Staring at the empty floor, the men froze, a chill creeping up their spines unbidden. In their haste to enter, they had not paid close attention to the maid—but every last one of them knew Lester had struck her unconscious and left her lying right there. Now, the spot was empty, save for a discarded maid's uniform. At the sight, the old rumors about Duskwood Keep surged unbidden to their minds. They trembled, exchanging panicked glances, but no one dared speak a word.
"Captain, this…"
"Shut up! I'm not blind!" Lester snapped, his brow furrowed with a mix of anger and unease. He glanced involuntarily at the great doors—ajar now, not fully closed as he had intended to lock them. The bizarre turn of events had stirred a flicker of fear in his heart. He strode to the doors, gripping the iron handles tightly, hesitated for a heartbeat, then gritted his teeth.
"We'll deal with this later. You all know the keep has a history of strange tales—we don't know if they're true or not, so don't panic! Now, move out! Split into teams of three, just like we planned!" He paused, then turned to his second-in-command standing beside him. "Take two men and guard these doors. If anything goes wrong, send word immediately!"
"Yes, Captain!"
The man's crisp response eased Lester's unease—if only slightly. But any lingering sense of this being a "leisurely raid" had vanished completely. Earlier, the castle had struck them as grand, its decorations tasteful and imposing. Now, looking around again, all they saw was coldness, desolation—a place that felt utterly detached from the world of the living, a realm of dread best avoided at all costs.
Let's finish this mission and get out of here fast.
It was a thought shared not only by Lester, but by every last one of his men. At his command, they quickly split up, forming teams of three and vanishing into the depths of the castle.
Though the Duskwood had a sparse population, the keep itself was massive. For centuries, the Duskwood had stood on the very frontline of the border wars. As such, Duskwood Keep was no mere residence—it bore the distinct features of a fortress. Steep cliffs and rocky crags formed its natural defenses, and its interior was far larger than that of a typical noble's castle. While most castles were built with siege warfare in mind, Duskwood Keep took this principle to its extreme. Its layout had been carefully designed to allow defenders to rally quickly and use the terrain to their advantage against invaders. Long corridors branched off into three or five different passages, which in turn wound through a labyrinth of interconnected rooms. For any enemy unfamiliar with the keep's layout, splitting their forces would invite ambushes; concentrating them in one place would leave them vulnerable to encirclement and being cut off from retreat. In the centuries since the wars ended, successive lords had renovated the keep, but its core labyrinthine structure remained unchanged.
Lester and his men knew nothing of this, however. The grand hall's opulent decor had concealed the keep's true nature from them. They split into two groups without a second thought—one searching the ground floor, the other heading upstairs to hunt down any stragglers and eliminate potential threats.
"This noble must be dirt poor," one soldier scoffed, eyeing the dining hall's modest furnishings. It was not shabby, but it was far from the lavishness they had expected.
"Not a single golden plate in sight! The boys were hoping to grab some loot to spend," another added, scanning the walls with undisguised disappointment. In their experience, halls and dining rooms were where nobles flaunted their wealth the most—with priceless tapestries, antiques, and works of art. But this lord seemed to care nothing for such displays. The walls were bare, devoid of even a single painting or tapestry. The soldiers were bitterly disappointed, but after grumbling a few more times, they tightened their grips on their weapons, slowed their pace, and pressed onward toward their targets.
"Squeak!"
A tiny, high-pitched sound suddenly cut through the silence, jolting the three men on patrol. They spun around, searching frantically for the source—but all they saw was a small dark shape darting out from under a table and vanishing into the shadows of the corridor.
"Even the rats are starving here! How can a noble be this poor? He's worse off than a merchant!"
"Enough chatter—focus on the mission!"
The three men dismissed the incident as trivial, grumbled a few more complaints, and continued their search. What they failed to notice was that the "rat" had poked its head out from behind a door moments later, watching their retreating figures intently before scurrying silently after them.
Initially, the men had thought the mission—despite its eerie overtones—would be a cakewalk. According to the intelligence they had received, the keep was barely occupied, with no real garrison to speak of. Before arriving, most of them had dismissed the rumors as nothing more than a lord's scare tactics to deter trespassers. But now, trapped within the keep's walls, they realized this place was far more complex—and far more sinister—than they could ever have imagined.
It was not just the ever-increasing number of winding corridors and staircases that disoriented them. It was the *silence*. The intelligence had warned them the keep was sparsely populated, but it felt like a tomb—utterly devoid of life. By all rights, even the most destitute and understaffed noble would post servants on night duty to handle emergencies, maintain the castle's lighting, and ensure its security. But here, there was not a soul to be seen. Some of the soldiers had even deliberately made noise, hoping to draw someone out—but the keep remained as silent as the grave.
What the hell is going on in this place?
The deeper they ventured, the more uneasy they grew. And when they tried to voice their doubts to their companions, they made a horrifying discovery—somehow, they had become separated from the others. They were completely alone.
"Damn it! Who built this place with so many damn corridors?!" a warrior snarled, gripping his massive battleaxe tightly as he inched along the wall. A swordsman stayed close to his side, while a rogue with a dagger covered their rear.
"I don't like this. Shouldn't we head back and regroup with the captain? We need to figure out what's going on!"
The swordsman frowned, nodding in agreement. He glanced nervously over his shoulder at the corridor stretching endlessly into darkness behind them. Even he was beginning to feel the urge to turn back, to abandon their search and flee the keep's suffocating silence.
"I don't know… the captain's a stickler for plans. If we go back now—" the warrior hesitated, gripping his axe tighter. Captain Lester was not a man to be crossed. While the situation was undeniably strange, turning back without encountering any actual danger would earn them nothing but a tongue-lashing. Besides, he was a warrior—would he let a little unease scare him off?
"Caw! Caw!!"
A harsh, raucous cry suddenly echoed from outside the window. The three men jumped, spinning around as one. Perched on the windowsill was a pitch-black raven, flapping its wings and tilting its head to regard them with beady, intelligent eyes.
"Stupid bird!" The warrior—already on edge—snarled in fury. He stormed over to the window, threw it open with a loud *bang*—and the raven took flight with a shriek, vanishing into the night sky.
For a split second, all three men's attention was fixed on the bird's retreating silhouette. They were completely oblivious to the danger creeping up behind them.
The rogue at the rear heard a faint *whoosh* of air, but before he could even react—before he could roll to the side or draw his dagger—a cold, hard shaft of black arrow pierced his skull clean through. The poor man managed nothing more than a gurgling gasp before collapsing face-down on the floor, motionless.
"Ambush!"
The swordsman's eyes widened in horror as he saw the rogue fall. He lunged backward, fumbling to raise his shield—but it was too late. A second black arrow streaked through the air, finding its mark with deadly precision, piercing his throat before he could finish the word. The cry died in his throat, and he crumpled to the ground, choking on his own blood.
The warrior was the slowest to react—not out of cowardice, but because the entire sequence had unfolded in less than two seconds. It was only when the swordsman's body hit the floor with a dull *thud*, the clatter of his armor echoing through the corridor, that he finally realized what was happening. But his realization came too late. A third black arrow shot forward, piercing his eye socket and burrowing deep into his brain, snuffing out his life before he could even scream a warning.
"Pathetic," a cold, disdainful voice murmured from the shadows at the end of the corridor.
A young woman with long aquamarine hair stepped out from behind the corner, lowering her longbow. Her delicate features were cold and impassive, her lips curling into a sneer of contempt. She brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, adjusted the hem of her maid's uniform, and turned to leave.
"Inform Lady Charlotte. My task is complete."
As her voice faded, the still air suddenly stirred. A bone-chilling wind—borne of soul energy—swept through the corridor, letting out a low, mournful howl that no mortal ear could truly hear. The heavy wooden doors lining both sides of the corridor slammed shut with a resounding *boom*, sealing the three corpses away from the rest of the castle, as if they had never existed at all.
Meanwhile, far from the deadly hunt unfolding within the keep's depths, the three men left to guard the main hall were growing bored out of their minds.
"How much longer do we have to stay here?" a rogue whined, twirling his dagger idly as he peered out the door. He could not fathom why a simple raid was taking so long. According to the plan, they should have heard screams of terror by now—should have seen maids in their nightgowns fleeing in panic toward the safety of the hall. But instead, the castle was eerily quiet—*more* quiet than it had been when they first arrived. They had no way of knowing about the keep's labyrinthine layout, of course—but the prolonged silence was deeply unsettling, even to them.
"Do you think something happened to the captain and the others?"
"Don't be ridiculous!" his companion snapped, scowling at the rogue's ill-omened words. "The captain's not an idiot like you! Keep your mouth shut and focus on the mission—we've got a job to do!"
"I know, I was just saying—"
"Enough! Both of you!" the young warrior standing between them barked, cutting off their bickering. He was Lester's second-in-command, and he prided himself on knowing his captain well. But even he was beginning to feel a gnawing sense of unease. The silence had stretched on for far too long. Could the intelligence have been wrong? Was there someone else guarding the keep? It made no sense… if something had gone wrong, they would have heard *something*—a cry for help, the clash of steel. But there was nothing.
"Quit your complaining! Our job is to guard these doors. Stay alert! If any of you screw up, I'll skin you alive!"
The three men fell silent, their attention returning to the hall. None of them noticed the tiny shadow hovering high above their heads.
Hovering—no, not hovering. In the faint moonlight streaming through the windows, one could just make out the fine, nearly invisible threads crisscrossing the air beneath her feet, like a spider's web, supporting her weight. The young woman hung there, her arms outstretched, her head tilted down as she studied her prey with narrowed eyes. She adjusted her collar, tucking her impossibly large bust back into her uniform with a huff of annoyance.
"These things are such a hassle," she muttered, her voice barely audible. "I should have made Rudy take one of them."
She smiled—a sweet, innocent smile that belied the danger in her eyes—then lowered her hands. From the sinister black gloves encrusted with gold and silver thread covering her fingers, something tiny and dark fluttered down, drifting silently toward the three men below.
"Hmm?"
The young warrior felt something brush against his face. He waved a hand absently, swatting at the air. All he felt was a faint, gossamer-like tickle.
"Annoying spiderwebs," he grumbled, brushing the invisible threads away from his face. He turned his attention back to the hall, completely oblivious to the danger looming above.
The young woman's hands rose, her slender fingers moving with the precision of a pianist playing a complex melody. She plucked at the invisible threads, then paused—and clenched her fists tightly.
In the next instant, her body arced through the air in a graceful semicircle, plummeting downward toward her unsuspecting victims.
The wind whistled in her ears.
Not one of the three men had time to react. By the time they looked up, their eyes widening in horror as they saw the beautiful, shadowy figure descending upon them—it was already too late.
*Hum——!!*
The woman's body halted abruptly, suspended just two or three centimeters above the ground. She tilted her head to the side, regarding the three men with a curious smile—then pulled her hands sharply upward.
The invisible threads snapped taut, coiling around the men's necks with blinding speed.
When the woman landed lightly on the floor, the three men still stood there, frozen in the act of looking up. The only difference was that their heads had been cleanly severed from their bodies, rolling across the floor to come to a stop in a pool of bright, glistening blood that stained the red carpet a deeper shade of crimson.
"Tomorrow's going to be a lovely day," the woman murmured, casting a casual glance at the headless bodies collapsing to the floor around her. She walked to the great doors, pulled them open, and peered up at the clear, star-studded night sky.
"The carpet should dry quickly if we wash it tomorrow," she said to herself.
Then, she stepped back inside, pulled the doors shut with a resounding *thud*, and locked them firmly.
From that moment on, Lester and his men stood no chance of survival.