I Revived My Maid, Now She Hungers for My Blood

In truth, Pandora should have cared about that score. Attending classes diligently was her first and most fundamental goal, with “Combat Skills” as the absolute priority. She had the raw power but lacked the technique and instinct to use it perfectly.

But, as they say, plans never survive contact with reality. Her cherished Combat Skills class now felt utterly meaningless.

Because… goddamn it!!!

Lately, she’d been fighting every single night!

Who the hell knew what happened that night, after she gazed into that giant red eye? All she knew was that after falling into a deep, unnatural sleep, her consciousness was violently dragged into a bizarre, endless nightmare.

In this nightmare, there was only herself and a sword from the void that felt terrifyingly natural in her hand.

And all around her… were a goddamn ocean of enemies.

Zombies. But worse than the humanoid ones from the Orchards and the ruined city. Canine, feline, some with scythe-like mantis arms, even hulking, muscular ape-like things… A relentless tide of twisted, malformed monsters, like the dumping ground of a deranged creator who’d thrown all the rules out the window.

Their numbers were so vast they could overwhelm and tear her apart in seconds.

And the cruelest part? This dream didn’t end when she died. It didn’t mercifully wake her up. It just… reset. Over and over.

Dying in the nightmare didn’t mean freedom. She just respawned at the same starting point, only to be drowned and shredded by the next endless wave.

That first night, she died. A lot. So many times she lost count.

After countless cycles of despairing death and rebirth, she gave up. Gave up looking for an exit. Gave up hoping for release. She started, inevitably, to analyze. To seek, within that chaos of death, the most effortless, the swiftest, the most lethal… method.

A kind of violent beauty.

Within the endless slaughter, she found it. She channeled the boundless fury in her heart into cycles of cold, precise, efficient killing. Alone, with one sword, in an endless ocean of monsters, she unleashed her destructive desire until dawn.

After that, nothing changed.

Every night since had been consumed by the same nightmare. Her, alone, one sword, against an uncountable sea of malformed monsters. Slaughter until dawn.

The one small mercy? Her stamina in the nightmare seemed far less limited than in reality, recovering much faster. She could recklessly hone her skills there. Killing monster after monster in faster, more precise, more efficient ways.

And, more importantly—the skills learned in that dream, soaked in countless deaths, didn’t fade upon waking like ordinary dreams. They were carved into the depths of her soul, more permanent than any real memory.

But this overabundance of pure killing instinct began to backfire in a bizarre way.

This was a Combat Skills class. The simulation was designed to help apprentices master the techniques taught in the curriculum. The Demon Hunter instructors who programmed it never anticipated someone like Pandora—an incomprehensible outlier.

The pod’s evaluation criteria—completion time, whether techniques were “standard”—were rigid rules that now shackled her. They prevented her from using her true capabilities.

For example, killing a medium-sized zombie dog lunging from the side.

The system’s “standard answers” might be: Side-step, parry with momentum, thrust at the throat. Or: Slap its snout with the flat of the blade, then split its skull while it’s stunned.

Both were fine. Standard. Teachable.

But in Pandora’s mind, countless better methods flashed—more effortless, more efficient, more final than these “standard answers.” Her instinct was to use the optimal killing solutions forged in the nightmare.

The pod’s system judged this as an “operational error” and gave no points.

So she had to fight her own instincts. She had to deliberately choose one of the system’s techniques—methods not bad in themselves, but utterly inefficient for her—and execute it clumsily.

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The result? This vast library of pure killing memory was now sabotaging her performance. Completing the test required tremendous mental energy to suppress her instincts, to avoid being corrupted by techniques she’d long since proven “inefficient” through countless nightmare deaths.

Mired in this endless internal conflict, her test time naturally slowed to a crawl…

But so what?

Did it affect her real strength?

Not one bit.

On the contrary, over the past half-month, thanks to this goddamn, never-ending nightmare, her strength had made another terrifying leap. She could control and unleash her power better, more precisely. If she faced that peak second-rank “Living Iron Golem” from the manor again…

Even though she was, on paper, just a first-rank freshman… she was confident she could dismantle it completely within five minutes.

Why not “kill” it? Because simple “killing” held no challenge for her anymore.

“Pandora…” The bell rang, signaling the end of Combat Skills. The heavy soundproof door groaned upward. Aurora, like an eager puppy spotting its owner, immediately hurried to Pandora’s side, her eyes expectant. “Shall we go eat together later?”

Looking into Aurora’s bright, expectant eyes, Pandora sighed inwardly and finally gave a small nod.

As for why Betty wasn’t included… honestly, over the past two weeks, she hadn’t even felt like bringing Aurora along that much.

Since officially becoming an apprentice, Pandora had consciously kept her distance from the people tied to her old life at the manor. This wasn’t personal. It was just her choice.

Some of them were eager to break away from old dependencies and embrace their new identities. Others missed the stable, simple dynamics of before, resenting a life where everything was uncertain and solely up to them.

They had their choices. Pandora had hers.

Her thinking was simple: she didn’t want to maintain that tight, subordinate relationship built on past status anymore. Too tiring. Too much trouble.

A hierarchical relationship came with authority, sure, but it also came with responsibility. She’d be responsible for the safety and futures of those who followed her.

For a transmigrator with a modern mindset, accustomed to individual freedom… that was just too much hassle.

Did she particularly enjoy authority? Not at all. Just over a month ago, she was a noble girl living a comfortable life—reading, gardening, having tea. A carefully kept pet in the viscount’s manor. Now, while her strength meant she could gather followers and make waves, she had zero desire to.

She just wanted to live her own life and grow stronger at her own pace. She had no plans to gather a crew and chase power.

After making that choice, most people naturally drifted apart. An unspoken mutual understanding.

Betty was one. They still talked, but it was more of a casual, friendly connection now. She’d quietly integrated into another small group of freshmen, making real friends of her own.

Only Aurora was different.

Maybe it was the words Pandora spoke by the hunter’s cabin that stuck with her—even now, she hadn’t joined any clique. She still sought Pandora out, whether there was a reason or not.

But since Aurora was this persistent… Pandora didn’t have a real reason to refuse. Just one person. Someone as single-minded as Aurora was still manageable.

“Let’s go, then,” she said softly, standing up and heading toward the cafeteria.

………………

On the way, Aurora chattered enthusiastically about amusing incidents from her “Monster Mount Riding” class. She imitated a certain pig-like mount that could only fly facing the wind—docile, a bit silly—and its comical, uncontrolled bucking mid-air, mimicking it so well she made herself laugh.

Other times, she shared eerie rumors from “Swordsmanship” class: the “girls’ bathroom haunting” (turned out to be just a pervert) and the “library oddities” (which seemed genuinely supernatural)...

Pandora’s reactions were mostly the same—an occasional perfunctory “oh,” “really,” or “then what,” punctuated by the yawns she couldn’t suppress.

She was exhausted. Bone-tired. Even Aurora’s genuine humor couldn’t cut through the fog. She felt like a plant drained of all vitality.

Their destination wasn’t the main public cafeteria but a teaching building. Elsa was in her “Service” class, which should be ending soon. Elsa couldn’t be too far from Pandora for long, so they had to pick her up first.

However, only halfway there, near an area of artificial woodland sprung from abandoned factory foundations, Pandora suddenly stopped.

She glanced at the teaching block ahead, then turned to Aurora. “Aurora,” her voice was flat. “Go get Elsa. I’ll wait here for you both.”

“What’s wrong?” Aurora was puzzled. “You—”

“Just remembered something I need to do.”

Aurora followed Pandora’s gaze, looking around. The place wasn’t busy. A gravel path cut through dense, fast-growing trees of an unknown species. It was scenic, but foot traffic was light.

Was there really… something to do here?

She felt a stab of worry, but seeing Pandora’s unwavering expression, she just nodded firmly and broke into a run toward the building.

It wasn’t long before the “something” Pandora had anticipated arrived.

“Pandora. You shouldn’t have sent Aurora away.”

A familiar voice came from behind her. “At least that loyal hound could have bought you some time.”

Pandora slowly turned.

An acquaintance—Arthur. And several of his followers, who clearly weren’t here for a friendly chat.

Unlike Pandora, Arthur had never considered cutting ties with his old subordinates. He still kept the few loyal lieutenants from his time as “King.”

But…

“Do you have a grudge against me?” Pandora spoke first, her tone casual, as if asking about the weather. Her sleep-deprived, faintly red-rimmed eyes scanned Arthur’s face. “I’ve noticed you following me. Several times. Looks like you really want to… have a private chat?”

Arthur was visibly taken aback. He hadn’t expected her to know. It was true—every other time, Aurora, like a dutiful guard dog, had escorted Pandora right to her doorstep. He’d never had a clean shot.

He quickly masked his surprise. A nasty smile, twisted with jealousy and hate, spread across his face.

“That’s right!” he admitted. Behind him, his companions cracked their knuckles. “I do want… a private chat!”

Arthur continued, his words beginning to tumble out in a rush. “Want to know why? Because of my father! My family! Because of that man who called himself a ‘Viscount’—the one who brought endless suffering to our home! I hate him! And I hate his daughter! I thought I had a chance… a chance to replace him, become the new lord! But you! You ruined everything!”