I Revived My Maid, Now She Hungers for My Blood

Heat.

Blistering, oppressive heat.

Sunlight that felt like it was actively trying to roast skin poured down relentlessly from a cloudless, azure sky, bleaching the ground white. This was the rooftop of a building, the air shimmering and distorting in the heat waves.

Suddenly, without a single warning—

Right above the empty concrete slab in the center of the roof, space itself warped.

Instantly, a plume of gray vapor, thick with choking coal soot, manifested out of thin air! The mist was dense, almost solid, reeking of sulfur and half-burned tar, swelling and billowing outward at a visible rate.

Deep within the mist, a silhouette began to take shape. At first, it was just a blurry shadow, but the details sharpened quickly.

It was an old-fashioned train platform.

Victorian-era cast-iron pillars supported a curved glass canopy, a thin layer of coal dust settling on some of the panes. The platform floor was paved with grayish-white flagstones, its edges marked by black-and-yellow warning paint.

Gas lamps—a row of brass gas lamps lined the edge of the platform, their halos glowing a dim yellow in the thick fog, hissing softly as they burned.

Whooo—

A long, muffled whistle pierced through the fog.

Right after, a rhythmic, heavy mechanical clatter rang out.

Clack-clack!

Clack-clack!

Clack-clack!

Massive metal wheels ground against the tracks, accompanied by roaring plumes of white steam.

A steam locomotive slowly glided out from the abruptly spawned gray mist.

It was painted pitch-black, the front boasting a classic streamlined design. Brass emblems and piping were inlaid along its sides, and the carriage was covered in the scratches and soot of a long journey.

The train came to a precise halt at this jarringly out-of-place platform.

Pssshhh!

High-pressure steam shrieked from the valves beneath the car.

The doors slid open.

Unlike the choking gray soot from earlier, a pale blue vapor was the first thing to surge wildly out from the open doors, churning and rolling under the scorching sun.

A figure stepped out, treading on the billowing smoke.

It was a woman. Tucked into her waist was an exquisitely crafted, small hookah, a few wisps of pale blue smoke still drifting from its mouthpiece.

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She had gorgeous red hair, blazing like fire under the sun, with a few stray locks framing her ears. Red lips, white teeth, delicate features—yet a languid weariness lingered between her brows.

She stepped off the train onto the grayish-white flagstones, her posture seemingly casual, even sloppy. But a closer look would reveal the muscles of her exposed neck and arms ticking with subtle tension.

And her amber eyes—like a fox hunting in the wilderness—harbored an instinctual, unrelenting vigilance of her surroundings beneath that lazy facade.

She was “The Smoking Fox,” Poppy.

Poppy alighted, narrowing her eyes as her gaze swept the perimeter of the rooftop. She didn’t leave the vicinity of the doors immediately. Instead, she stood still, tilting her head slightly, seemingly feeling the air currents and the ripples an ordinary person couldn’t perceive.

A few seconds later, she retracted her gaze and spoke gravely into the carriage, “Perimeter’s secure. You can come down.”

At her words, the others filed out one after another.

Six people in total, men and women, looking to be in their early twenties. However, their demeanor was incredibly steady, their gazes sharp—clearly not the green, naive freshmen who had just entered the Academy.

In reality, the most junior among them was an old apprentice with at least two years under their belt, and their combat power was uniformly Rank-2.

Two of them possessed a distinctly more tyrannical aura than the other four, already faintly touching the ceiling of Rank-2, perhaps not far from breaking through to Rank-3.

After stepping off, the six kept quiet, naturally forming a defensive formation that looked loose but perfectly supported one another. Some faced outward on guard, while others swiftly began analyzing the specific details of their environment.

It was glaringly obvious that all six maintained a healthy level of vigilance toward their surroundings.

Poppy nodded inwardly at the sight.

Even though she had already used her special abilities to confirm the perimeter was temporarily safe, this was a completely unfamiliar Fragment World, after all. No one could guarantee an accident wouldn’t happen the very next second.

While this all-Rank-2 squad wasn’t the main force for this anomaly cleanup op, their caution and discipline drastically reduced the trivial distractions and potential risks she had to manage as one of the main players.

As expected of the squad “Sterling” had rounded up.

With that in mind, Poppy looked up, her gaze shifting back to the carriage door.

Following the six, another person stepped down.

It was a figure who looked rather young. Her shorter stature and slightly childish face made her look a few years younger than her actual age.

What drew the eye most were her hair and eye colors.

Snow-white hair, like the purest first snow, gleamed almost blindingly bright under the scorching sun. Even her eyebrows and eyelashes were the exact same pure white. Her violet eyes were deep and icy, like two frozen lakes.

Clearly, what was unique about the girl wasn’t just her skin tone; it was a manifestation of albinism. However, after becoming a Corpse-Plague Acolyte, the negative effects of the disease—aside from this unchangeable exterior—had become negligible.

“Sterling, hurry up,” Poppy urged, watching the figure slowly descend the steps. “The train is leaving.”

The “Train” schedules were notoriously strict; they never lingered at any station for long.

“No rush.” Ophelia Sterling’s voice rang out, as cold and flat as her demeanor. “There’s still someone who hasn’t gotten off.”

Poppy’s expression instantly turned helpless, tinged with a hint of confusion.

Their squad for this op had exactly eight people. Her, Ophelia Sterling, plus this six-man Rank-2 squad. That was it. Aside from herself, everyone was already off the train.

Who else could there be?

Sometimes she really just wanted to sigh. Don’t let this “Sterling” girl fool you—when they chatted on Palmfiend, she could occasionally string together a few logically sound sentences. But in real life? She was always like this: unflappable, acting as if she’d pause to straighten her collar even if the sky was falling.

It was infuriating!

Poppy took a deep breath, preparing to muster what little patience she had left to soothe her growing irritation.

Right then, her eyes snapped wide open.

Her gaze, yanked by some invisible thread, bypassed Ophelia Sterling’s shoulder and locked onto the doorway of the carriage.

There, standing just outside the door, were two more people.

“Hold on,” Poppy’s voice carried an undisguised shock. She even instinctively dropped her hand to the hookah at her waist.

“And who the hell are you two...?”