Chapter 11
Written by Bayzo Albion
The demoness tapped the panel again, and a full-length mirror rippled into view, its surface shimmering like liquid silver. My reflection flickered, and suddenly I was adorned in… bright pink tights that clung like a second skin, a feathered hat tipped jauntily to one side, and a glittering cape that screamed traveling bard who gets booed off stage before the first verse.
I nearly choked, my eyes widening in horror. "What the hell is that?!"
"Why, the Hero of Song set," she replied sweetly, tilting her head with mock innocence, though her eyes danced with mischief. "Guaranteed to make you unforgettable—though perhaps not in the way you'd prefer. Perfect for serenading the masses or dodging rotten fruit."
"Unforgettable is one thing," I muttered, covering my face with a hand to hide my mortification. "But I'd rather not be stoned in the marketplace before I even buy bread. Can we try something less… theatrical?"
Unfazed, she flicked the panel again, her fingers moving with the grace of a conductor. The mirror shimmered, and my reflection transformed.
This time I was clad in an enormous bear-pelt cloak, its coarse fur swallowing my frame, complete with a snarling bear head draped over my own like a barbaric crown. The thing made me look less like a warrior and more like a child playing pretend after raiding his grandfather's attic, all bluster and no substance.
She gave an approving nod, her lips twitching with suppressed laughter. "Now this says strength, don't you think? A true conqueror of the wilds, ready to wrestle beasts or intimidate squirrels."
"Strength?!" I threw up my hands, exasperation bubbling over. "That says 'lunatic who roars at squirrels'! I'd scare children before I scared any enemies!"
Her smirk deepened, a crescent of amusement that revealed sharp, delicate fangs. "You're hard to please, aren't you?"
She swiped again, undeterred by my protests, her movements fluid and deliberate.
Now the mirror showed me in a skimpy gladiator harness—little more than leather straps crisscrossing my chest and a loincloth that left little to the imagination—accented with shiny metal rings that gleamed ostentatiously. It was the kind of outfit that screamed arena performer in a low-budget spectacle, designed more for show than survival.
My jaw dropped, words failing me for a moment.
"No. Absolutely not. You are not sending me into public dressed like… like some budget arena dancer auditioning for a coliseum side gig!"
The demoness's laugh rang like chimes, rich and amused, filling the shop with its infectious warmth. "Oh, I don't know. I think it suits you—bold, daring, a touch of reckless charm."
I clenched my teeth, staring daggers at the reflection, my cheeks burning despite my adjusted resistance to embarrassment. This woman is enjoying herself far too much, I thought, her glee a palpable force that both irritated and intrigued me.
In the end, after much back-and-forth and several more absurd outfits—a velvet doublet that made me look like a Renaissance fair reject, a robe studded with glowing runes that screamed overcompensating wizard—I settled on a long black shirt that reached my knees, simple yet imbued with a hint of mystery, its fabric soft but durable, hinting at subtle enchantments woven into its threads. I admired myself in the mirror, turning to catch the way the dark cloth contrasted with the shop's warm light… until I turned sideways.
The demoness narrowed her eyes, her smirk returning with a vengeance.
"Forgive me, but right now you look more like a wizard who forgot his pants, wandering out of his tower mid-spell."
I froze, glancing down at my bare legs, the realization hitting like a bucket of cold water. "…Fair point."
Which meant I had to cough up for trousers as well, depleting my meager funds further. I chose gray, sturdy ones with drawstrings at the waist, practical and unassuming, designed for function over flair. The fabric hugged my legs comfortably, grounding me in a way that felt reassuringly human.
Another gold coin spent, and finally the image in the mirror matched reality: dark shirt, light pants, a contrast that looked… surprisingly stylish. Not extravagant, not shabby—modest, but respectable, a balance that felt like a small victory in this unpredictable world.
"You've got good taste," the demoness said approvingly, letting her gaze sweep me from head to toe, her eyes lingering with a mix of appraisal and amusement. "That'll be two gold in total."
Like a practiced stage magician, I flicked the coins from my dimensional pocket as if pulling them out of thin air, the motion smooth and theatrical, and passed them to her with a confident smile. She drew her clawed fingers across the cool metal with visible satisfaction, the coins glinting briefly before vanishing into her satchel with a faint magical shimmer.
Then, with the same casual tone someone might use to offer a cup of tea, she leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur.
"Would you care to visit our establishment of… companionship?"
I blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. "Your… establishment?"
She tilted her head, perfectly nonchalant, as if discussing the weather or the price of bread. "A brothel. A place of pleasure, where desires are met with artistry and discretion."
"…Ah." My lips twitched, a mix of surprise and curiosity bubbling up. "And what are your rates? I'm assuming paradise doesn't come cheap, even for indulgences."
"As in any respectable house, the girls are expensive," she said with a shrug, as though reciting common sense, her tone matter-of-fact yet laced with a hint of challenge.
Wait, what? Since when was that obvious? My eyebrow climbed, skepticism warring with intrigue.
"And the exact price?" I pressed, folding my arms, determined to keep the conversation grounded.
"Seven gold for ten minutes," she replied without the faintest trace of shame, nodding as if reading off a menu at a tavern. "It's not easy for them. Men these days grow weaker with every generation… a dwindling resource, unable to keep up with the demands of passion."
I stood there, mouth slightly open, processing the absurdity of the figure. "…Seven. For ten minutes. That's… what, almost the cost of a house by the hour? Are they weaving gold into their embraces or what?"
The demoness only smirked, clearly enjoying my horrified expression, her eyes glinting with predatory amusement. "Value is in the experience, not the coin. And trust me, it's an experience worth every piece."
"What, did some curse descend on the entire male race?" I narrowed my eyes, half-joking, half-curious, wondering if this world held secrets darker than its polished surface suggested.
"You could put it that way," she said, her smile turning mysterious, catching her lower lip lightly between her teeth, a gesture that was both inviting and ominous. "By the way—you borrowed money from that elf, didn't you? Bold move. Those creatures are bloodsuckers in every sense, their kindness laced with barbs. Aren't you afraid?"
Elves—bloodsuckers? Vampires in disguise? Or maybe succubi wearing masks of benevolence? The warning sent a chill through me, stirring the ever-present skeptic in my soul. Something doesn't add up, but better not ask outright. I'm exploring this world blind, navigating its currents without a map, and that's half the fun—the thrill of uncovering truths one perilous step at a time.
I kept my face calm, serene even, while my thoughts churned like a storm at sea. "Why so silent?" she pressed, her eyes narrowing, the spark of curiosity flaring brighter. "Worried they'll drain every drop of your life force, leaving you a husk bound to their will?"
"Just thinking," I answered evenly, though a spark of unease flared inside me, a warning that the elf's generosity might come with strings I couldn't yet see.
"Don't worry." Her smile turned oddly reassuring, a flicker of warmth breaking through her teasing facade. "We have fine healers in this village. Even if you're torn in half, they'll stitch you back together—better than any necromancer, with magic that mends both flesh and spirit. And if things ever get truly dire… I can help you myself. Want to buy your way out of your elf debt? I'll lend you the coin. Want a serum to numb the pain of betrayal? Always at hand, brewed with care."
"No." My voice was firm, resolute, cutting through the temptation like a blade. "I don't run from problems. Especially the ones I choose myself. If I've made my bed, I'll lie in it—or fight my way out."
She held my gaze, and for a fleeting moment, her eyes lost their mocking gleam, replaced by something deeper—interest, perhaps, or a glimmer of respect for the defiance in my words.
"Well then," she said at last, her tone lower, steadier, carrying the weight of acknowledgment. "Welcome to the real world, hero. Here, even the choice of clothing can become a fateful decision, a thread in the tapestry of destiny."
I gave her a crooked smile, leaning into the moment's gravity with my own brand of levity. "If a shirt and trousers are enough to decide my fate, then maybe destiny isn't as scary as it sounds—just a matter of picking the right wardrobe."
"Mm, don't be so sure." Her smirk returned, curling like smoke, tendrils of mischief weaving through her words. "Some wars start over less. The wrong colors, the wrong symbols… even the wrong hat can spark a feud that echoes through ages."
"The wrong hat?" I raised a brow, skepticism lacing my tone.
Without missing a beat, she flicked the panel again, her fingers dancing across the tablet with practiced ease. The mirror rippled, and suddenly I was wearing a hideous oversized cap shaped like a rooster, complete with dangling feathers that bobbed absurdly with every movement, the vibrant reds and yellows clashing with my otherwise subdued ensemble.
I froze, staring at the reflection in abject horror. "…You're joking."
"Am I?" Her eyes sparkled with mischief, a playful challenge that dared me to protest further.
I let out a long sigh, shaking my head in mock despair. "One day, when I'm famous, bards will sing of the time I defeated demon lords and saved kingdoms, my name etched in legend. And then, inevitably, someone will add—'oh yes, and he wore the rooster hat, a beacon of questionable fashion.'"
The demoness laughed, a rich, melodic sound that filled the shop like sunlight breaking through clouds, warm and infectious. "Not bad. You'll do fine in this world, Gandalf of Rivia."
I groaned, the name grating like a misstruck chord. "Still not my name."
"Of course it isn't," she said, her smile all fangs and velvet, a predator's charm wrapped in silk. "But names here… have a way of sticking, whether you choose them or not."
I decided not to argue, sensing the futility in challenging her on this point. Better to leave with clothes, my dignity somewhat intact, and the knowledge that at least one demoness now knew I was worth watching—a player in this game who could hold his own, even if barely. As I stepped toward the door, the weight of my new attire grounding me, I felt the first stirrings of belonging in this strange, shimmering world, tempered by the certainty that every choice, from shirts to debts, was a step deeper into its enigmatic web.