Following Lilith’s slow pace, Harlotte Kodanis trailed the head maid toward the small dining room. That familiar pang seized his mind once more—everything around him was shifting. The aftereffects of his temporary madness conjured horrific illusions before his eyes.
Knowing Harlotte was unwell, Lilith walked deliberately. After over ten minutes, they reached the small dining room’s door.
This chamber was reserved for core members of the Kodanis family: himself, Lorelei, Eve, and the guest scholar Margaret. Smaller than the grand hall yet far more exquisite, it centered on a long table hewn from a single massive timber. At each leg, entwined vine-and-leaf motifs were carved, each groove inlaid with hair-fine threads of gold. A cream-colored satin cloth draped the tabletop, embroidered with subtle biblical scenes; its corners fell to the floor, perfectly covering the joints of the legs without a single crease.
High-backed chairs upholstered in garnet velvet encircled the table. Miniature canopies hovered above each backrest, fringed with silver tassels. Their legs, carved into lion’s claws, gripped the bluestone floor firmly.
Three sets of silverware lay arranged on the table—well, three sets plus one: the castle’s second young lady despised silverware, so she used porcelain instead.
By the window stood a small round table for afternoon tea and conversation. Every inch of the room sparkled under the maids’ care, not a trace of dust anywhere.
Harlotte had dined here countless times, yet at this moment, an inexplicable palpitation gripped his chest. Nothing stirred in the silence; the room felt too empty.
According to the original owner’s memories—and his own observations—this hour was never so still. His impetuous half-sister Eve always loved to sit here, nibbling pastries and sipping red tea.
When he first transmigrated, he’d caught her once: she wore a pale pink princess dress, white over-the-knee stockings, and cute little leather shoes. She sat by the window, lifting her teacup with delicate white lace gloves, nibbling dainty sweets laid out on a porcelain plate. Sometimes Lorelei would join, settling into the head chair with a thick tome, glancing up at Eve with fond exasperation.
Now, the chair by the window was empty; the teacup lay upside-down on its porcelain saucer. Not a soul in sight.
The pang hit him again. Harlotte pressed a hand to his forehead as dizziness threatened to spawn more hallucinations. He blinked rapidly to quell it, but when he opened his eyes, the scene still writhed.
The oak panels inset into the stone wall began to bulge. Within their pale brown grain, streaks of red oozed like ink soaked in water, dripping down the seams onto the bluestone with a hollow “drip, drip.” The sound felt less like falling liquid and more like some creature licking in the dark.
Blood seeped until the entire panel turned a deep crimson, then peeled away layer by layer to reveal a glistening, textured flesh beneath. That flesh pulsed, breathing with a rank odor.
Even the hanging oil paintings were drawn in, their canvases enveloped by flesh until they morphed into twisted faces. The eyes were hollow black voids—no sclera, no pupils—fixed upon him in unison.
He jerked toward the door, only to see it transformed as well: the dark red “lips” were covered in fine black fur, flecks of what looked like feathers clinging at the edges. Two rows of dagger-sharp fangs drooped from the “upper jaw,” their tips glinting coldly. Strands of white thread—perhaps hair—snagged in the gaps. Inside the “mouth” lay a pitch-black throat, within which enormous membranous wings flapped slowly. He recognized those wings… from the night his half-sister Eve had first entered his room.
So those wings belonged to a bat.
The grand dining hall was a silver-white wolf’s maw; this small dining room was a bat’s mouth…
Harlotte clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms. The sharp pain tethered him to reality. He knew these were illusions, the lingering madness before the full moon. But why a wolf and a bat? How coincidental.
Since witnessing Seraphina’s other form, the comfort Eve had given him all but vanished. He needed Lilith’s specially prepared meal—known to suppress these episodes—immediately to restore his reason.
“Lilith.”
His voice came out tight. He forced his gaze away from the sanguine walls to the head maid. Unexpectedly, unlike the times he’d glimpsed Eve or the head guard’s true shapes, Lilith looked unchanged: the same exquisite, beautiful perfect maid.
“Take me to the small kitchen. I want to see you cook.”
At his request, Lilith turned with that same sweet smile—unchanged since she’d first appeared that day.
“Of course, Master, as you wish.”
Harlotte didn’t linger. He followed Lilith toward the door, closing his eyes to avoid the dining room’s horrors. If possible, he hoped to enter a state of not seeing, not hearing, not thinking—otherwise the omnipresent, silent dread would overwhelm him.
Led by her footsteps, he finally left the small dining room’s bounds. When sunlight’s warmth touched him, he dared to open his eyes.
Sunlight banished the terrifying phantoms, easing his tense nerves as he reminded himself: daytime—it was still daytime—not so perilous.
The small kitchen lay to the west of the dining room, separated by two short corridors. Before reaching the door, he heard clattering utensils, the crackle of burning firewood, and the soft bubble of stews cooking.
Lilith didn’t knock. She pushed open the door and ushered him inside. The scene before him was more regimented than he’d imagined—almost rigid.
The kitchen was divided into several stations, each manned, with not a hint of chaos.
At the left stove stood a woman in a white chef’s coat, stirring soup with a wooden spoon as evenly as a pendulum: each stir the same arc, bubbles rising in the pot but never spilling, the spoon striking the rim with metronomic regularity.
At the central prep table, two housemaids kneaded dough. Clad in pale gray linen skirts with sleeves rolled to their forearms, their white wrists bore flour-dusted fingertips. Each press formed the dough into a perfect circle—no ragged edges, the surface patterns pressed to identical depth.
Before the furthest oven stood a tall man, turning meat on a spit with an iron fork. Each rotation was exactly half a turn—no more, no less—and the sizzling drops of fat hitting the fire fell at an unchanging tempo, as if timed.
Seven cooks and confectioners worked at their posts—one making desserts, another slicing vegetables, another setting silverware. Even as Harlotte and Lilith entered, their motions never faltered; not one spoke or lifted a gaze.
Harlotte followed Lilith past them, but their eyes remained fixed on their tasks—breathing barely audible—only the crackle of the hearth broke the silence, making the kitchen eerily unsettling.
It felt more unnerving than the empty dining room; at least an empty room couldn’t host so many living—but not alive—beings.
“I’ll prepare what the young master needs.”
Lilith’s soft voice drifted. She spoke quietly to the soup chef, who simply nodded without turning, her spoon never pausing its steady rotation.
Lilith then took a silver pot, fetched milk and honey from the rack, and began preparing Harlotte’s special lunch.
He ventured two steps forward to the vegetable cutter. The cook there faltered—not stopping, but her rhythm skipped half a beat, as if the machinery snagged. Suddenly she dropped her head; the hair that had fallen to her cheeks now concealed her face entirely, even her ears buried in her collar. He could see her shoulders trembling, her knife-holding hand clenching white-knuckled.
It wasn’t only her. Harlotte moved to the rotisserie chef: the man’s fork deftly turning meat slowed half a beat, then resumed its former precision.
The dough kneader, the soup stirrer—all the same: the moment he neared, they bowed their heads, dared not meet his gaze or shift their eyes.
This protocol… was excessive. These cooks felt numb, mechanical. Alive, yet as if not alive—only semblances of life.
No one spoke or glanced up as he passed. They averted their eyes, as though terrified of seeing his face. But what was wrong with his face? He was just an ordinary person—not one of those nonhumans. What danger lay there?
He frowned and silently repeated, “Investigation.” Previously in the maid quarters, that mental command had triggered the crystalline die’s chime, guiding him to the crucial mirror. This time… nothing—no tinkling, no rolling, no impact. Dice Maiden? Are you still there? Give me a sign!
He tried again, focusing his mind on “Investigation.” Still nothing—not a whisper of response. Had he exceeded the number of times he could actively trigger it? He’d only used it once in a single day before—perhaps now it wouldn’t work again.
Though he’d guessed at some of the die’s workings, his scant trials hadn’t revealed the full pattern. The die was like that neighbor’s black-silk twin-tail “leg playmate”: sometimes attentive, sometimes useless—always dropping the ball at the crucial moment.
Harlotte drew a deep breath. It seemed tomorrow would be the earliest he could decipher this kitchen’s rules—if he even had a tomorrow.
Sigh. If only Lord Prison could grant me a Nirvana of Ten-Thousand Trades… then I’d dare to chat with the Old Ones.