Help! My Moms Are Overpowered Tyrants, and I’m Stuck as Their Baby! - Chapter 68

Chapter 68: The Strategy and the Armor of a Tyrant
The moment lunch ended, I was ushered not asked, not suggested, but ushered into a strategy chamber.

My family was far too excited about this.

A grand table stood at the center of the chamber, its polished wood gleaming under the light of the enchanted chandeliers. A massive map of the training grounds was spread across it, weighted down by ornate daggers at each corner. Along the edges, stacks of old battle records, anatomy books, and what I was horrified to recognize as bestiary logs on the Ironclad Basilisk were neatly arranged.

My heartbeat drummed in my ears.

This was a level of preparation that should not be applied to a five-year-old’s first battle.

Verania and Sylvithra stood at the head of the table, their postures effortlessly commanding, while my grandparents took their places on either side. My mother’s sharp crimson nails tapped against the wood as she scanned the materials. Sylvithra, ever composed, adjusted a silver gauntlet around her wrist as she eyed the map.

Saelira was already reading through the recorded battles against similar creatures, her expression one of clinical calculation. “Hmm. It seems the best method of dealing with an Ironclad Basilisk is either piercing through the few exposed areas of its hide… or overwhelming it with sheer force.”

Veylen, ever pragmatic, crossed his arms. “Piercing would require an exceptionally precise strike. Given the beast’s natural armor, it will be difficult even for an experienced combatant.”

My child-sized self sat at the far end of the table, listening to this with mounting dread.

“Oh, good,” I said dryly. “So I either have to be impossibly precise or stupidly strong. Glad to have options.”

Verania gave me an approving nod. “That’s the spirit, darling.”

I groaned.

[ You should appreciate the choices. Most people don’t get any. ]

“You call this choices?”

[ Well, you’re not being thrown in naked and unarmed, so yes, I do. ]

I pinched the bridge of my nose, inhaling deeply.

Sylvithra tapped a finger against the map. “The creature will be released into the northern training grounds. It’s a controlled battlefield, meaning no outside interference. That means no servants, no guards, and no unexpected factors.”

I squinted at her. “No outside interference, huh?”

Saelira didn’t even glance up from her reading. “You’ll still have us observing.”

Right. Observing.

Not helping. Not intervening. Not ensuring their five-year-old didn’t get eaten.

[ I’ll be there. That counts for something, doesn’t it? ]

I clenched my jaw. “No, it absolutely does not.”

Eryndor, ever the tactician, studied me with an assessing gaze. “Your speed has increased. That will be useful for dodging its attacks.”

I didn’t like how they all nodded in agreement.

Like they were expecting me to dodge for my life.

I exhaled sharply, forcing myself to focus. If I was going to survive this, I needed to take control of something anything.

“If I’m fighting a giant murder snake, I’m going to need something practical to wear,” I said, straightening my back. “Something that won’t get shredded the moment I move.”

My family perked up instantly.

Oh no.

I could already see it that glint in their eyes. The one that usually preceded lavish, over-the-top gestures of power and dominance.

Veylen hummed. “A combat uniform would be appropriate.”

Verania’s smile sharpened. “Something fitting for an heir to Velmoria.”

Sylvithra nodded. “Something that projects strength and command.”

I held up a hand. “Just to be clear, I want something comfortable and practical.”

Saelira didn’t even pretend to hear me. “Black and silver would suit her best. Regal, yet imposing.”

Eryndor’s expression remained thoughtful. “A high-collared coat for presence. Perhaps layered fabrics reinforced with enchanted threading flexible but durable.”

My internal screaming intensified.

Ilythia’s eyes gleamed. “And gloves.”

Verania smirked. “With armored plating.”

Sylvithra gestured elegantly. “A blade at her side.”

I slammed my hands on the table.

“NO CAPES.”

Silence.

They all turned to look at me, blinking in unison.

“…Are you certain?” Saelira asked, arching a brow.

“One hundred percent certain.”

Verania sighed, looking genuinely disappointed. “A pity.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “I don’t need to be a dramatic wind-swept tyrant in a cape I need to fight a monster.”

[ Says the girl who literally altered reality the last time she got frustrated. ]

I ignored that.

With a worrying level of enthusiasm, my family immediately began coordinating my combat attire. Servants were summoned, sketches were drafted, and fabrics were selected within minutes.

It was a terrifying display of efficiency.

By the time I was dragged to my chambers for a fitting, I had already lost all control of the situation.

The final result?

A masculine, structured combat ensemble tailored to intimidation and function.

A sleek, high-collared black coat with silver embroidery, fitted to allow movement without excess weight. Reinforced leather gloves with enchanted plating at the knuckles. A dark, sleeveless tunic layered beneath the coat, paired with flexible trousers reinforced for combat.

Knee-high combat boots, polished to perfection.

A belt lined with sheathed daggers.

And a sleek, lightweight sword strapped to my waist nothing ceremonial, just a well-balanced weapon meant for actual use.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror.

Even with my still-small frame, the outfit radiated authority.

It made me look like a future ruler of war.

I exhaled slowly. “…Well. At least it’s practical.”

[ You look like you’re about to conquer the entire continent. I approve. ]

Mara and Elira stood nearby, looking proud of their work.

“Will this be sufficient for your battle, Your Highness?” Mara asked, adjusting the hem of my coat.

I stared at myself.

At the polished, armored edges. The perfectly-fitted proportions.

And, most importantly no cape.

“…Yes,” I said, nodding firmly. “This will do.”

Now I just had to not die in it.

I took a deep breath, smoothing down the front of my coat.

I was not nervous.

I was merely… aware of how catastrophically stupid this was.

Yes. That was it.

Elira and Mara, however, definitely thought I was nervous.

“Your Highness,” Elira said gently, adjusting the fit of my gloves, “I know this is your first battle, but you are far more capable than you think.”

Mara, ever the optimist, beamed. “Yes! And besides, you’re you! If anyone can defeat a giant murder-lizard, it’s our little tyrant!”

I gave her a flat look.

“I’m not little,” I muttered.

“You are literally five.”

“Tyrants transcend age.”

[ Debatable. ]

Elira pressed her lips together in what was definitely amusement but wisely didn’t comment. Instead, she smoothed the shoulders of my coat. “It is completely normal to feel… uneasy before a battle, Your Highness.”

“Uneasy?” I repeated dryly.

[ You mean horrified. Terrified. On the verge of making a strategic escape attempt. ]

None of those words were coming out of my mouth.

Mara, meanwhile, had zero concerns. “Oh, please! Our Lady Tyrant doesn’t get nervous! She gets dramatic.”

I shot her a look.

She grinned unapologetically.

Elira, trying to be the voice of reason, patted my sleeve reassuringly. “Your family would never send you into a battle they didn’t believe you could handle.”

“Are we sure about that?”

Elira hesitated.

Mara, on the other hand, nodded instantly.

“Oh, absolutely.” She gestured wildly. “I mean, look at you! You literally bend reality! You’re built for this!”

[ Technically, you haven’t bent reality in battle yet. So, really, the odds of you catastrophically failing are— ]

Mentally strangling my system was not an option.

I exhaled slowly. “I appreciate the pep talk. Really.”

Before I could add anything else, a low huff echoed from the corner of my room.

I froze.

Mara and Elira froze.

We all turned.

My newly acquired dragon sat curled up near the hearth, its golden eyes glinting in the dim light. It hadn’t said anything during the fitting, but now? Now it was watching me like I was a particularly stupid hatchling.

“I cannot believe,” the dragon rumbled, “that I have been bound to a mortal who looks like she’s about to faint.”

I glared.

“I am not going to faint.”

It snorted.

“A battle is no place for hesitation,” it said, flicking its tail. “Or pathetic human fragility.”

Mara, horrified, gasped.

“Elyzara is not fragile!” she defended, clutching her heart.

Elira sighed. “Mara.”

“She isn’t! She’s—” Mara pointed at me wildly. “She’s literally terrifying!”

The dragon tilted its head.

“Is she?”

I squinted at it.

“I made you my pet.”

It huffed. “That is still up for debate.”

Mara, clearly offended, planted her hands on her hips. “She could snap her fingers and rewrite existence!”

“Has she?”

“…She could!”

The dragon looked deeply unimpressed.

[ I like this one. ]

I inhaled sharply, pressing my fingers against my temples. “I don’t need both of you mocking me.”

Mara crossed her arms. “I am supporting you.”

The dragon flicked its tail again. “I am teaching you the harsh truths of battle.”

Mara scowled.

Elira sighed, rubbing her temples. “Enough, both of you.”

The dragon grumbled but didn’t argue.

Mara, on the other hand, gave it a side-eye.

“…You’re just bitter because she domesticated you.”

The dragon bristled.

“I am not domesticated.”

Mara smirked. “Uh-huh.”

“I am a fearsome beast—”

“Domesticated.”

The dragon hissed.

I exhaled sharply.Maybe the battle wouldn’t kill me.But this conversation just might.