Then I gasped dramatically. "MASTER! How could you?!"
Master's expression didn't change. "What absurdity are you imagining this time?"
"You gave Miss Judy a weapon! A poison! To KILL Master Vod!"
She blinked. "Master Vod requested it, you mongrel."
"…He requested it to kill Miss Judy?" I whispered, trembling.
Images bloomed in my mind like scenes from a murder mystery opera.
Scene One:
The room was drenched in crimson—silk curtains drawn tight, the low flicker of candlelight painting flickering shadows across the polished floors.
Miss Judy sat alone at the ornate table, her back to the window, her gown crumpled like wilting petals. One hand hung limply at her side; the other rested near a tipped goblet, dark red wine bleeding across the linen like a wound.
Her lipstick was smudged, a single scarlet smear trailing from her lips to her chin.
The storm outside cracked the sky open.
And in the doorway, silhouetted by lightning, stood Master Vod.
He was still—unnervingly so. His silhouette carved by the flash, the glint of the untouched second wineglass in his hand catching the light just long enough to gleam like a blade.
No expression. No words.
Only the quiet drip of rain beyond the windows… and the slow, inevitable creak of the goblet rolling to a stop on the floor.
Scene Two:
The grand ballroom was alight with laughter and champagne, crystal chandeliers glittering above a sea of masked elegance.
Velvet gowns swirled. Gold-trimmed masks sparkled. A quartet played in the corner, music soaring above the chatter and clinking glasses.
Master Vod stood by the central table, dressed in obsidian silk, a silver snake brooch coiled at his collar. With a smile too polished to be kind, he raised his glass.
"A toast," he called, voice like smooth ice. "To old friends—and older debts."
Dozens of glasses rose in reply. The guests drank, cheerfully unaware.
Then it began.
One by one, the laughter died.
Eyes widened. Throats clutched. Fingers trembled and goblets fell, shattering like bones against marble. Some collapsed mid-step; others slumped in their chairs, wine staining their collars like blood.
The cursed vintage had bloomed—black veins creeping under the skin, crawling like ink in water.
Only Master Vod remained.
He stepped over a fallen guest, lifted his own glass, and toasted the last one standing.
"Delightful blend," he murmured, and drank deeply.
Scene Three:
It was a perfect afternoon.
The lake lay still as glass, framed by swaying reeds and wildflowers. Birds called from the trees. A checkered cloth was spread across the grass, weighted with delicate porcelain plates, sugared tarts, and a single, uncorked bottle of deep red wine.
Miss Judy sat cross-legged, her laugh gentle, her sunhat tilted at a playful angle. She reached for the glass, swirling the wine gently before lifting it to her lips.
Across from her, Master Vod smiled.
But his smile never reached his eyes.
It rested there—thin, polite, unmoving—as the birds fell silent. One by one, they took wing and vanished into the distance.
A breeze stirred the surface of the lake.
Time paused.
Judy raised the glass.
And just before it touched her lips—
The screen faded to red.
With each mental scene, my face contorted accordingly—horror, intrigue, tragic awe.
Master stared at me, utterly still.
Her thoughts were much simpler:
'This child is thinking nonsense again.'
Before I could descend further into my murder opera, she raised her fan and whacked me on the head.
"That's not it."
"Then… he's going to drink it himself?" I asked, scratching my head. "I mean… he is an alcoholic, so—"
WHACK.
This time, it hurt.
"Listen when I am talking," Master growled, fan poised for another strike as I frantically rubbed the growing bump.
She sighed. "I'm not supposed to tell outsiders…"
"I'm not an outsider!" I declared proudly. "I'm your—KARGH—!"
Another swift blow to the head cut me off.
"Since you're my disciple-to-be, unfortunately," she muttered, "I'll have to explain."
'Unfortunately, she said.' I frowned internally.
"Master Vod and I have a contract," she continued. "Every ten years, the House of Aum must deliver a bottle of our signature, homemade wine."
"Why?"
"How should I know?"
"You signed the contract!"
"Our previous Master signed it," she corrected with a shrug. "I inherited the obligation."
'You could've led with that,' I thought, narrowing my eyes.
"So…" I ventured, "what does Master Vod actually do with our wine?"
Master eyed me. "Why do you want to know?"
"I'm just… curious."
She gave another weary sigh. "He uses it on his opponents."
My eyebrows shot up. "His opponents?"
"Yes. He offers them a cup… and it kills them. Swiftly. Silently. They don't even realize what hit them."
I paled. "Ouiiiiii… I'm glad he didn't offer me a drink."
"I wonder why," Master said dryly, a note of genuine disappointment in her voice.
I glared at her. Hard.
She looked almost… disappointed.
As always, Master changed the subject without warning.
"By the way," she said casually, as though we hadn't just discussed assassination via wine, "aren't you supposed to be busy?"
I blinked. "Busy?"
She gave me a look—one of those pointed, soul-piercing looks that could probably strip paint off a wall.
"Grinding pills. Brewing potions," she said.
I groaned. "Oh, come on, Master. Tomorrow's my inauguration day. Can't I rest for one day?"
Master didn't reply.
Instead, she slowly—ominously—opened her fan with a crisp, deliberate flick. The sound was sharp, final. Like a blade being drawn.
Every part of my body recognized the signal.
I turned to run.
Too late.
"Even the dead can't rest," she said coolly. "What more you?"
With a flick of her wrist, the fan sliced through the air—unleashing a burst of wind that hit me like a cannon.
"NOT FAAAAAIR!!!" I screamed as I was blasted off my feet and sent flying down the hall like a stray spirit being evicted from the mortal realm.
Behind me, I heard the soft snap of her fan closing, followed by the delicate tap, tap of her sandals fading into the distance.
BAAAM!!
I crashed straight into a bush with the force of a low-tier explosion.
Leaves and twigs went flying. A small family of sparrows abandoned their nest in terror. Somewhere in the distance, a cat yowled in sympathy.
I lay there in a tangled heap, limbs at awkward angles, my robes caught on branches like a fallen flag of defeat. My vision spun, and the sky above me seemed to tilt sideways.
"I… will get… revenge… one day…" I gasped, weakly raising a fist toward the heavens.
Then, with all the dramatic flair of a tragic stage actor, I flopped back into the shrubbery and promptly passed out.
The courtyard, once lively with the shuffle of crates and muttered inventory notes, fell into a stunned silence.
A group of couriers, mid-task and balancing stacks of strange-looking goods, paused. One by one, they turned to look at the smoking crash site that was me. Their faces hovered somewhere between concern, curiosity, and the unspoken question: 'Is she dead, or just broken?'
No one dared to touch me.
But they were definitely thinking about poking me with a stick.
Before anyone worked up the courage, a crisp voice cut through the silence like the crack of a whip.
"Chop. Chop. There's nothing to see here, people," Lady Nozomi announced, gliding in like a storm wrapped in silk. She clapped twice for emphasis. "Back to your tasks. Half the shipment still needs to be sorted before sundown."
The staff startled, then quickly scattered like spooked pigeons. Scrolls were unrolled, crates were lifted, strange potions were tiptoed around.
Lady Nozomi approached the crash site, heels clicking with precise elegance. She looked down at me—half-buried in foliage, one leg pitifully dangling from the bush like a dropped marionette.
She smirked.
Not cruelly.
Just with the weary amusement of someone watching karma finish a job she didn't have the energy for.
Brushing a speck of dust from her sleeve, she turned on her heel and walked away without a word, her silhouette fading gracefully into the distance.
And so, I remained.
Alone.
Buried in leaves.
Half hero, half compost.
By the time I regained consciousness, the sun was setting—and the world was still upside down.
Golden rays painted the sky in soft streaks of orange and lavender, bleeding across the horizon like spilled ink. The warm light filtered through the leaves above me, casting delicate patterns across my dirt-smudged face.
I blinked slowly. 'Something felt... wrong.'
'Oh. Right. I was still stuck in the bush.'
I gave a cautious wiggle.
Then a frustrated squirm.
Then, with all the grace of an overturned beetle, I flailed both legs in desperate defiance of gravity.
With one mighty, undignified heave, I rolled—
THUD!
—straight out of the bush and onto the stone ground with a resounding crash.
"Ugh…" I groaned, lying flat on my back, limbs sprawled like a broken marionette. "I hope I didn't break a bone…"
Pain radiated in gentle pulses from at least six questionable places in my body. Still, I tilted my head and blinked blearily at the world around me. To my quiet relief, the trees were no longer upside down, and the sky had politely stopped spinning.
Small victories.
I sat up slowly, rubbing my head and brushing twigs out of my hair. A single stubborn leaf clung to my cheek like it had become emotionally attached.
I looked around.
The courtyard was empty—eerily so. The crates were gone. The clutter, vanished. Not a single soul in sight.
No footsteps.
No voices.
Just the distant chirp of insects and the rustle of wind through the trees.
"…No wonder it's so peaceful," I muttered.
Then paused.
"…Wait. Too peaceful."
The kind of silence that usually meant one of two things:
'Either I had been forgotten entirely—
—or Master was standing right behind me, fan raised, waiting to deliver divine punishment for my continued existence.'
My entire body stiffened.
Slowly—painfully—I turned my head.
No one was there.
I released the breath I'd been holding in a long, relieved sigh and flopped back onto the cool stone tiles.
Above me, the first stars began to blink into view, shy and distant.
'I guess I was forgotten.'
A moment passed.
Then another.
"…What a hard life," I whispered to no one in particular.
The wind stirred the leaves in quiet agreement.
And for just a moment, it almost felt like the world understood.