So much for that.
Stepping into his room and shrugging off his coat, Viscount Byrd allowed himself a smug, confident smile. He could feel it—the young lord had completely caved. In truth, aside from the initial surprise upon entering the castle, the situation had been firmly in his grasp from start to finish. The boy's performance had matched his expectations perfectly. Ambitious, determined, and proactive—yes, but in the cutthroat world of nobility, those qualities were far from enough. Chuckling to himself, Viscount Byrd shook his head, pulled out a chair, and sat down at the desk. He picked up a sheet of crisp white paper and began drafting his report to the patriarch. Of course, he could deliver a verbal account once he returned home, but written documentation was always indispensable. After all, empty words carried no weight—and with the patriarch's advanced age, it was always better to play it safe.
The moon hung high in the sky, casting a silvery glow over the treetops that draped the castle in a veil of shadow.
Minutes ticked by, stretching into what felt like hours. Viscount Byrd finally lifted his head, letting out a long breath. He set down his quill, gazing with satisfaction at the completed report spread out before him. It detailed everything he had seen and heard since arriving at the castle, along with his judgments and observations of the young lord. True, Black had acted just as he had predicted—but Viscount Byrd did not believe the man's background was as simple as it seemed. At the very least, the castle's elegant furnishings suggested that the Felix family must have held a lofty position in the past. Perhaps, once he returned home, he ought to look into this matter more closely…
Lost in thought, Viscount Byrd suddenly felt a dryness in his throat. He reached for the water carafe on the desk, poured himself a cup, and drank it down in one gulp. The cool, clear spring water soothed his parched throat and relaxed his tense muscles.
What time was it, anyway?
Only then did the question occur to him. He glanced around the room instinctively, but there was no clock or timepiece to be found. He frowned slightly. For a guest room, surely they could have been a touch more attentive? Oh well—country bumpkins would be country bumpkins. It was foolish to expect any better. Shrugging off the minor annoyance with a self-deprecating laugh, Viscount Byrd dismissed the thought.
Just then, soft footsteps echoed in the corridor outside, followed by a gentle knock on the door.
"Viscount Wen Byrd? Is there anything else you require, sir?"
A clear, melodious girl's voice drifted through the wood—one he thought he recognized. Ah yes, this must be the maid who had accompanied that young whelp earlier that afternoon.
Licking his lips, Viscount Byrd's mind wandered. He had to admit, the boy might have been a novice at negotiation, but he certainly had good taste in servants. Where on earth had he found these maids? They were all so lovely and charming—especially in those uniforms… Viscount Byrd's eyes narrowed slightly. After all, the boy was not even a proper noble yet. Which meant…
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do have a request…"
A grin tugged at his lips as he opened his mouth to respond—but before he could finish his sentence, a deep, resonant bell tolled suddenly, cutting him off mid-word.
*Dong… dong…*
The ancient chime seemed to possess an otherworldly power. It did not merely interrupt his speech—it felt like an invisible hand had clamped down tightly around his throat, forcing him to swallow the rest of his words. And as the bell continued to ring, the entire castle began to undergo a subtle, imperceptible transformation.
"It's midnight already, Lady Ophelia," Irene whispered, her eyes widening in surprise as she glanced out the window. She had been helping Ophelia with her reading when the bell rang. "You should go to bed now."
"Midnight…"
Ophelia closed her book slowly, her gaze fixed on the heavy oak door of the study. A faint frown creased her brow.
"Irene, you don't need to return to your room tonight," she said softly.
"Huh?"
Irene blinked in confusion, taken aback by the unexpected words.
"Not return to my room…?"
"That's right. I'm sure you haven't forgotten the castle's rule—no one is allowed to wander the halls after midnight, are you?"
"B-But I…"
"Don't worry."
Seeing the girl's flustered expression, Ophelia gave her a warm, reassuring smile and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.
"You can sleep with me tonight."
"Huh? R-Really?!"
Irene's eyes went wide as saucers, staring at Ophelia in disbelief.
"Lady Ophelia, is that really all right? I'm just a servant… and what about the master…?"
"It's time for us to rest," Ophelia interrupted gently. She stood up and walked over to shut the window tightly. By the dim glow of the flickering candlelight, she caught a glimpse of a white, wispy figure darting past the glass before vanishing without a trace.
"I'm sure the master has more important matters to attend to tonight. He won't mind."
Twelve tolls.
The heavy bell fell silent after its twelfth and final chime—and with that signal, Duskhold Castle completed its mysterious, inward-to-outward transformation, one that defied all description.
What in the world was going on?
Viscount Byrd frowned, a vague sense of unease gnawing at him. The sudden bell had left him feeling inexplicably flustered. The once-cozy room now felt as cold and lifeless as a tomb.
Surely it was just his imagination?
Shaking his head to dispel the silly thought, Viscount Byrd turned his attention back to the door and finished the sentence he had been interrupted earlier.
"I'm feeling a bit hungry. I'd like some supper."
Silence.
No reply came from the other side of the door.
"Did you hear me?"
Viscount Byrd's frown deepened. He called out again, but still, there was no answer. What was going on? Had the maid left while he was distracted? How dare she walk away without even acknowledging a guest's request? Utterly rude and uneducated! Irritated, he yanked the door open and peered into the corridor—but the hallway was completely empty.
The dim, flickering torches lining the walls cast long, eerie shadows, dimming the distant furnishings until they were barely visible. There was no sign of the maid who had been standing at his door just moments ago, asking if he needed anything. She had vanished without a trace.
How absurd.
Snorting in disdain, Viscount Byrd slammed the door shut. He was annoyed at losing the chance for a "closer acquaintance," but women were a dime a dozen. Once he returned to the city, with his looks, status, and wealth, he could have any woman he wanted. This had merely been a desire for something new and exotic—a nice bonus if he could get it, but nothing to lose sleep over if he couldn't.
Just then, his gaze wandered back to the desk—and froze instantly.
There, on the polished wooden surface, he saw it clearly: a massive spider was slowly crawling out of the water carafe. Its jet-black, hairy body was glistening with water droplets, and Viscount Byrd had no idea when it had gotten inside. But that was not the worst part. A spider—in the water carafe? And he had just drunk from it?!
A wave of nausea surged through him. He barely had time to react before he dropped to his knees and retched violently. A spider! It was a spider! By the Saints! Those filthy country bumpkins—how dare they do this to him! Were they trying to poison him? Rage and disgust flooded his mind, completely erasing the poise and confidence he had displayed earlier that day. He collapsed to the floor, vomiting until he had emptied the contents of his stomach, and only then did the heaving subside. Gasping for breath, Viscount Byrd staggered to his feet, his face turning ashen with fury. This was an insult he would not tolerate! In all his life, no one had ever dared to treat him with such contempt! Whether this had been a deliberate act or a careless mistake, he would make them pay!
Blinded by rage, Viscount Byrd wasted no time in yanking the door open again. A frigid gust of wind slipped through the gap, sweeping into the room—and with that gust, the flickering candle flame suddenly went out.
The room was plunged into total darkness. But Viscount Byrd was not deterred. He blinked hard, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom, cleared his throat loudly, and prepared to storm out of the room.
But then he froze.
The corridor that greeted him was not the familiar, somewhat shabby hallway he remembered. Instead, it led to a luxurious guest room—his guest room. The crisp white sheets on the bed, the pulled-out chair, the sheets of paper on the desk, the empty cup and water carafe sitting beside them… and on the floor nearby, a puddle of foul-smelling vomit glistened in the faint moonlight.
This was his room! When had he left? No—wait a minute. Viscount Byrd remembered perfectly clearly that he had just been about to *leave* his room, not *enter* it!
Confused, he glanced around instinctively—and sure enough, the dim, endless corridor stretched out on either side of him. It was unmistakable: from all appearances, he was standing at the doorway, about to walk *into* his room, not out of it.
What was happening? What in the world was going on here?
Viscount Byrd's frown deepened. He had a sinking feeling that something was terribly wrong. And when he turned his head again, he was forced to confront the horrifying truth—this was no longer the world he knew.
Something was very, very wrong.
Most people would have panicked completely at such a bizarre turn of events, but Viscount Byrd forced himself to remain calm. He knew that losing his head would do him no good whatsoever.
With that thought in mind, he spun around and marched toward the adjacent guest room. He raised his fist and banged loudly on the door. Inside this room was his most loyal retainer—Thompson.
*Bang! Bang! Bang!*
The heavy knocks echoed through the dim, silent corridor—but no response came from within.
"Thompson!"
Viscount Byrd called out, struggling to keep the urgency from his voice, and banged on the door again. This time, at last, he heard a sound from inside.
"Master?"
The door creaked open, and his loyal retainer peered out, rubbing his sleepy eyes in confusion. He could not fathom why his master was pounding on his door in the middle of the night.
"What's going on?"
"There's a problem," Viscount Byrd replied gruffly. Seeing his retainer's familiar face helped to ease some of his mounting anxiety—but he still maintained the dignity of a noble, his brow furrowed with anger. "I've encountered something… strange, Thompson."
"Strange?"
The loyal retainer stared at his master in bewilderment, failing to grasp his meaning.
"Yes!"
Viscount Byrd nodded sharply, his voice dripping with rage.
"By the Saints, do you know what I just saw? Those damned country bumpkins—there was a spider in my water carafe! And I had just drunk from it!"
"Oh… t-that's…"
Thompson's sleepiness vanished instantly. His eyes widened in shock as he stared at his master.
"Master, is this true? How dare they do such a thing?! That's outrageous!"
"Of course it's true! I will not allow them to trample on the honor of the Byrd family like this!"
Viscount Byrd nodded fiercely. Seeing his retainer's familiar, indignant reaction helped to distract him from the bizarre events that had just unfolded. Perhaps he really had been so enraged that he had forgotten he had walked back into his room instead of out of it. It was possible.
"Now, come with me. We're going to find Mr. Felix at once. I demand an explanation from him! And first—go to my room and fetch that cursed water carafe and the spider! I want him to see exactly what his servants have done!"
"At once, Master!"
Responding to Viscount Byrd's command, Thompson stepped out of his room immediately—and then shivered violently, glancing around nervously.
"Strange… why is it so cold all of a sudden?"
"It's early spring," Viscount Byrd replied dismissively, his mind burning with fury. "A chill is only natural."
"But…"
"What is it now?"
Viscount Byrd shot his retainer an impatient glare.
"Master… where *is* your room?"
"Right over there, of course!"
Viscount Byrd waved a hand impatiently in the direction he thought his room was—and then froze, his eyes widening in shock.
Where his guest room door should have been, there was nothing but a bare, smooth stone wall. No door, no windows—nothing at all.
Viscount Byrd frowned. Had he misremembered the location? But when he turned to look at his retainer, he realized with a sinking heart that things were far more wrong than he had ever imagined.
They had stepped out of Thompson's room less than a minute ago. But now, behind them, there was nothing but a solid stone wall. No door, no windows—nothing.
"M-Master?! Where's my room?!"
Thompson had finally realized the gravity of the situation as well. His eyes went wide with terror, and he stammered out the question in a trembling voice.
"By the Saints, Master! We just walked out of my room a minute ago, didn't we? I know we did!"
"Shut up! Of course we did!"
Viscount Byrd snapped at his retainer, his face darkening with fear—but deep down, a long-forgotten story he had heard from his family as a child suddenly echoed in his mind.
"That great, terrifying castle holds a dangerous, evil curse within its walls. It will seize every visitor without mercy… and devour them completely…"
Nonsense!
Viscount Byrd shook his head violently, trying to banish the ominous thought. He strode over to the suit of decorative armor standing against the wall and pulled the sword hanging from its belt.
"Come. We're going to find Mr. Felix."
The corridor was deathly silent, save for the sound of their footsteps echoing off the stone walls. Viscount Byrd gripped the sword tightly, walking slowly along the hallway. He clearly remembered that when they had been shown to their rooms earlier, the corridor had been lined with guest room doors on both sides. But now, there were no doors to be seen—only bare stone walls, punctuated by occasional suits of armor and faded tapestries. Nothing else.
But where were the stairs?
"Master… it feels like we've been walking for hours…"
Following close behind Viscount Byrd, Thompson ventured to speak up, his voice trembling with unease.
"Shut up! I know that!"
Viscount Byrd snarled. The situation had gone from merely "abnormal" to utterly "preposterous." No matter how large the castle was, a single corridor could not possibly stretch on for hours without end! It defied all logic and reason. He clearly remembered that the maids had led them to rooms near the staircase landing earlier that day—but now, Viscount Byrd was no longer certain he could trust his own memories.
Yes, he had been sure he was leaving his room, but had ended up entering it instead. A corridor that should have been short now stretched on endlessly. Doubts began to creep into his mind—had he really been writing a report earlier? Had he really spoken to that Mr. Felix?
"Hello? Is anyone there?!"
Viscount Byrd shouted into the empty corridor, his voice echoing into the darkness—but no one answered. The maids he had seen earlier that day were nowhere to be found. It was as if they had never existed at all.
"M-Master… I-I'm scared…"
"Shut up! I told you to shut up!"
Pressing his back against the cold stone wall, Viscount Byrd felt his own fear growing with every step. He tightened his grip on the sword, clinging to it like a lifeline. And then, at long last, he spotted it—the banister of the staircase, just ahead in the distance.
Finally!
A surge of relief washed over him at the sight of the stairs. Viscount Byrd quickened his pace, hurrying toward it. But just as he was about to round the corner—suddenly, a dark figure darted past him.
"!!!"
The unexpected movement made Viscount Byrd jump, but he was a nobleman who had received formal swordsmanship training. Instinctively, he raised the sword with both hands and swung it in a wide arc, slicing through the shadowy figure.
"Aaaah—!"
A high-pitched, bloodcurdling scream rang out. The figure had not seen the attack coming. It let out a shrill cry of pain, then tumbled down the stairs, rolling all the way to the landing below before coming to a stop.
And then, Viscount Byrd finally saw the figure's true face.
It was a young girl in a maid's uniform. Her once-beautiful face was caved in from the impact, and bright red blood was streaming from her chest. Her empty, lifeless eyes stared up at Viscount Byrd, who stood frozen on the staircase above. There was not a flicker of life left in those dull, glassy orbs.
She was dead.