I Revived My Maid, Now She Hungers for My Blood

She paused, her gaze shifting to the Garden outside the window. The ease in her voice vanished.

“And…”

“the plan doesn’t work without you.”

With that, the joking tone was gone, replaced by complete sincerity.

Nicole wasn’t surprised. If the woman walking into the lion’s den was already planning her exit, what reason did she have to say no? She was just support. She wasn’t the one risking her neck.

Nicole took a deep breath. The cold air hit her lungs like a jolt. Her blood raced, and with it, a familiar electric tingle spread through her skull.

It was the feeling of her mind hitting redline. Full throttle.

She would throw everything she had at this. Every scrap of knowledge, every experience, every ounce of her calculating power. She would make her part of the plan flawless.

“Good.” Nicole’s voice was sharp, certain. “Then we don’t waste time. We move fast.”

Ember nodded. The last trace of a smile vanished, replaced by a look of grim focus.

“Next, I’ll compile a more detailed file,” Nicole said, her thoughts racing. “Building layouts, road networks, quick-access routes, every possible ambush point and hiding spot.”

“Of course, the feasibility analysis for your escape route will be in there. As for the ‘means’ I need to prepare…” She paused, mentally calculating the time and difficulty. “Once we lock in the details, I’ll start immediately. It’ll take time… I promise I’ll be as fast as I can!”

There was no perfunctory tone in her voice. It was a vow.

Ember nodded, just as serious.

“No problem.”

The words were barely out before Nicole turned back to the crude wooden table.

She spread out several sheets of yellowed parchment, grabbed charcoal sticks of different colors from her kit, and her hands started to move. A blur of sketching and annotating.

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Time was short. They needed to lock down every detail.

And of all the tasks, the ones that would take the longest were on her end. Refining the intel, planning the routes, preparing the special “means.” It all required her personal touch. It couldn’t be delegated.

So, before the plan kicked off, the pressure was on her. The support.

And after the plan started…

The danger would be all Ember’s.

But as she’d said herself—she’d plan for failure.

Even with her own Second-Rank strength and Elsa’s backup, she couldn’t guarantee a one hundred percent chance of killing a peak-condition Third-Rank. Not even a “freshly promoted” one with an “injury.”

The risk was immense.

Just planning an escape route, even with Nicole’s full intel, wasn’t enough. Not in Pandora’s book.

She needed another layer of insurance.

Calling out to Nicole, who was already so deep in her work she didn’t even look up, Ember turned and walked into a side room.

Nicole didn’t respond.

She was in her own world now, the outside world just a distant hum.

Ember entered the side room just to be safe, to keep her preparations private.

The creaky wooden door shut, leaving only the dim daylight filtering through a broken window.

Ember raised a hand and patted the canvas backpack on her shoulder.

A Palmfiend, about the size of a palm, crawled out. It looked incredibly realistic—slender and pale, like a real human hand. It scurried up her arm and rested in her palm.

Then, it meekly flipped over, exposing its “belly,” almost identical to a human's.

Ember gazed at the tiny “palm,” a complex light in her eyes.

Ember was, of course, Pandora.

And Pandora had her own network of contacts, built from months of potion trades as an expert alchemist.

It wasn’t just First and Second-Rank potions she sold.

She could brew Third-Rank potions, too.

She just kept the quantities low and the trades quiet to avoid drawing unnecessary attention.

Even so, with her stable quality and fair prices, she’d held onto the Palmfiend contacts for several Third-Rank regulars.

She rarely used them for anything other than trades.

But now was the time.

In less than a minute, she was firing off messages. One by one, she pinged her list of Third-Rank contacts through the Palmfiend in her palm.

Her time was limited. Not everyone would be free. Not everyone would want to get involved in a risky “trade.”

Those who didn’t respond immediately, she ignored. No point in waiting.

Those who did, she engaged in rapid, concise communication, probing for a deal.

Several minutes later, after a few rounds of fast screening and haggling, one of the contacts reached a preliminary agreement.

But it wasn’t one of her regulars.

It was someone else. Someone she knew.

“The Snow.”

At that moment, text bloomed across the Palmfiend’s skin:

“Help a friend of yours make an exit?”

“Pin down a Third-Rank. Average strength. For a little while.”

“...”

“I don’t care about the rest, but if that’s the job, it’s not too hard.”

“Can’t help you personally, but I know someone who can.”

“She should... be free right now.”

“But her fees aren’t cheap. And I have to take a cut.”

“So, at a minimum, you’re looking at...”

The text paused, as if running the numbers.