I Revived My Maid, Now She Hungers for My Blood

Wilbur shook his right hand.

After this much time, he’d forced the pus inside him to intervene, setting the broken bones and fusing them back together.

The pain was still intense, but at least he had some mobility back.

Thick, yellow-green pus poured from the skin of his intact left arm, gathering and flowing.

It then rapidly solidified, molding itself into a longsword of pus—rough, durable, and covered in barbs.

Wilbur clenched his left fist.

The deep, bone-reaching sword wound couldn’t be closed quickly, but the broken pus-armor was mostly patched up.

Both hands were ready.

Wilbur wasn’t in a hurry to engage the crawling zombie.

The corner of his eye glanced toward the corner in the distance.

The Scarred Woman was still there.

He was a cautious man. He never gave his prey an opening, and he certainly wasn’t going to give the Scarred Woman a chance to cook up an escape plan.

With a thought, he flicked his right hand.

A ball of liquid, viscous pus flew through the air like a living creature, clinging to the woman leaning against the wall.

Sizzle...

The pus rapidly spread and solidified, pinning her legs, arms, and waist to the spot.

With that insurance policy in place, “Blighted Hand” Wilbur gave a subtle, internal nod.

The next moment,

he vanished, moving to meet the crawling flesh monster.

In the ruins nearby.

Pandora silently watched the two figures collide and begin to fight.

Her expression was blank, as if it had nothing to do with her.

Hidden by her drooping sleeve, her right index finger twitched.

It tapped the small potion pouch at her waist.

At some point, the Palmfiend, which had quietly scurried to her thigh, obeyed.

Its nimble fingers moved with speed and precision, drawing a vial of potion for Pandora.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

It was a vial of orange-yellow liquid, as if a leaping flame had been sealed inside.

From the special mark she’d made on it…

This was a Perfect-Grade Third-Rank potion.

..................

Dim. Silent.

This was a corridor deep within the mall, a scar left behind by the old world.

This place had once been a movie theater.

A good portion of the projection equipment and seats for Eden’s popular open-air theater had been excavated from these very ruins.

If you had the time and a bit of luck, you might even find similar, undamaged equipment here.

Tap, tap, tap...

Clear footsteps echoed in the empty corridor.

Accompanying them was the light sound of liquid dripping onto the floor.

Wilbur walked through the corridor inside the theater.

The blood was his.

It was the fresh blood that continuously dripped from the yet-unhealed wound on his left hand.

A dark red trail of blood, a shocking sight, snaked all the way from the mall entrance.

Wilbur was tired.

Killing that parasitic Third-Rank mutant had been a foregone conclusion—he was going to win—but its cunning and tenacity had cost him. He was battered.

So why was he here?

Just thinking about it gave Wilbur a headache.

It was all because of that damned Scarred Woman!

She hadn’t obediently waited for execution. She’d pulled out a potion, one specifically designed to counter his Third-Rank Corpse-Plague Acolyte abilities.

That special solvent had dissolved the pus that should have pinned her in place.

And she’d escaped.

However…

A cold, smug glint flashed in Wilbur’s bloodshot eyes.

His methods weren’t so simple.

“You don’t know, do you? I left a mark on you...”

“...one only I can track!”

It was a special pus he’d meticulously concocted, infused with his own Transcendent power.

Naturally, it wasn’t as simple as it looked.

Leaving this kind of mark—hard to wash away, impossible to remove without carving out the flesh—was perfect for tracking. It was one of the minor tricks he’d developed.

He didn’t use it often. Most prey didn’t warrant the effort.

But right now, it was the perfect tool.

Wilbur closed his eyes, sensing the faint but clear direction in his mind.

The Scarred Woman had escaped, but what he found strange was that she hadn’t gone far.

She’d followed the mall’s winding paths and had actually entered this place.

And right now, she was hiding in one of the cinema’s screening halls.

Did she think this would let her escape him?

That old chestnut, “the most dangerous place is the safest”?

If that was what the Scarred Woman was thinking…

A triumphant, predatory smirk appeared on Wilbur’s face. The look of a cat playing with a mouse.

She was about to be greatly disappointed.

Just then—

RUMBLE...

A clamor suddenly erupted from the closed doors of the screening hall ahead.

Shattering the silence of the corridor.

Stirring music. Noisy human voices. Vivid sound effects, as if they were right beside him.

Wilbur froze for a second, his steps coming to an abrupt halt.

Then, without a moment’s hesitation, his figure flickered like a phantom, passing through the slightly ajar doors and into the screening hall.

Before him was a narrow walkway, flanked by rising, tiered seats.

And directly in front of him, a beam of light flickered in the dusty air.

On the giant screen, a clip from some old-world movie was playing.

The picture flickered due to the aging equipment, but the colors were still vibrant. The sound was dimensional. The experience was arguably better than the simple open-air theater in Eden.

The abandoned theater and the boisterous phantoms of old formed a fractured, bizarre contrast.

Wilbur’s gaze swept over the empty seats to the space before the screen.

There, a slender figure was curled up.

Her back was to him, her body trembling slightly like a leaf in the wind.

In his perception, the mark he had personally applied was clear at that location.

No mistake.

It was the Scarred Woman.

The last trace of vigilance in Wilbur’s heart dissipated, replaced by the easy confidence of a hunter about to harvest his prey.