I Revived My Maid, Now She Hungers for My Blood

Betty spoke again, her voice soft but carrying a strange, tremulous weight. “It’s not for any other reason. It’s because you are Rank-3, My Lady, and I am only Rank-2. And this gap... this may only be the beginning.”

She looked at Pandora, her eyes earnest, laced with a barely perceptible sorrow.

“The distance between us is even greater now than it was back at the manor. Rank-3... that might be the ceiling I’ll spend my entire life scraping against, burning every last shred of effort and luck just for a sliver of a chance to touch it.”

“And yet, for you... it is merely a starting point.”

“Addressing you as ‘My Lady’ is the most basic respect owed to the strong.”

Pandora listened in silence. She didn’t argue. Whether in the Ruined City then or here now, it was a personal choice. Betty’s freedom. Or perhaps... Aurora’s freedom.

All she could do—if Aurora chose to keep following, to remain her knight—was try to uphold her own duty as the one being served, to pull Aurora along. That was the limit. Nothing more. So many things, a person simply had to handle on their own.

Shaking off the thought, Pandora refocused. The main reason she’d come personally was because part of this supply drop was specifically for her. Or rather, it nominally belonged to the cleanup squad, but was primarily for her use and under her keeping.

The core wasn’t food, weapons, or standard provisions. It was the precise, delicate, and absolutely essential tools of a potion-maker—instruments. These instruments were highly valuable, costing a hefty sum on the Academy’s exchange list, and were infuriatingly prone to damage in transit.

Hence, she, the primary intended user, had to receive and inspect them in person.

Now, with practiced ease born of her expertise in potion-making, Pandora swiftly separated the instrument packages she needed from the rest of the supplies, stacking them carefully aside.

To prevent the delicate glassware and precision components from getting jostled apart on the way back, she’d also brought along soft cloths and cushioning padding.

With the critical supplies secured, the three of them prepared to head back the way they’d come.

The whole way, Miss Anomaly had docilely held Pandora’s hand, head down, following with light, careful steps.

Compared to a month ago, when she’d been in a state of perpetual, hair-trigger terror—on the verge of shattering or bolting at any second—she’d clearly changed.

At least outwardly, she now more closely resembled a quiet, introverted normal girl than anything else.

It was just the hand. She still clung to Pandora’s fingers with an almost desperate, tight grip, refusing to loosen for a single moment, as if it were her only solid tether to a world that terrified her.

This time, they skipped the streetcar. At the school gate, Pandora casually hailed one of the ubiquitous yellow taxis crawling through the city.

The cleanup squad’s Orchard outpost wasn’t located on campus proper. More precisely, it wasn’t on the new campus. It was on the old campus—the site the high school had occupied before it was renamed “Ashford Heights Modern High School.”

There was a fair bit of distance between the old and new campuses. Getting from the relatively secluded old campus, where transportation was also less convenient, to the bustling new campus was best done via the punctual streetcars running the main lines.

But going the other way? Outside the new campus, in a district with a well-developed road network and taxis idling on every corner, there was no need to trudge to a fixed streetcar stop. Flagging a cab was clearly easier and a hell of a lot faster.

The engine turned over with a rattling groan, and the taxi pulled into traffic.

As they drove, the scenery outside the window shifted like a slowly unrolling stage backdrop. It started with immaculate, quiet, tree-lined campus blocks—manicured lawns and standalone homes with little gardens, the occasional well-dressed woman strolling her dog.

Gradually, the streets widened. The buildings climbed higher. Massive department store windows showcased the latest fashions and electronics. Neon signs blazed eye-catchingly even in broad daylight. Streetcars, cars, and pedestrians tangled at intersections—loud, chaotic, bursting with energy.

As the taxi drove on, the view began to shift again. The grand avenues fell behind. Buildings shrank. Polished stone facades gave way to dirty, drab brown brick. Rust-streaked metal fire escapes clung to the sides of buildings in increasing numbers—ugly scars crawling across the architecture.

Trash began to pile up on street corners, wafting an unpleasant odor.

When the taxi finally turned down a relatively quiet street, the pavement was noticeably rougher. The buildings on either side were overtly aged, red brick walls left bare, some bricks already weathered and crumbling. The street was dead quiet, a stark contrast to the bustling districts they’d just passed through.

It rolled to a stop at the curb in front of an old, weary-looking five-story red-brick building.

Once the engine cut out, the silence around them was unnerving. Only the distant, indistinct whistle of some factory drifting on the air.

The red-brick building before them truly did look its age. Its walls were swathed in dead, dried-out vines, the brown tendrils twisting and coiling like the veins on an old man’s arm. A layer of dusty grime filmed the windows, some panes even spiderwebbed with fine cracks.

From the outside, it was indistinguishable from any other forgotten edifice quietly rotting in this old district. Which was, in itself, an excellent disguise.

Pandora paid the fare, took the change from the driver, and shut the taxi door with a gentle click. Stepping down, she guided Miss Anomaly onto the sidewalk. The curb’s edge was cracked, a few clumps of stubborn weeds poking through the gaps.

Betty followed close behind, hefting the portion of supplies meant for the cleanup squad.

The first door was the old but sturdy wooden kind, set with a brass number plate already darkened with tarnish. It opened with an ordinary key, the lock producing a crisp “click” as it turned.

Behind it was a cramped, short hallway.

At the far end of the hall was the base’s true entrance: a much heavier door that gleamed with a cold, metallic sheen. Embedded in its center was a strange, circular metal disc, etched with dense, cryptic patterns.

Pandora pressed the Palmfiend gently against the metal disc. About two seconds later, the faint glow died. Click—a deeper, heavier, mechanical unlocking sound echoed through the hall.