"It seems you're in some trouble, aren't you?"

The maid suddenly felt a chill.

A deep, bone-penetrating chill.

She stiffly raised her head and glanced.

Celicia cradled the unconscious Moen in her arms, surrounded by howling wind and snow.

The intent of killing poured out of Celicia like water breaking through a dam, unstoppable and overwhelming.

"Do you want me to help you solve this trouble?"

Celicia raised her hand, her gaze cold as forged iron.

"Solve... you, the trouble."

The maid's eyes widened in shock.

Without the flames from the King of Wither, that terrifying chill drilled directly into her flesh.

Pure white frost spread from the dagger, inching its way across her body.

Within just a few breaths, her entire arm had been frozen solid.

"Damn it."

A twisted expression overtook the maid's face.

She now saw that, thanks to Moen Campbell's self-sacrificing interference, her assassination mission had already failed.

Though the sudden disappearance of those flames nagged at her, this wasn't the time to dwell on such things.

She needed to leave this place—now!

With gritted teeth, she raised her only unfrozen left hand... and crushed her own frozen right arm into shards!

At the same time, an egg-sized sphere dropped from her feet and exploded instantly.

Thick white smoke that obscured both sight and senses engulfed the room in an instant.

Celicia's eyes narrowed slightly, wind and snow swirling wildly around her as she quickly dispersed the smoke.

But the maid was nowhere to be seen within the room, .

"Escaped, did she?"

Celicia turned her gaze toward the shattered window, and a hint of mockery flashed in her cold eyes.

"No, she can't escape."

"Don't you even realize what kinda place you're trying to escape from?"

---

"Damn you, Moen Campbell!"

The maid—or rather, the assassin Number Eight—was fleeing desperately through the shadows, clutching the arm stub where her limb had just been crushed.

"So close..."

"If I'd known it would end up like this, I should've killed him first, even if he wasn't the mission target!"

Her heart brimmed with frustration and bitter regret.

An almost perfect operation, ruined completely by the interference of an insignificant ant.

It would have enraged anyone.

But at least... it wasn’t over yet.

Number Eight lowered her eyes, listening to the sound of her blood dripping onto the ground, feeling the searing pain from her maimed body.

And oddly enough, amidst it all, she felt a trace of relief.

Yes, relief.

"Since Number Nine's death, have I started fearing death too?"

She laughed wryly at her own self-mockery.

But she quickly suppressed these useless emotions, focusing all her attention on her unfinished escape.

---

---

"I think I just heard someone say something about harming my precious son."

Number Eight's frantic escape came to an abrupt halt.

She had no choice but to stop—someone now stood in her path.

He was a man who radiated the majesty of a lion.

"The Lion King, Ron Campbell?"

Number Eight's face flushed pale in an instant.

"Oh? I wasn’t expecting our guest to know my idle title."

Ron Campbell reeked of alcohol, fresh from the "battlefield" where greedy hyenas surrounded him at every turn.

In his hand, he still held a delicate goblet.

Yet even dressed in the fine tailored attire of a noble, he could not conceal the terrifying aura he exuded.

It was the kind of killing intent forged only through walking out of mountains of corpses and seas of blood.

"However," Ron continued with his ever-amiable smile, though his eyes glinted coldly, like a predator toying with its prey, "I don't recall the Campbell household inviting you. So, my unannounced guest, what brings you here?

"Most importantly, enlighten me about what exactly you planned to do to my precious son.

"I promise, I will listen most... attentively."

---

Elsewhere in the grand duchy mansion, another figure in maid attire was also fleeing at high speed.

She was none other than Number Six, the assassin who had made her escape early upon realizing things were taking a turn for the worse.

"So is that the Lion King? Terrifying indeed. Luckily, I chose a different direction."

She cast a quick glance at where the horrifying aura that flared up, her eyes filled with lingering fear.

"Sorry, Number Eight, but you'll have to serve as the decoy for now. I can't afford to die here."

"Great King of Wither above, may your soul find its eternal rest in blighted red soil..."

She offered a fleeting prayer for Number Eight in her heart, then gritted her teeth and fought back the feeling of loss in her body to escape from the ducal manor with all possible haste.

---

---

"How curious. As professional assassins, isn’t it customary to take your own life to atone for failure?"

Number Six's pupils contracted sharply.

Her escape came to an outright stop.

Then, like a fish darting underwater, she twisted her body sharply mid-air, narrowly evading the attack from the shadow.

"Who's there?"

Ignoring the searing pain running across her cheek, she fixed her gaze intently on a nearby shadow.

"Who's there? Huh, I'm nothing but an insignificant maid."

A young woman in a black-and-white maid’s uniform calmly stepped forth, her figure illuminated by a sudden lightning strike that framed her solemn profile against the vast manor.

"A maid?"

Number Six scoffed, in the same maid uniform as she did.

"I've never seen such a dangerous maid before."

She touched the bloodied cut on her cheek with her finger, then brought it to her lips, tasting the metallic tang of iron.

That one strike just now—if she hadn't reacted in time—would've severed her head clean off.

This girl was far from ordinary.

Yet strangely... she gave off no sense of presence. No killing aura, no power—nothing.

Just the presence of a normal person.

"There's still much in this world you haven’t seen, just as I’ve never seen assassins as useless as you all." the young woman replied, her voice filled with feigned pity.

"I had put out such important information that early, but I didn't expect losers like you were to come."

"What do you mean by that?" Number Six demanded, forcibly suppressing the sense of dread that gripped her heart.

"What do I mean?"

The maid widened her eyes dramatically, her previously composed face twisting ever so slightly into an eerie expression.

"You mean to tell me you don’t know what I mean? You mean to tell me you don’t know how utterly pathetic you are?"

"This has nothing to do with you," Number Six forced out. "Aren’t you a maid serving the Duke’s household?"

"A maid? Of course I’m a maid." The maid chuckled lowly, her tone melancholic yet deranged.

"But you... you people are an absolute disappointment."

Ann folded her arms tightly across herself as if in anguish, her head hanging low.

"It was so close—so close to get rid of Celicia that bitch from Moen’s side forever."

Before Number Six’s horrified eyes, the maid’s poised and gentle demeanor started to fracture.

Her breaths came out heavier and heavier, and her lips twisted into a manic and alien grin.

"And yet you failed? Failed, and even injured young master Moen along the way."

"How could you... how dare you hurt him?"

"In this world, *I* am the only one allowed to hurt him!"

Boom!

A deafening clap of thunder masked the maid's terrifying roar.

"No, no. Unacceptable."

The maid—who moments ago looked unhinged—suddenly placed both hands on her face.

Slowly, she smoothed away her twisted, monstrous expression.

The madness disappeared, and in its place returned the calm, serene elegance of before.

"As young master Moen’s personal maid, how could I possibly act so rudely?"

With one final breath, she re-centered herself.

The now-composed maid lowered her arms and placed her hands gracefully over her abdomen, bowing to Number Six, who stood trembling in fear.

"Allow me to see you off on your journey, distinguished guest."

Behind Ann were countless blades, delicate yet razor-sharp and thin as gossamer, silently floated into the air, their tips aimed unerringly at Number Six, each shimmering with a ghostly, icy glow.