured breaths.

When Chelsea finally set her utensils down, she leaned back with a sigh of deep contentment, one hand resting on her now-settled stomach. The hunger that had gnawed at her since yesterday was finally quiet. She felt stronger, steadier, as though something fundamental inside her had been aligned. But when she glanced up, her satisfaction faltered.

Eyes ringed the table, nobles, attendants, even servants lingering at the edges, all staring at her with varying shades of disgust, fascination, or barely concealed horror. Some whispered behind hands; others simply looked away as if ashamed to have been caught staring. Chelsea swallowed, cheeks warming. Note to self: eat alone. Always eat alone. Chelsea closed her eyes for a moment, trying to will that strange trick back, the one that had let her glimpse the screen before.

She concentrated until her temples ached, her vision fuzzing at the edges. It took nearly twenty seconds before, with a faint flicker, translucent words bled into existence at the top left of her sight. The Eyes lvl 1 Acquired. The letters floated there, steady and sharp. Chelsea exhaled in relief. She tried again, this time she didn't have to squint and strain to make them stay. The screen itself hadn't shifted much, but one small, unsettling detail had.

Current Enhancement: The Perfect Outfit (soul-marked) Current Ailments: Forever Young and Beautiful (soul-marked) Chelsea's brows knitted. The Perfect Outfit? That couldn't be it, could it? She focused hard, thinking of how tooltips used to work in computer programs back home. To her surprise, the words obeyed, unspooling into a crisp, boxy window beside the buff. The Perfect Outfit (soul-marked): Effect 1: All wearable items automatically size to fit you perfectly when entering your area of influence.

Effect 2: Tier 1. A cold shiver rippled down her spine, as though the text itself had whispered something mocking in her ear. That's it? Her throat tightened. She had been banking, clinging, to the idea that this mysterious enhancement was the thing that would keep her valuable to the king. That it was something powerful, strategic, indispensable. But no. It was... clothes. Clothes that looked nice and fit well. Her stomach twisted as anxiety surged, bitter as bile.

She didn't ask to be dropped into this world, didn't ask to be shackled to enhancements and ailments like some cosmic joke. Why couldn't she have gotten fireballs? Healing? Even poison spit would've been something.

"Are you ready to get the day started?" The king's voice cut through her spiraling thoughts like a sword. Chelsea nearly leapt out of her skin, her heart hammering. She whipped around to find him standing behind her, his expression unreadable.

"Y-yes, sir," she stammered, her voice thinner than she wanted. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

"Good." He inclined his head with the finality of a gavel.

"Go change into something you can move around in. We are going to start with an assessment to see where we should aim your class."

"Right," she muttered, scrambling to her feet. At the doorway, Adriane waited silently, posture impeccable, eyes unreadable. She offered a shallow nod as Chelsea approached, then turned smoothly to lead the way. They made it back to her chambers quickly. Chelsea wasted no time swapping clothes, though she kept sneaking glances at her reflection. The enhancement wasn't lying. Everything she put on molded to her like it had been sewn specifically for her frame.

Even the most complicated pieces adjusted in subtle ways: wing holes, tail slits, hidden fastenings that she hadn't even thought to check for. The garments wanted to fit her. She pulled on black, leather-like trousers that stretched and hugged like yoga pants, the material moving with her instead of against her. Over that came a tunic, red with black edging, bold but simple. She tugged at the hem, frowning.

"They're really going heavy with this red and black theme," she muttered under her breath as Adriane knelt to fasten the boots, black leather trimmed with the same crimson thread. Adriane replied matter-of-factly, "You're the summoned champion. The seamstress in charge of your wardrobe is... eccentric. She believes the champion should have 'a look.'" Chelsea huffed a small laugh, though it sounded more nervous than amused. Great. At least she'd die in style.

"I see." Chelsea forced a smile, though her thoughts churned like storm clouds. The truth was burning in her throat. The Perfect Outfit felt so useless, and she wanted desperately to tell Adriane, to ask what it meant, to hear someone say it wasn't the end of the world. But Adriane's calm mask was too perfect, her loyalty to the king too evident. Better to keep her cards close, at least for now. Instead, Chelsea grasped for safer ground.

"Oh, Adriane, do you know how to assign a title? That god said she gave me one, but I didn't see it in my stat menu thing." Adriane's head snapped up from where she was fastening Chelsea's right boot. Her usually composed face cracked open in astonishment, eyes wide and almost childlike.

"A title given out by a god!?" Chelsea laughed, trying to soften the intensity.

"Don't get too excited. She said it just lets my skills or abilities or whatever level up past three, up to a max of six." Adriane actually clapped her hands together, her voice rising in unrestrained delight.

"Oh, Miss Chelsea! That's wonderful news." The words rang with genuine joy, so much so that Chelsea blinked. It was the first time Adriane had spoken her name aloud, and she pronounced it perfectly. Not "Chel-see" the way others said, but with the soft edge Chelsea's mother had always used back home. Something in Chelsea's chest warmed before Adriane pressed on.

"That is huge. Skills are so basic at levels under five. As for assigning a title..." She faltered, hesitation slipping through her perfect poise.

"I'm not sure how to do it. I don't have The Eyes. My title had to be set in..." She rushed the next words, almost tripping over them.

"Place by an official assessor. But I'm sure since you have The Eyes, you can adjust it yourself." Chelsea tilted her head. That pause hadn't been accidental. Adriane was holding something back. Something important. But the line between companion and servant felt delicate, and Chelsea didn't dare push. Not yet. The silence stretched, a taut thread neither of them cut. Finally, Adriane straightened, brushing her skirt smooth.

"We should get down to the training field," she said briskly.

"It's doubtful you'll hit three in any of your skills today, so you should be safe to assign your title afterward."

"Okay," Chelsea said quietly, falling into step beside her. They reached the lift, a cage of iron rails that descended through the stone belly of the keep.

"Ground floor, please, Charles," Adriane instructed. The attendant nodded, pulling the lever. The chains groaned, lowering them smoothly. But Adriane's gaze stayed fixed, sharp, as though measuring invisible threads in the air. Then, in a tone so serious it made Chelsea's skin prickle, she said, "Charles, can you stop the elevator between floors?" The young man jolted, looking back nervously.

"Y-yeah. No problem." With a grinding clank, the lift lurched to a halt, the wall of stone on either side cutting them off in an eerie, sealed pocket between levels.

"Charles," Adriane said, her voice shifting into something Chelsea had never heard before, low, commanding, threaded with steel.

"I am going to use a spell on you. It won't hurt you or anything." The boy's eyes widened in panic.

"W-wait, a spell? What kind of..." He slumped forward mid-sentence, collapsing in a boneless heap on the lift floor. Chelsea's hand flew to her mouth, stifling a gasp. The air felt suddenly smaller, the space too close, the silence deafening. Adriane hadn't moved from her place, her hand still hovering faintly in the air, eyes fixed coldly on the unconscious attendant.

"Uh, what's going on?" Chelsea pressed, her voice sharper than she meant, her back already against the cold wall of the lift. Her heart hammered against her ribs.

"What did you do to him?" Adriane's hand flicked, silencing her with a gesture.

"Shush. We only have a few seconds. This is the only time we aren't monitored." Her voice was low, clipped, stripped of its usual warmth. Chelsea froze. Not monitored? The words slithered under her skin. Adriane leaned in.

"Today, the plan is to have you train against rank F adventurers from the guild. They won't be told who or what you are, only that you're their opponent. Demons are hated here. Feared. There's a definite chance they may go all out. And if they do..." Her eyes flickered, the faintest crack of emotion slipping through.

"You may die." Chelsea's stomach dropped, icy panic hollowing her chest.

"Rank F is the lowest rank, but don't let that fool you," Adriane continued.

"It can mean a green recruit at level one who just scraped enough money together to get a class, or someone who's already nine, maybe higher, and simply hasn't climbed the ladder yet. I don't know what your 'enhancement' really is, but the king is hoping this is what wakes it up. Be ready. Do whatever you have to do to stay al..." She stopped so suddenly Chelsea thought her words had been cut off by some invisible knife. Adriane's eyes softened as she swiveled back to the operator.

"Charles, are you okay?" The boy groaned, blinking awake, rubbing his temple.

"Oh... yeah. Sorry. Must've... uh... blacked out." Adriane's voice was honey again, effortless.

"I mentioned using magic on you, and you passed out. Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you." She gave a light laugh, as if the whole thing were an amusing misunderstanding.

"It was only going to be a minor enhancement, but you don't seem to need it." Charles mumbled something under his breath and turned back to the levers, clearly eager to pretend nothing had happened. When his back was safely turned, Adriane caught Chelsea's wide eyes and raised a single finger to her lips. A warning. A seal. Chelsea swallowed, her mind racing. How was she supposed to fight? Against people who actually had experience, who'd trained their whole lives? Her own heart was pounding so hard it hurt.

The clang of chains lowering the lift sounded like a drumbeat to her execution. And all of it while looking like this, monstrous, alien, with wings and a tail. The grate shuddered open. Light spilled into the cramped lift, harsh and merciless. They stepped out into a corridor that stretched like the throat of a beast. Chelsea leaned toward Adriane, her voice barely a whisper.

"I do have one skill. It says it's a racial one. It's called Instinctive Control. Do you think it might help?" Adriane stopped so suddenly Chelsea almost walked into her. She turned, eyes sharp as blades, the color gone from her face.

"Don't ever use that skill," she hissed.

"Not even if you're going to die. It's still not worth it."