Harlotte nodded and asked no more. He knew pressing further could reveal his ignorance; confirming three nonhuman identities was enough for an initial assessment. He lifted his chin and offered a polished noble’s smile. “Thank you, Teacher. I understand.”
Madam the scholar closed her book and rose. “That concludes today’s lesson. If you have questions, ask me tomorrow.”
Alone in the study, Harlotte leaned back in the soft chair and watched the sun sink in the western sky. The more information he gathered, the more he believed the eighteen-year deadline was not an inescapable demise.
They say where venom dwells, antidote lies within ten paces. Since nonhumans walk this world, a counterforce must exist—perhaps the Inquisition itself.
Yin and yang balance all things; even before transmigration he had seen the bleakest resurgences of the occult—yet spirit-wardens still emerged.
And his sister’s power… might yet aid him. He would find a chance to question her subtly.
Still, “God is dead” was a terrifying claim. Legends such as this often prove true. That blood-red, single-eyed star—if it belonged to those beings, toppling God might indeed be possible. And a “brother of Jesus” arriving? So the Celestial King comes too?
Shaking off these tangled thoughts, Harlotte left the classroom. He resolved to investigate the scream’s source. It had sounded male—his first thought was the castle guards.
He descended toward the main gate where sentries stood. On seeing their master, they dropped to one knee and struck their chests in salute.
“Did you hear any screams just now?”
Harlotte wasted no courtesy, addressing the two kneeling guards directly. Here, politeness was weakness—equality in this world often invited death.
The quicker guard answered, “Young Master, I heard no screams.”
The other guard, slower to react, opened his mouth—then was nudged by his comrade, who spoke for him: “Neither did I. We’ve been on post the whole time.”
“Oh? Is that so?” Harlotte narrowed his eyes, his voice heavy with pressure.
“Truly, we heard nothing, Young Master.”
In that moment the guards trembled with fear. Their heads bowed; their armor rattled in terror.
Harlotte drew a slow breath and ceased questioning. He could see that even if they knew, they dared not admit it.
Fifty meters into the castle’s interior, a click echoed in his mind—the crystal die of “Listening” had landed on a 5. A pale golden glow flickered in his consciousness, and he heard the guards’ whispered exchange:
“Phew, you scared me, Rot.”
“Good we said nothing. Here, everyone must obey the rules. Obey, and nothing befalls you.”
“There are no screams in this castle. If you hear any, treat them as illusions—right?”
“Right. No matter who asks, claim you heard nothing. Lately, people break rules and vanish without a trace.”
“At least screams give warning. The ones who disappear silently—those terrify me.”
“You keep your wits, boy. The castle has many rules—break one, and no one can save you!”
Harlotte’s pupils constricted. Even the guards were bound by strict laws.
This revelation was priceless. The die’s guidance had let him eavesdrop across tens of meters—truly uncanny.
He mused that perhaps this die was his transmigration boon. Who else received a godly die, unseen yet guiding him? Unusual, but undeniable: it had led him to his mother’s letter and now to these guard secrets—vital to his survival.
Those gate guards likely knew only that breaking rules spelled doom. They knew not why, nor would they tell. He must inspect their quarters—and those of the maids and the kitchen staff as well.
If his suspicions held true, each domain would hide its own codified rules. In a castle of nonhumans, rigid enforcement was essential—spoken whispers alone would mutate over time, and with each retelling, more deaths would follow.
But to explore those quarters, he needed an excuse. A noble heir could not wander servants’ rooms at will. He would craft a plausible reason, lest his “family” suspect.
Undoubtedly, it would be difficult. Yet inquiry was imperative: when servants perished for rule-breaking, did the castle’s magic slay them, or did his so-called family do so?
The answer mattered. Living with a few treacherous “family” members was agony enough—any further threat would magnify this place’s danger by at least thirty percent.
Steeling his resolve, Harlotte turned toward the dining hall. Whatever transpired, he must remain the obedient heir. If discovered to be an imposter, his “family” might discard all pretense—imprisonment or being devoured awaited, both fates he could not endure.