I Revived My Maid, Now She Hungers for My Blood

The guard took the card, glanced it over, and let out a low grumble under his breath. “Exchange students these days... restrictions are way too lax, coming and going at all hours...”

His voice was barely above a mutter—clearly just private grousing, not actual defiance against students packing this kind of privileged status.

Pandora’s gaze drifted downward, tracing the finely crafted card. She understood perfectly. This was the benefit of working with a professional cleanup crew. A specific, limited, privilege-carrying identity like “International Exchange Student” was theoretically only available to certain niche groups.

Without squad members specializing in linguistics and data processing—who could rapidly familiarize themselves with this society’s rules and, say, hypnotize the right power-holding principal to secure a fully legitimate, legally airtight identity—acquiring such an identity wouldn’t have been this seamless.

This kind of identity forgery, or rather identity acquisition, was far more elegant and secure than a simple disguise. She could have scrounged up an identity on her own, sure, but never this seamlessly, plucking such a perfect foothold from the school’s labyrinthine records.

Professionals truly made it effortless.

They crossed the empty campus. Classes were in session, muffled lectures drifting from the main academic building. The hallways were bare of students, only the occasional janitor or a sharply dressed administrator in a formal suit passing by.

The looks thrown their way were mostly careful envy, sometimes laced with a trace of barely concealed sycophancy.

Pandora ignored the stares, leading the two straight through the long corridors and up the staircase to the rooftop. The stairwell was silent save for the echo of their three sets of footsteps.

The rooftop door was usually locked, but today the heavy padlock hung loose, merely resting on the latch. Pandora pushed the iron door open and stepped out onto the rooftop.

Empty. Nothing but the brutal summer sun beating down without a scrap of shade.

Pandora pulled a delicate brass-toned pocket watch from the inner pocket of her vest—a piece perfectly in keeping with the era’s style. She flipped the case open, revealing the fine hands and markings inside. She noted the hands aligning at a specific, precise angle.

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of Pandora’s mouth. “Looks like we’re right on time.”

As the words left her lips, the dust motes in the air seemed to quiver. Then, wisps of coal-scented steam materialized out of thin air. A heavy, rhythmic clatter—clack-clack, clack-clack—drew closer, as if approaching from another dimension entirely.

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Betty stood by, watching the thickening steam billow before them. “Yes, My Lady,” she answered softly.

Accompanied by a low, muffled steam whistle, an entirely black Victorian-style locomotive slid out from the roiling grayish-white mist.

Wheels screeched and clattered against the rails in that piercingly rhythmic metallic beat before finally grinding to a halt at the station platform. That platform had absolutely no business existing on a school rooftop.

The carriage doors slid open. Peering inside, it wasn’t the familiar rows of neatly arranged seats. Instead, the car was crammed with black packages of all sizes.

The wrapping material was odd—neither cloth nor leather—its surface smooth but utterly matte, exuding a closed-off, oppressive aura, as if it could completely seal whatever was inside from the outside world.

The conductor who stepped out wasn’t the faceless, white-masked figure with elegant, fluid movements from Pandora’s memory. This one wore a black mask.

The Black-Masked Conductor was taller and burlier than the white-masked variety, nearly scraping the top of the carriage doorframe. His bearing was colder, more severe, tinged with an inhuman rigidity.

Pandora’s mind clicked. She’d ridden the train twice before—both passenger lines specifically for transporting people. The conductors had all worn white masks. This one was clearly a dedicated cargo train for hauling supplies. Its hallmark: the conductor wore a black mask.

As for the rumored third type—the train with the Red-Masked Conductor—Pandora had only ever caught whispers and fragments of hearsay. She had no idea what its purpose was, or even if it truly existed.

While she mused, Betty stepped forward. She spoke in hushed tones with the Black-Masked Conductor, exchanging rapid-fire phrases in a bizarre, clipped cadence—clearly some kind of verification cipher.

The Black-Masked Conductor gave a stiff nod, utterly silent. He turned and walked back into the depths of the parcel-stuffed carriage with that rigid, mechanical gait.

Moments later, he hauled out several larger, conspicuously heavy-looking black packages.

Betty glanced back at Pandora, her eyes seeking confirmation. Pandora nodded. She stepped forward, helping Betty take the packages.

They were heavier than expected. The surface was icy to the touch, the texture unsettling—not fabric or leather, but some kind of dense, specially treated material.

Once all the designated packages were unloaded from the carriage and stacked neatly on the rooftop, the Black-Masked Conductor gave another stiff, jerky nod, confirming the handoff was complete. Then he turned and marched back into the carriage with that same unvarying stride.

The doors slid shut behind him.

A short, deep blast from the locomotive’s whistle followed. The wheels began to turn, that familiar clack-clack, clack-clack resuming. The train glided forward, pulling the phantom station platform along with it as it receded back into the gray-white mist, vanishing entirely.

Through the entire process, the Black-Masked Conductor hadn’t uttered a single word—far more taciturn and oppressive than his white-masked counterparts.

“So... this is your first supply drop?” Pandora hefted the particularly hefty black package in her hands, gauging its weight and the rough outline of its contents.

“Yes, My Lady,” Betty answered respectfully, already counting the parcels on the ground.

Pandora glanced at her. “Betty, your cleanup squad and I are collaborators now. You don’t need to call me ‘My Lady’ like before.”

Betty’s hands paused mid-motion. A complicated expression flickered across her face. She lowered her head, staring at the tips of her shoes for a few silent seconds.

Strictly speaking, in terms of status, neither of them was still the noble young miss and the kitchen maid from that estate anymore.

The old chains of class had shattered the moment they’d left the Orchard, and they’d both claimed new identities and fresh starts at the Demon Hunter Academy.

Yet…