Just as Harlotte was flung outward, an unfathomable force made him understand the rule of the altar depicted on the human-skin parchment. That altar can only be opened once every half-month, and only a successful sacrifice will permit one to depart.
Whether the offering displeases the intended recipient or no one answers the call, the sacrifice remains bound to the altar until some great being deigns to accept it.
Sacrifices are allocated at random—you cannot dedicate them to a specific target. That is the cruel catch of this supernal path.
Harlotte’s escape this time was pure luck. He carried nothing suitable for sacrifice, yet the great being who answered the bond was the mindless Wàn Yè Corpse Immortal.
Even Margaret the Guest Scholar could not have foreseen this. She might have calculated that Harlotte would arrive empty-handed, but she would never have imagined a great being granting its boon without any offering.
Of course, Wàn Yè’s True Blood is less a boon than a curse—a terrifying malediction that drives kin to slay kin and friends to turn on friends.
But for Harlotte, stranded in this world and far beyond the reach of that Corpse Immortal—no matter how mighty he might seize the sun and instantly calcify it—such horrors could not touch him here. In that sense, it truly was a blessing.
Strangely, although he could not measure how long he lingered within the altar’s domain, only an instant had passed outside. When Harlotte came to, his hand still rested on the human-skin parchment. Neither Lilith nor the younger maid at the door showed any sign of suspicion; they stood as if waiting for him to emerge.
Realizing no significant time had been lost, Harlotte exhaled in relief. The trap was insidiously devised—and deadly. He even suspected that his momentary madness, sparked by hearing of the supernal path, had been part of Margaret’s design.
Who would have thought this unassuming guest scholar, Margaret, would spring such a trap? Her cunning was beyond anticipation.
In comparison, the head maid, though eager for his body, would at least grant him mortal pleasure. Were his talents on the level of that prodigious brother who can turn wheels by sheer will, perhaps he might have even subdued the succubus-like head maid and escaped her wrath.
Hiding the human-skin parchment in his sleeve, he resolved that one use every half-month would suffice. If, when that time came, he could secure the title of Cultivator, he would assuredly rise again as a Corpse Mage. Though that transformation carried its own afflictions, it was preferable to outright death. In this realm there were no triad gangs to hunt him; as for side effects, the altar’s link to countless worlds would surely reveal a remedy.
Once he confirmed the two in the corridor had seen nothing, Harlotte resumed his search of Margaret’s chamber for anything else of value. Having dared to betray him so thoroughly, she likely would not reappear before him—appearing again might run afoul of the castle’s core rules, and any direct confrontation risked uncovering them.
He might as well take whatever he could.
Alas, disappointment awaited him. Though the room contained many items, most were mundane—perhaps treasures to ordinary folk, but meaningless to Harlotte. Shelves bristled with potions and herbs, yet he dared not sample any of Margaret’s elixirs. He had no stomach for that.
A single book, its cover gone, was the only other prize he found. What its pages held he could not know—there was no time to read—but its presence in Margaret’s quarters bespoke its importance to her.
Regrettably, he found no record of her personal rule among these things; then again, a non-human able to memorize her own covenant need not jot it down.
Pocketing the coverless volume, he signaled the younger maid to resume her cleaning and instructed her: if Mistress Margaret inquired after the book, tell her to retrieve it from him in the library.
The maid could only bow her head, too fearful to utter a word beneath Lilith’s chilling gaze. Rumors of the castle whispered through her mind, and she dared not meddle.
Once, another maid assigned to the second floor alongside him vanished without a trace—no word of death or survival, simply gone. Hence every servant knew: to live, keep far from the young master; speak only when spoken to, and never, ever look his way.
Unperturbed by the girl’s terror, Harlotte had Lilith escort him down toward the first floor.
Only once their silhouettes turned the corridor’s corner did the maid exhale and lean against the door frame, unable to move for a long moment.
After a while, she recovered herself and returned to Margaret’s chamber with her cleaning supplies. But the instant she crossed the threshold, she seemed to glimpse something horrific and opened her mouth to scream—only to find her voice trapped, as if by an invisible barrier.
“Such a pity. You might have lived,” came Margaret’s voice, soft and gentle yet the source of unparalleled dread. “But now that you have seen me like this, I’m afraid I must apologize.”
The maid tried to speak, to plead, but before she could, her body began to melt—like a candle dropped into flame—until only a drop of crystalline liquid remained, captured in a crystal vial already brimming with hundreds of such droplets.
“I adore you, young master,” Margaret’s voice echoed, “but sometimes, being clever can be fatal.”