The late afternoon light streamed through the stained-glass windows of the chapel, casting broken patches of color on the flagstones like tangled lengths of silk. Crimson from the robes of the saints, azure from the heavens above—yet where the hues fell on the base of the Christ statue, they carried an inexplicable gray tinge, as though veiled by an unshakable mist.
When Harlotte pushed open the heavy oak door, its hinge groaned in a muffled “squeak.” He did not step inside at once, but instead bent to inspect the threshold. Before departing that morning, he had left a small trap.
Seeing that his footprint at the entrance remained undisturbed, he exhaled in relief: no one had entered since his morning devotions. Likely the other inhuman servants could not abide this last vestige of holiness, and so had never dared approach.
Of course, it might have been for other reasons—after all, “God is dead,” is he not? It seems unlikely that any fragment of divine power would linger in this chapel.
Unlike the devout original owner, Harlotte strode straight to the altar’s Christ statue. His gaze swept the chapel, searching—certain that the clatter of a die had not been mere coincidence that morning.
It was only after that die’s fall that he, as if guided by some divine hand, discovered his mother’s hidden note. Perhaps here, where inhuman feet could not tread, lay yet more clues he had failed to find.
Sure enough, as the faint echo of a die rolling sounded in his mind, the crystal twenty-sided die of Investigation began to shimmer at its core—then spun on the floor as though gripped and thrown again.
When it settled, the number was 2.
At that moment, Harlotte felt his senses sharpen; with a single glance, he saw the discordant gray within the chapel’s colors. It was the stone base of the statue.
The die was real—and he might even trigger it at will! The discovery thrilled him; maybe this die was a boon granted to a transmigrator, or a gift from some god.
If it truly were the “die maiden” from his memories, he could attempt to invoke its power: Will, Knowledge, Investigation, Jump, Strength, Speed, Constitution, Luck… if he could trigger the die… then there might yet be hope!
Even if he could not trigger it consciously, having the die at all was better than none.
In any case, this sliver of power cast the blackness of his future in the faintest dawn.
Certain the clue pointed to the statue’s base, he crouched and began inspecting the pedestal. Fortuitously enhanced, his keen senses soon alerted him to a half-sheet of yellowed parchment wedged in a crevice at the rear of the base.
The parchment was hidden with great care—inserted upright, its edges stained to match the stone. No one would notice unless they searched diligently.
Unlike the fully written note tucked in the Bible, this fragment bore only a few unfinished lines. He guessed his dear mother had been interrupted mid-writing.
“My beloved son, I’m sorry I cannot take you with me.”
“But remember: your mother loves you.”
“You must survive—never forget to… small…”
It was clear this fragment was not penned at the same time as the earlier note. Perhaps his mother, after leaving when he was five, returned to hide this, but was forced away before finishing.
The most frightening rules are those left incomplete.
He murmured, then withdrew the first note from the Bible to compare scripts. Confirmed: both bore his mother’s handwriting. His skin still crawled at the sight of those words.
Spreading both parchments on the stone step before the statue, he traced the lines with his fingertip. Memories of rule-horror stories from before his transmigration surfaced.
“The ‘may’ in a rule is often more dangerous than the ‘must not.’”
“Provisions that seem to benefit you are shackles in disguise.”
He’d laughed at such warnings in novels—but now, facing true peril, felt only despair. Unlike stories where one could negotiate terms, real rules were ironclad—just as in that book of otherworldly resurrection, where three unbreakable laws spelled hopelessness.
Ghosts are immortal; only ghosts can combat ghosts. To survive, one must learn their laws.
That bleak worldview was truly terrifying. As for protagonists with author-granted powers—there was no dread in their tales. How he envied them now.
Had he but a simulator, he need not feel such despair. With only one life, he dared not test limits. He must tread carefully, keep his guise intact.
Yet… his sister’s words still echoed: “Your sister loves you, always has, no matter who you are.” Those words chilled him.
His identity as a transmigrator was his greatest secret; the original’s incomplete memories forced constant vigilance. He thought himself cautious—but had Lorelei already sensed something? And if she had, might the other inhumans suspect too, yet remain silent for their own reasons?
Such thoughts only deepened his terror, a darkness enveloping him ever tighter. Fear of the unknown—of this world, this castle, these “family” members—gripped him.
He had come here because perhaps only his mother’s notes could be trusted. But could she truly be trusted? A woman who wagered her newborn son to inhuman beings—could she truly love?
He did not dare think too deeply, lest even that last anchor of trust slip away.
Shaking his head, he forced calm. This chapel, rarely entered by others, was a rare safe haven. Had it not been, his mother’s notes might have been discovered long ago.
He leaned against the cool base of the statue and closed his eyes to think.
“Jesus, why did You have to leave? If You were here, I wouldn’t be in this bind.” Harlotte had read the Bible: God was petty, but Jesus was mercy incarnate. The Trinity’s human face bore compassion for mankind—He bore sins and suffering for us.
Despite his complaints, this chapel remained the one place he could be alone. He owed a debt of thanks to Jesus.
But why did Mother sign that contract?
He sat on the step, back against the cold stone, absently picking at the dust. He had assumed his mother was coerced into her “wager contract” by these inhumans—but to unite vampires, demons, succubi, werewolves, of all creatures at odds, and bind them to care for a human heir until his eighteenth birthday… she could not have been an ordinary liar.
Perhaps she knew their weaknesses: Eve’s fear of silver, Ella’s frenzy at the full moon, Seraphina’s devotion to the contract. Maybe, like Lorelei, she wielded extraordinary power herself.
The thought jolted him; he shook his head as dust fell from the cracks. If his mother was also inhuman, was that parchment meant to free him… or to fatten him for slaughter? Like a “guide” in those horror tales, seeming to show a path out while leading one deeper into ruin.
Was he truly her child? Or merely a substitute? He could not ponder further, for fear of madness.
His gaze fell on the Bible’s cover, and he noticed a faint fingerprint on the flyleaf, as if pressed repeatedly. In the light, the smudge outlined a name: “Lorelei.” Perhaps another hint from his mother—but was it boon or bane?
Footsteps outside the chapel drew him back. He looked up to see a swirl of black at the doorway—Senior Maid Lilith, in a new maid’s uniform almost identical to Rem’s from Re:Zero.
Her black velvet dress hugged her figure; the neckline and cuffs rimmed with delicate white lace as if dusted with snow. Detached sleeves left her shoulders bare. The skirt fell just past her knees, revealing calves clad in thigh-high white stockings, feet in polished black low-heeled shoes dusted with grass—she had clearly come from the garden.
Harlotte could only admit his weaknesses had been cruelly exploited. No wonder a succubus knew how to make a man stand at attention.
“Master, are you in there? The young lady asked me to tell you dinner will be ready soon.” Lilith’s voice was softer than usual, dipped in honey. She did not enter, instead stepping forward to let her rose-scented perfume drift closer.
Harlotte stood and returned the parchments and Bible to their places. “Understood. I’ll be out shortly.”
At the doorway, Lilith advanced, this time without bowing—just lifting her chin, bright eyes fixed on him.
“Master, you’ve been in the chapel so long your hands must be cold. May I warm them for you?”
She moved beside him, slipping his hand between her breasts. The soft, supple warmth around his palm contrasted sharply with Lorelei’s slightly cool skin.
Though he strove to control himself, the exquisite sensation made him reluctant to withdraw his hand, and his body reacted. He did not notice that at the scent of her perfume, his pupils had bloomed a soft pink.
Sensing his change, Lilith leaned close, nibbling his earlobe. “Master, if you wish, you may come to my room any time tonight. As your Senior Maid, I am yours wholly—moreover, I bear the responsibility of guiding you through your coming-of-age ceremony before adulthood.”
Once more, the faint sound of a die falling echoed in his mind. The Twenty-sided Die of Will began to spin—and settled on 3.
A pale golden glow blossomed, and Harlotte’s hazy mind cleared. He stared into Lilith’s crimson eyes and saw his reflection. In those eyes glimmered a faint pink heart.
He stepped back, creating distance, and spoke evenly, “No, thank you. I must return to my room to organize my notes. I shall see you at dinner.”
Finding Harlotte untempted, Lilith’s smile faltered but she did not press further. She bit her lip and traced the edge of her tray with a fingertip. “Very well, Master. Should you change your mind, know my door is always open for you.”
She bowed and turned away; the hem of her dress brushed the steps like a dark butterfly taking flight. Her flawless face and perfect figure had been laid bare to her master—and now vanished around the corridor’s corner.
Harlotte exhaled, his palms damp with sweat. Too dangerous—a test so bold! How many maids could withstand such an ordeal?
The sun had sunk behind the castle’s western tower, stretching his shadow long across the stones like a chain binding him—and the castle—forever.