“Drop the weapon. My sword is quick. Don’t test it.”

The cold voice echoed in the crypt. By the altar’s dim light, she followed the blade to its wielder—a young man in antique European attire, golden hair tied back, face hidden behind an opera mask.

Her head throbbed. The blood splattered on her chilled rapidly in the crypt’s cold. The cultists hadn’t clothed their sacrifice, leaving her exposed. Reluctantly, she focused on survival over modesty.

Behind the swordsman, a black-haired masked man lit more candles with a torch. She noted the gun in his hand. The earlier screams lacked gunfire—they’d subdued the cultists effortlessly.

Outnumbered and outgunned, resistance was folly. Fate had let her die once in a 21st-century hospital—why torment her again? She released the broken dagger. It clattered on stone.

“A wise choice, miss.” The blade retreated slightly. “You’ve met me at an unfortunate time and place. To avoid misunderstandings, explain truthfully: Why are you here? What happened?”

Time to spin a tale… She panicked. The swordsman’s blade bore fresh blood—he wouldn’t hesitate to kill her.

Earlier, she’d found a silver mirror among ritual items. Her reflection showed a pale, slender girl with ash-blonde hair and lake-green eyes. A deep puncture near her left eyebrow swelled the eyelid.

Memories of hospital conversations resurfaced. A young doctor once described “ice pick lobotomies”—driving a steel probe through the eye socket to scramble the frontal lobe, pacifying mental patients. Some victims, like a railroad worker impaled by a rod, survived but turned violent. Many died.

This body’s owner likely died from such a procedure. A perfect cover.

“I… I don’t remember… The doctors strapped me down… a long needle through my eye… It was horrible! My head hurts… I barely recall anything. Where am I? Kind sir, can I return to my family? The doctors said I’d go home once cured! Please don’t hurt me—my family will pay…”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

“Show me your left eye.” The swordsman’s tone shifted.

She complied, revealing the wound.

“Walter Moniz… That lunatic’s theory actually worked…” he muttered, disbelieving.

“What is it, Sir?” The black-haired man asked, having lit the crypt’s candles.

“Nothing. Just a crank who believed skull shape dictates fate. His ‘ice pick surgery’ supposedly cures madness, homosexuality, melancholy… How did the medical board approve this? And now a living, coherent patient? Absurd!”

Same here, but I can’t say the original owner’s dead, she thought.

Irked, the swordsman growled, “How did you kill him? Thomas Simon was a dangerous occultist. A frail girl fresh from lobotomy shouldn’t have stood a chance.”

“After the surgery, I slept… woke here. They called me a ‘corpse.’ I pretended to be dead. He said he’d infuse me with a dark god’s power, make me his puppet. If he knew I lived, he’d kill me… I stabbed him when he chanted… I was terrified! I didn’t know my strength… Was it the god’s curse? Are you exorcists? Can you cleanse me?!” Her voice trembled with feigned fear.

The swordsman softened. Sheathing his blade, he said, “You’ve ‘awakened’ as an occultist. For those who gain power involuntarily, we offer paths to rights—if you follow rules. But first, we have urgent matters.”

The black-haired man handed her his coat, checking a pocket watch. “We must hurry. Baroness Vickery’s ball ends soon. By 2 AM, guests will depart. You wouldn’t want to walk home or linger until dawn. Especially not… dressed so scandalously.”

“Find the damned thing in fifteen minutes!” the swordsman barked.

The black-haired man nodded, searching the Master’s corpse. “Miss, I’m Winslow O’Connell. This is Sir Ulysses José de Fisher. Your name?”

She glanced at a rusted wristband engraved “Yvette Ximénez.”

“Yvette Ximénez.”

“Miss Ximénez, have you seen a 10-inch ancient dagger?” Winslow gestured.

“This?” She lifted the broken, bloodied hilt.

“It’s… broken?!” Winslow paled.

Ulysses retrieved a green jade fragment from the corpse, washing it with tequila. The Aztec blade, crafted by flaking stone into a leaf shape, lay shattered.

“A B-ranked ancient relic…” Winslow muttered.

“He died less than half an hour ago,” Ulysses checked the corpse’s eyes, resigned.

“Had you not insisted on detours, we’d have prevented this,” Winslow accused.

“If my carriage was seen heading here at midnight, rumors would claim I visited streetwalkers!” Ulysses retorted. Though society tolerated men’s affairs, consorting with low-class women would ruin his reputation.

“You avoided worldly shame but will be the occult world’s laughingstock.”

“Unlike you, my aloofness has half the circle awaiting my downfall.”

“They’ll be disappointed.” Ulysses strode to Yvette, his blood-speckled attire intimidating.

He’ll silence me! She braced for death.

“—Miss Ximénez, will you work for me?”

“Huh?”