The sound of a plate crashing against the wall echoed loudly, bouncing off every corner of the vast empty room before shattering into tiny fragments on the marble floor. The noise immediately tensed every body in the room.
Every head was bowed.
No one dared to raise their eyes, not even a fleeting glance. Heavy footsteps echoed around them, slow yet pressuring, as if each step marked a countdown to the next punishment. Hearts pounded irregularly, silent prayers whispered—not for long-term survival, but for, "Please, not me next."
"Didn't I tell you?"
The man's voice was low, heavy, yet filled with restrained anger, making the air in the room suffocating.
"Never be late. Not even by a second."
His hand shot out roughly, grabbing the hair of one of the female servants who had been prostrating obediently on the floor. The pull was sudden and forceful, making her body jerk upward, knees scraping the cold marble, her breath caught in pain and fear.
The servant was forced to look up.
Her face was wet with tears, eyes red and trembling violently as they met the gaze of the middle-aged man before her—the master of this house. His grip on her hair tightened, as if he intended to rip the skin from her scalp.
"My lord… please… forgive me…" her voice trembled, barely audible. Her hands pressed together in front of her chest, fingers interlocked as if drowning and grasping at empty air.
But there was no mercy in the master's face.
He dragged her past the line of other servants still prostrating rigidly on the floor. Some trembled involuntarily, cold sweat dripping down their temples despite the room's chill. Their eyes were fixed on the floor, unable to look, yet unwilling to cover their ears.
The master stopped near the kitchen table.
One hand still gripping her hair, the other reached for a large knife on the table. The metal gleamed in the dim light, making all the servants' breaths hitch in unison.
"Watch closely," he said coldly, emotionless. The knife hovered over the female servant's head, now silently sobbing, her body shaking violently. "This is the end for anyone who breaks the rules of this house."
His words fell like a hammer—heavy and lethal.
Some servants could not restrain their physical reactions: trembling hands, gasping breaths, weak legs. One of them collapsed to the floor, unconscious before making a sound.
Yet no one dared move.
"M-My lord… please forgive us…"
One servant finally dared to speak. Her body shook violently as she lowered herself deeper, forehead nearly touching the floor, eyes tightly shut as if that would erase her existence. Her prayer came out stammering, choked by fear long overdue.
But mercy was not what touched her.
A warm, sticky sensation spread across her palms. She froze, breath caught in her throat. Trembling, her eyes opened just enough to see the expanding pool of red beneath her.
When she looked up, the scream caught in her chest burst.
The female servant who had been dragged now lay on the floor, writhing like a broken doll. The kitchen knife was embedded straight into the top of her head so deep that only the handle remained visible. Every slight movement made the blood flow faster, running down her hair and face, forming tiny rivers on the marble floor.
Her lips quivered, emitting a strange gargling sound—a mix of her last breaths and the blood filling her throat. Her eyes were empty, twitching wildly before losing focus entirely.
"A–AH!!!"
The scream exploded across the room.
The servant who had pleaded crawled backward in panic, hands clutching her own hair, yanking it until strands tore free. Her nails scratched her face unconsciously, leaving red streaks immediately wet with blood. Her breath came in ragged gasps; her mind completely shattered.
The master stared at her without expression.
His gaze was cold, as if he were looking at something filthy and disgusting, not a human being. He then crouched before the dying female servant, calmly holding the knife handle.
One pull.
The knife came free with a sickening wet sound, blood spouting violently, splattering the floor, walls, even the master's shoes. The woman's body convulsed violently one last time before collapsing entirely, motionless.
No.
He was not human.
He was a demon.
The realization hit the remaining servants like a sledgehammer.
The two other servants still capable of moving didn't think twice. They rose and ran as fast as they could, panic and cries filling the corridor as they rushed for the exit.
But their steps stopped abruptly.
The sound of a heavy object hitting the floor rang twice, followed by a wet rolling sound. Their bodies fell, decapitated, blood gushing from neatly severed necks, forming random patterns on the floor.
The two heads rolled slowly until stopping at the feet of the other servants still prostrating, eyes wide with terror frozen forever.
Silence engulfed the room.
Only the sound of blood droplets hitting the floor remained.
The servant froze, speechless.
Her consciousness teetered on the brink of collapse, all sounds seeming distant, echoing from the bottom of a well. Amid the emptiness, she could still hear the master's footsteps approaching slowly.
She wanted to close her eyes.
She wanted to die.
But before she could move, her body jerked.
The master crouched before her. His fingers grasped her chin with unyielding force, forcing her to look up. The face was now so close. The smile etched on his lips seemed gentle, warm… and utterly wrong.
A smile only something that relishes suffering could have.
"You understand now, don't you?" he asked softly.
His voice was sweet, almost affectionate. A cruel contrast to the pools of blood, dismembered bodies, and metallic stench. His hand caressed the servant's cheek gently, as if soothing a frightened child.
His fingers touched the bloodstains on her face—clearly not her own.
Then he leaned closer.
His tongue slowly licked her cheek, wiping the red trail without haste. The servant froze. Her breath caught, eyes wide, nausea climbing her throat.
She wanted to vomit.
She wanted to scream.
But her voice was gone.
"Now," continued the master, pulling back her face, "your task is to clean this up."
His hand descended, gripping the trembling servant's hand. Forcing her fingers open, he placed the still-bloody kitchen knife into her palm.
"And prepare dinner," he said flatly.
"With fresh meat."
The knife felt too heavy. Too real. The blood still dripped, running between her fingers, warm… sticky… alive.
Her mind refused to comprehend the sentence.
Fresh meat…
Them…?
Her body did not react. She did not cry. She did not scream. She did not move. Fear had transcended form, leaving only a void pulsing painfully in her chest.
"What does it mean…" she thought in chaos,
"My lord wants me to… cook them?"
The master smiled wider, as if hearing her inner scream.
"Good girl," he said lightly.
"I'll be waiting in my room tonight."
The words fell like a verdict.
He stood, turned, and walked away calmly as if there was no blood, no corpses, no screams just silenced. As he walked off, the servant noticed another figure.
A tall man, silent, holding a long sword whose tip touched the floor. He had been standing there since who knows when, his face unreadable.
They disappeared behind the door, leaving the servant alone in the blood-soaked room.
The knife in her hand trembled.
---
"Aren't you concerned about sending them back into the field after something like that?"
Charlotte's voice was calm but laced with doubt. She stood by the long table, hands folded before her, eyes fixed on the captain seated leisurely in his chair. Leisurely, at least outwardly.
The meeting room was silent, only the faint ticking of the wall clock audible. Daylight entered through high windows, reflecting off the cold stone floor, stiffening the atmosphere. The captain did not answer immediately. He leaned back, staring at the ceiling as if seeking something invisible.
The events in Rifoyd village were too fresh to be taken lightly.
The ruins had not been fully cleared, and reports were fragmented, with key parts intentionally omitted. But one thing kept everyone on edge: the wound on Peter's neck.
A line too distinct.
Anyone who saw it would know it wasn't from a regular fight. That neck had nearly been severed from the body. Strangely, Peter said nothing. He didn't explain, didn't mention it even once.
Charlotte observed her captain silently.
Every time Peter's name came up, his demeanor changed. The usually flat expression tensed as if restraining something forcibly.
Their relationship was clearly more than just superior and subordinate.
Charlotte could feel it.
The captain finally exhaled softly and lowered his gaze.
"No need to worry," he said succinctly. "I didn't release them unprepared."
Charlotte raised an eyebrow.
"Prepared?"
"I sent someone ahead first."
Charlotte paused for a moment, then smiled faintly—a smile more like a long exhale than laughter.
"Oh?"
She tilted her head. "Don't tell me it was Vivian."
The captain did not immediately deny it.
Charlotte chuckled softly, though her eyes didn't join the smile.
"How pitiful for them. If it really was Vivian you sent, that's no ordinary exercise anymore."
She looked at the captain with a pointed gaze.
"Seems you truly intend to make sure they can't half-step through this again."
"This will be good for them."
The words came effortlessly from the captain, accompanied by a thin, unreadable smile. Not warm, not cruel—more like absolute certainty that whatever he planned would go according to his will.
Charlotte, standing across the table, could only roll her eyes lazily.
"Yes, of course," she murmured lightly. "Everything's always good according to you."
She then stepped half a pace forward, raising one hand. Pale blue flames ignited in her palm, spinning slowly without heat, stable and controlled. From the flames, sheets of paper appeared one by one, floating down neatly onto the wooden table before the captain.
"These are the investigation results you requested," Charlotte said. The flames in her hand extinguished immediately, leaving a faint scent of cold metal in the air.
The captain grabbed the files without haste, eyes scanning the lines quickly—too quickly for a normal person. His expression didn't change, but his gaze hardened.
The captain scanned the files quickly, eyes narrowing.
"Rifoyd village was never officially recorded as a permanent settlement," Charlotte continued, crossing her arms. "Old documents, maps, even administrative archives, none truly acknowledged its existence. Previous incoming reports were bait—tricks created by high-level wandering spirits."
The captain exhaled shortly and put the papers back on the table.
"The trail?"
"Still fragmented, only a few remains like debris. It's unclear if the location Liam mentioned is accurate, because the person who spoke only said it was somewhere in the middle of the forest," Charlotte answered honestly. "However, Lord Zainka is fairly certain this incident is linked to the mimic spirit you've been tracking."
She then pulled out a small box, placing it gently on the table beside the report. Dark, cold, sealed with complex binding symbols.
The captain's gaze shifted. He reached for the box, opening it just slightly.
Immediately, a dense aura spread throughout the room. The candles on the walls flickered violently, their flames dimming then surging without explanation. The air felt heavy, pressing down on the chest, as if something unpleasant had been disturbed. Inside the box, black blood had crystallized into rough shapes, emanating unstable vibrations.
The captain sighed softly and closed the box before its influence could spread further.
"What about the entity creating the illusion?" he asked, low and sharp.
Charlotte tilted her head thoughtfully.
"Based on Liam's description… it doesn't resemble ordinary spirits. It doesn't have a typical existential structure."
She tapped her chin lightly.
"It actually resembles a winged creature described in grand priest legends. Eyes, spinning rings, multi-directional observation…"
Charlotte chuckled softly.
"But you know I've never believed in religious tales."
She looked at the captain with a serious expression.
"If that really is a creature from another class… then Rifoyd was just an experiment."
"No," the captain replied quietly but firmly, his fingers interlaced on the table. "Even if Rifoyd was only a trial, it's still impossible for a 'holy' class entity to intervene this far. They never act so openly, at least not publicly."
Charlotte frowned, her thought process interrupted by a chilling realization.
Wait… something isn't aligning.
"Most likely," another voice suddenly interrupted from the doorway, "that mimic spirit split its existence and assumed another form to deceive us."
Charlotte and the captain turned in unison.
A middle-aged man stood at the door, body upright, posture deliberately casual. His hair was starting to gray at the temples, thin glasses perched neatly on his nose. His gaze was sharp, calculating, a type of observation that never stopped even when appearing still.
"Ah, Lord Zainka~" Charlotte greeted with a wide smile, instantly brightening her expression. "Since when were you standing there? Very impolite, you know."
Zainka snorted shortly.
"Hmph. Please don't flirt. I already have a fiancée."
Charlotte laughed lightly, her shoulders shaking slightly.
"Goodness, serious much. I didn't expect you to still be unmarried at your age~"
Zainka stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. His tone remained flat as he replied,
"Better this than marry too early and lose a partner in youth."
Charlotte's laughter abruptly stopped.
The air shifted. The pale blue flame that had been calm flickered slightly, dimming before growing again without reason. Charlotte's smile faded, replaced by awkward silence. She glanced sideways without saying a word, her fingers clenching lightly.
The captain, observing from behind the table, exhaled deeply and massaged his temples slowly.
"Enough," he finally said.
Zainka nodded briefly, expression serious once again.
"As I said," he continued, "high-level spirits wouldn't retreat without a purpose. If a target is released, it means something bigger is being prepared. The Rifoyd illusion was likely just a surface layer, or more accurately, a distraction."
Charlotte snorted softly, leaning back into her chair, fingers slowly stroking a small skull on her lap—too calm a movement for such a grave topic.
"Hah~ if the royal court finds out about this," she said lightly, almost joking, "they won't bother thinking too much. Arrested, judged, executed. Done."
Zainka nodded faintly, glancing down briefly before looking back at the captain.
"That makes sense. In recent years, spirit activity has surged sharply. Not just in number, but in appearance patterns. High-level spirits, especially that mimic, always appear whenever Peter is out of reach."
He paused, seemingly weighing his words, then continued in a colder tone.
"Logically, protecting him increases the risk. Captain… wouldn't killing him be far safer than dragging him into situations like this?"
Silence filled the room.
The captain did not reply. No denial, no anger. Just a long pause that felt heavy. He cleared his throat softly, then stood from his chair. His steps toward the rear shelf were calm, as if the previous question was not important enough to answer immediately.
He reached for a stack of slightly worn newspapers. The sheets rustled softly as he opened them, his eyes scanning briefly before stopping at a specific page.
"The kingdom will hold a grand ball," he finally said, his voice flat. "A celebration for the crown prince's birthday."
Charlotte raised an eyebrow.
"Oh? A gathering full of fake smiles and pleasantries?"
The captain glanced at her briefly.
"I have no time for such bothersome events."
He placed the newspaper back on the table, palm pressing lightly.
"But I have a bad feeling. Too many strange movements among the nobles lately. Too quiet, too orderly."
Zainka crossed his arms.
"You suspect them?"
"I suspect anyone, just so you know," the captain replied shortly. "And the ball is the best place to hide ill intentions behind wine and smiles."
Charlotte chuckled softly.
"So… we're being sent?"
The captain nodded.
"You will attend the ball. Investigate the attending nobles. Find connections to spirit activity, suspicious financial flows, or contact with entities they shouldn't touch."
He paused, gaze hardening.
"And one more thing. Since Peter and Liam are likely working at noble houses, they will probably attend the ball as servants and bodyguards, so keep an eye on Peter."
Charlotte stared at him a bit longer than usual. There was something in the captain's tone—not empty orders, but clear pressure.
"Understood," she finally said, her smile returning, thinner this time. "Looks like this ball will be far more interesting than it appears~"
Zainka exhaled softly.
"Let's hope your premonition is wrong."