Chapter 85
Lysianthus looked so enraged that it seemed he might hurl himself at the girl barehanded any moment now. Of course, unless he was a complete fool, he wouldn’t charge in recklessly in this situation—but then again, Lysianthus did have a habit of acting like an idiot sometimes.
The number of monsters had dwindled. The guests who had once filled the hall were either dead or long fled. The stage, the building—everything was a wreck, almost in ruins.
Even if not quite on Raymond’s level, Lysianthus was strong. Yet this small girl, whose head barely reached his, was facing him head-on? Something about that was deeply unsettling. Her voice, her demeanor—there was something distinctly inhuman about her. And above all else, she obeyed the command of “Master.”
“You are weak. And foolish.”
The girl twisted her lips upward into something resembling a smile. It wasn’t the smile of someone who truly mocked another—it was the awkward imitation of a puppet that had learned human emotions from paintings or plays. That made it all the more chilling.
“See you next time.”
Her black skirt puffed out softly, like a balloon swelling in the air. After leaving those few words, the girl vanished faster than anyone could react. The monsters, too, followed after her—like rats chasing a piper.
The sight of those black, grotesque creatures swarming together was ghastly.
They had destroyed, burned, torn apart, and killed so many—and yet, somehow, countless more of those beasts seemed to crawl out of nowhere to follow her retreating figure. Debbie clicked her tongue in disbelief.
“…Seriously, what the hell is that thing?”
“Damn it! You’re the one who’s supposed to know these things! If you don’t know, then who the hell does?!”
Lysianthus roared furiously, then immediately groaned.
“Ah—damn—ow, ow, ow! It hurts like hell…”
“Wow, you’re covered in blisters. I guess we should be thankful it’s not worse…”
Debbie looked at Lysianthus’s burned arms and clicked her tongue again. Flux looked startled too.
“…Is that from using the flames?”
“You can’t tell? Damn it. Got myself burned trying to look cool. Whatever that thing was—it’s insanely strong. Like…”
“Like what?”
Lysianthus hesitated, glancing at Flux.
“…It moved like a beast.”
“Huh?”
Flux flinched. He’d once feared becoming a monster himself after being infected with demonic energy. Lysianthus scratched his forehead with his uninjured hand, clearly uneasy.
“It’s like… it had no sense of weight. It moved freely, unnaturally. Swinging a spear as big as a man’s torso with those skinny arms—no human could do that! That’s the kind of movement you’d see from beasts powered by their cores, not their muscles or bones. Sometimes, even pea-sized cores can make those things strong enough to topple trees. Generally, the larger the core, the stronger the beast…”
Lysianthus trailed off mid-sentence, as though something troubling had just occurred to him.
His expression soured—like someone who’d just been told there was a cockroach nest in his room.
Flux, who didn’t understand monsters very well, just tilted his head. Debbie, on the other hand, went pale as the implications hit her.
“…Then if something human-sized had a monster’s core…”
“That’s a catastrophe.”
Lysianthus sighed heavily.
“Damn it… there’s never been a recorded case of a human becoming a monster while keeping their mind intact. If that ever happened, it’d be the worst possible enemy for humanity. That’s why we’ve done everything to prevent it.”
His eyes darkened.
“I’d rather hope it’s some crazy genius, or someone using an unknown kind of magic. Because monsters don’t cooperate. They might band together temporarily over prey, but even beasts do that. They never follow orders or act with purpose.”
He was right.
The only reason they had managed to wipe out the monsters at the palace baiting event so easily was because of that.
Monster intelligence was animal-like at best. To humans, they were all “monsters,” but in truth, there were dozens—hundreds—of different species that couldn’t even communicate with one another. Occasionally, a stronger one would appear, and weaker ones would follow it out of instinct. But the idea of monsters uniting under a single cause—or following a person’s command—was unthinkable.
“…And yet, those monsters just now—they retreated with her. That means someone’s found a way to control them.”
The realization drained the color from Flux’s face.
Lysianthus finished in a grim, reluctant voice.
“Damn it all… whoever they are, we’re dealing with something enormous.”
* * *
Lilacs. Anemones. Camellias. Forget-me-nots. Lilies of the valley. And primroses.
The greenhouse was overflowing with blooms that had no business existing in the same season.
Not just flowers—short shrubs, evergreen trees, even carnivorous plants thrived side by side, each radiating its own scent and beauty.
Anyone with the faintest knowledge of gardening would have found it strange. Fragile, shade-loving blossoms were flourishing right beside hardy desert cacti—plants that should never share the same conditions.
But to Primrose, this sight filled her heart with awe.
Because this place—this miraculous garden—was proof that her lady was truly the chosen one, the rightful master of this world.
The plants in this greenhouse didn’t care for sunlight or moonlight. They didn’t need water. No matter the nutrients in the soil, they bloomed—always vibrant, always alive.
Humans, by contrast, were pitifully fragile. They died of cold, of heat, of age, of disease. Some decayed even while their bodies still lived, their minds rotting away. Too foolish and weak to decide the purpose of their own lives. Like low-grade plants that could only survive when potted in the smallest of containers.
Once, Primrose had been just like them—the lowest, most miserable creature alive.
A worthless child. A life abandoned by all. Too weak to live on her own, left to die like a worm. But her lady had chosen her. Breathed life back into her. Gave her a name—a flower’s name. Told her that her hair and eyes, colored like petals, were beautiful. From that moment, “Primrose” bloomed—a flower meant to exist for one person alone.
“Master.”
Primrose’s voice, usually as cold and empty as glass, now held warmth.
“Prim!”
Her beloved lady, Lilium, smiled like a flower. She wore a wide-brimmed straw hat to shade herself from the sun, her long hair braided down her back. Her hands were smudged with soil—she must have been tending the garden.
“How did it go?”
“Yes.”
Primrose gently set down the “gift” she had been carrying. It was a middle-aged man, tightly bound in ropes. His limbs were raw with rope burns, and his bloodshot eyes darted around frantically. Saliva dripped through the gag in his mouth.
“I brought the one you asked for, my lady.”
“Mmph! Mmph!”
“But honestly, he’s such a crude, stupid male… do you really have to see him yourself?”
Primrose’s tone was openly disdainful. She wasn’t indifferent like a doll this time—she was worried for her lady.
“Mm. I told you before, didn’t I, Prim? A person’s usefulness isn’t the same as their appearance. I understand that you want to show me only pretty and beautiful things…”
Lilium smiled sweetly—like an angel among her flowers.
