I Revived My Maid, Now She Hungers for My Blood

Pure, undiluted terror—like a bucket of ice water dumped over her head—flash-froze the girl’s limbs. But survival instinct kicked in, punching out one last burst of strength. She stumbled and scrambled forward, running blind.

So blind she didn’t notice the figure standing right around the corner. All she heard was the faint click of a trigger behind her.

Bang—!

At the exact same instant, she slammed into something. Hard. Her body buckled, balance gone, pitching forward.

The expected agony never came. Instead, a sharp, metallic ding rang out right next to her ear—a clean, bell-like chime of metal on metal. Right after, the sound of a bullet hitting the ground and skittering across the tile.

Shaking violently, the girl cracked her eyes open.

A silver-haired girl in a deep crimson maid’s uniform had materialized in front of her, back turned, posture ramrod straight. In her hands was a massive, two-handed sword with an antique design, its blade gleaming with a dark, blood-red sheen. The bullet that should’ve punched her ticket had been swatted aside by the flat of that broad blade, now lying harmless on the floor, skittering softly.

Before the girl could even process the reversal, the maid’s silhouette flickered—so fast it practically broke the limits of visual tracking. She vanished from her spot and, in the next instant, reappeared directly in front of the Gunman.

Shunk—!

No fancy flourishes. No wasted movement. Just a simple horizontal slash, as clean as a textbook swordsmanship demonstration. A crimson arc carved through the dim hallway with a cold, sterile gleam.

The gunman that had been relentlessly hunting her froze mid-motion. Then, following a perfectly smooth diagonal line, its upper torso slowly slid away from the lower half. The body crumpled to the ground with a heavy, dull thud.

But there was no spray of blood. No viscera. Just a chaotic, jumbled mess of grayish-white material spilling out of the cut—like cheap plaster stuffing crammed into a skin suit, rough and fibrous.

Am I... saved?

The girl sat collapsed against the cold wall, staring blankly at the “corpse” that was clearly no flesh-and-blood creature. Yet the fear clawing at her heart didn’t recede an inch. It didn’t just linger—it spread, morphing into something deeper, a bone-deep shiver.

She could still feel it. That cold, venomous lock-on, like a snake coiling around her spine. It was still there! Still wrapped around her!

“Ah!” The girl shrieked, scrambling to her feet. She didn’t spare a word of thanks for the silver-haired savior. She didn’t stop to question who these people were. She just turned, ready to sprint again. She had to get out! Right now! Out of the building! Out of the school!

She made it one step before her entire body seized up.

A cold, unyielding force clamped down on her limbs, binding her mid-stride. She looked down in horror. Countless near-invisible crimson threads—thin as spun blood—had snaked around her wrists, her ankles, her waist, locking her in place. The moment she instinctively struggled, the threads only bit deeper, the icy sensation bleeding through her thin summer uniform and into her skin, numbing her with a creeping paralysis.

“And just where do you think you’re going?”

A flat, almost indifferent voice came from behind her.

The girl twisted her neck, inch by terrified inch. A girl with an unnervingly pale complexion stood there, utterly still, as if she’d been there the whole time. A natural, aristocratic air hung about her. Her fingers were slightly splayed, and from the tips of each, dozens of those fine crimson threads stretched outward, anchoring directly into the snare holding the girl captive.

Pandora studied the trembling, sweat-soaked face in front of her, expression remaining utterly placid, not a single ripple of emotion. She stepped closer, footsteps whisper-quiet, and coldly scrutinized the face twisted by sheer terror.

“The gunman is dead. You don’t need to run anymore.” Her voice was flat, like she was stating a fact as basic as gravity.

“No! No!” The girl shook her head frantically, tears and sweat streaming down her face in a torrent. Her voice cracked into something shrill and hysterical. “He’s not dead! He’s going to kill me! He killed my classmate! Look! He’s right there! He’s still watching me!”

Pandora tilted her head slightly. Her gaze flicked down the hallway to the dried, pockmarked husk of the male student—the collateral damage from the earlier shot. Then she turned back to the girl, tone still perfectly even, utterly unbothered, like she was just making idle conversation.

“Is that so? You said the gunman killed your classmate.” She gave a tiny, almost curious tilt of her head, the girl’s terrified reflection shimmering in the depths of her eyes. “Well then, tell me: who was it?”

Pandora spoke slowly, enunciating every word to make sure the girl couldn’t possibly miss it.

The girl faltered. Her eyes darted away, evasive. With a trembling finger, she pointed at the dried-up corpse down the hall. “H-him... my classmate...” Her voice was hoarse, uncertain.

Pandora didn’t follow the finger. Didn’t even glance at the body. She just kept boring into the girl’s eyes, her voice soft yet carrying an irresistible, piercing weight. “If he’s your classmate, then what’s his name?”

The girl’s mouth opened, closed. Her lips quivered, a few choked rasping sounds escaping her throat, but no name came out. Not a single syllable.

Pandora didn’t give her a second to breathe, didn’t give her time to fabricate a lie. She stepped in half a pace, closing the distance. Her voice stayed unhurried, but the pressure was relentless, each question a step forward.

“Looks like you can’t name him. That’s fine, we can move on. For instance...” She let the pause hang just long enough to twist the knife. “Is that uniform you’re wearing really from this school?”

“Are you actually a student here?”

“What grade? What class?”

“Aside from your dead classmate over there, who else is in your class? Just give me one name. Any name.”

“Who are your teachers? What subjects do they teach?”