The young lady stood in the garden, her expression vacant as she observed her knights assembled before her.
Dressed in their gleaming armor, they stood in complete silence, motionless like statues. Not a twitch, not a breath.
It was then that she spoke, her voice soft yet commanding, a whisper that carried the weight of unshakable authority.
"Fly," she ordered one of the knights.
The word hung in the air, absurd and impossible. If there was any sane servant in this mansion, their imdiate reaction should be confusion. A human knight, flying? Even these bizarre, soulless beings had their limits—or so I thought.
One of the knights, faceless behind his helt, stepped forward without hesitation. He moved to the center of attention, standing tall as if preparing for sothing monuntal.
But he didn't speak, didn't react. He simply stood there, frozen as the seconds ticked by, the weight of the impossible command settling on him like a shroud.
Minutes passed, the stillness unbearable. Then, with a single slow nod, the knight lowered his head.
Failure.
"You failed to enact my order."
The young lady's eyes, dull and detached, showed no surprise. It was as if she had anticipated this, expected him to fail. And now, having confird that even her perfect servant was fallible, she moved without hesitation.
"Execution," she declared with chilling finality.
The words were hollow, delivered with the sa tone one might use to comnt on the weather. There was no emotion, no anger, no satisfaction. Just a cold, indifferent acknowledgnt of the knight's failure.
The condemned knight knelt before her, his movents eerily smooth, as if this was simply another duty to perform. He didn't plead, didn't resist. He simply obeyed, sinking to the floor with practiced grace.
The young lady approached him, her steps light and effortless. She reached out, taking the sword from the knight standing next to the condemned one, her small hands gripping the hilt with surprising ease—I noticed a great share of dexterity in her movent and how she weaved her sword in the air.
With a swift, fluid motion, she raised the blade high above her head. The silver glinted in the sunlight, catching for a mont before it ca down in a clean arc.
The sound was soft—a whisper of steel through flesh. The knight's head fell with a quiet thud onto the grass, rolling a few inches before settling. Blood pooled slowly, creeping across the surface like a stain on the perfection of the noble garden.
And then, silence.
The young lady wiped the sword on the fallen knight's tunic, her face expressionless. There was no triumph, no remorse—just a cold, detached efficiency as if this was nothing more than routine. She returned the blade to the remaining knight, who took it without a word or gesture of acknowledgnt.
The body remained where it fell, lifeless and crumpled, but she paid it no mind. It was just another disposable part of the estate. Following it, was a party of maids and footn, performing their cleaning service.
With that, she turned and walked away, leaving the garden as pristine and perfect as it had been monts before.
There was really no reason to kill that knight. Did she kill him because she was bored? From the look of it, this wasn't her first ti.
At one point, I was slightly hoping that the reason why she killed that knight was fueled with self-preservation, and not a spilling ennui.
Sowhere inside my heart, there was a selfish wish to connect with her in so way.
And what better reason than the two of us having the sa kind of psychotic obsession that was forced onto us, sothing horrendous that we must commit once in a while to keep ourselves sane and functioning?
Of course, that was only wishful thinking.
Aside from that, I found another detail about the servant of this estate.
It was faint and hard to notice, to the point that I needed to review and inspect the place of the cri to realize what was going on.
There was a hint of arcane dust strewn around when the knight was beheaded. I knew these dust well, thanks to my constant VIP seats to many of my secretary spellcasting shenanigans.
And now there was no mistaking it.
The gears of this estate were spun by arcane magic, casted by soone or sothing similar to Kuzunoha in nature.
And just as I thought that it couldn't get anymore coincidental, the mansion was t with an eccentric visit.
Afternoon erged over the horizon, but the skies over the mansion darkened in a strange, sudden shift—an unnatural twilight that swallowed the sun without warning.
A chill crept through the air, and the estate, always unnervingly still, seed to sink into an even deeper silence. I sensed the change imdiately, though the young lady did not react. She sat at her desk, embroidering sothing intricate with chanical precision, her face expressionless as always.
The first sign of the visitor was the faintest tremor in the walls.
The heavy oak door to the drawing room creaked slowly open, as if moved by so unseen force, though no one yet appeared. A gust of cold wind followed, swirling the delicate lace curtains beside the window.
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Then, without ceremony, the visitor entered.
An old woman though not withered by age in the way mortals wither. No, this was sothing different, sothing tiless.
Her face was lined and severe, yet her eyes glimred with a sharp, almost unsettling brightness. Her hair, long and silver, fell in thick, wild strands around her shoulders, and the rest of her figure was wrapped in an earth-colored robe that seed woven from moss and shadows.
Her nails were long and yellowed, and as she stepped forward, the faint clinking of small charms—dried bones, twisted bits of iron—echoed in the quiet room.
There was no mistaking it, as cliche as it sounded: this woman was a witch.
The young lady didn't even flinch at her arrival. Instead, she slowly set down her embroidery hoop, folding her hands neatly in her lap as she looked up at the witch with a serene, almost expectant smile.
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