"This is going to be a great day," Shoes said to himself as he looked up at the brightening sky.

It was finally his free day again. He almost couldn't believe how slowly the week had passed, but here it was. The whole day was ahead of him—it was time to explore the tunnel he had discovered last week!

Shoes washed his face, donned his uniform, and headed out as fast as he could. Although the servants' corridor was the most direct route to the kitchen, he avoided it today. He wanted to meet as few people as possible. Prudence was a must on free days, if he didn't want someone to command him to do some urgent work.

This was why Shoes found himself crossing the courtyard, keeping to the shadows. As he crept towards his destination, his thoughts returned to the dark tunnel. He couldn't help hoping that he had found something big. Maybe the tunnel led out of the estate? Maybe this would be his chance to escape? He knew it was just a pipe dream; a simple tunnel wouldn't help him. Even if he made it outside the estate's walls, he still wore his slave cuffs. There was a reason why no slave scaled the walls to escape, or hid to skip work. As long as they were wearing these thin metallic armbands, the guards would track them down in no time.

Ah, but this was something to worry about later. Having reached the kitchen, Shoes slipped inside through the back door. The kitchen was warm and cozy, the smell of baking bread permeating the air. One of the best places in the world. Old Cook wasn't here yet, only his assistant was up and about. Shoes grabbed a freshly baked bread, fished out a slightly wrinkled apple from the basket, then headed to the dining area. Old Cook's assistant didn't even bat an eye at him; he was used to his comings and goings already.

As Shoes sat down at one of the tables, he took a lingering glance at the kitchen's door. He wondered if the security was a bit lax around here. If he could sneak in here anytime, then so could anyone else, right? This kitchen provided food only for the slaves and servants, but still . . . if someone wanted to harm House Dawngrove, they could poison every worker in one go! No one would notice it until it was too late. Of course, the wrong-doers would need to sneak past the outer walls, avoid every guard, pretend to be a slave or a servant, and—well, it didn't sound so simple anymore. Shoes didn't know much about spies and assassins and those kinds of things. For all he knew, House Dawngrove had secret countermeasures against them.

"You are in my spot, dumbass."

Shoes jolted in surprise, then looked up from his food warily. Grease stood next to his table, with three of his cronies behind him. A quick glance around told Shoes that he couldn't expect any support. Only a few people were eating nearby, but they wouldn't intervene, at least not on his behalf. Most of them were already glancing in his direction, curious to see what would happen next.

"Sorry, I'll move over," Shoes replied.

He tried to stand up, but Grease put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down. Shoes let him do so. He could have overpowered Grease easily, but didn't want to antagonize him further. He didn't want things to escalate, especially not on his free day.

"You call that an apology?" Grease asked, then smacked the bread out of Shoes's hand.

"I-I'm terribly sorry. I didn't know you usually sit here."

Shoes gulped nervously. He knew that Grease wouldn't let him go easily this time. In the past few weeks, Grease had been getting on his case more and more often. The man was too intent on humiliating him in some way, and now he had a chance. Shoes didn't know what to do. He couldn't fight back—he was too scared to fight back. He didn't want to hurt anyone again. Not even Grease.

Grease opened his mouth to retort, but a loud crash interrupted him. Everyone turned to look at the servant sprawling on the floor, lying amid broken jugs and a spreading puddle of milk. Shoes tried to use this opportunity to slip away, but Grease's hand tightened on his shoulder.

"Meet me behind the barracks this afternoon," he hissed, leaning close to Shoes's ear. "We need to talk. Don't make me come for you."

As soon as Grease released his shoulder, Shoes made a swift exit towards the kitchen. He was thankful for that servant for ruining Grease's show. When the kitchen's door closed behind him, he let out the breath he was holding. His sigh of relief held a tinge frustration, however; he knew that the conflict between him and Grease was far from over.

"What's the long face, young man?" Old Cook hobbled towards him. "I may be half-deaf, but I heard that sigh from miles away."

"Morning to you too," Shoes replied. "It's nothing to worry about."

"Nonsense! You can tell me, I don't mind worrying. Actually, I do it regularly as a sport. Done it this morning too, when I almost couldn't get out of my bed. It does wonders to my blood pressure, I tell you!"

Shoes escorted Old Cook to the large pot, which would contain today's soup. He shifted the pot in place while he considered what to say.

"This might sound like . . . well, like complaining. And it's not really a big deal."

"But?" Old Cook prompted.

"But Grease is getting really annoying! You know, he is the man who was called Shoes before. He took it really personally when Mistress gave me his duties, even though I didn't ask for any of it. Now, I don't know . . . I think he is trying to make me pay or something."

"I see."

"But that's not even why I'm upset," Shoes said. "Sure, the situation with Grease is bad. It's getting worse, even. But what I hate the most is that I was chosen for this task. Why me? Grease can have this stupid job back if he wants it so much!"

Shoes shut his mouth abruptly, then looked around in fear. It hadn't been his intention to criticize his Mistress. Hopefully no one had paid attention to his outburst.

"Why would Mistress make me handle her shoes?" Shoes continued on a much lower tone. "It's impractical. I mean, just look at me! I'm much better at physical labor than handling delicate stuff."

Old Cook scrutinized him with his single eye, calm and unhurried as always.

"You don't have the slightest clue why our Mistress chose you, do you?"

"I don't," Shoes grumbled as he poured a bucket of water into the large pot. "So are you going to explain, or are you just taunting me?"

"You already said the important part: just look at you!" Old Cook said, flashing Shoes a toothy smile. It was only moderately toothy. "Who do you think looks better groveling at Mistress's feet—a greasy-haired wimp, or a hulking behemoth of a man?"

"H-Hey, I'm not that large," Shoes protested. "There are others just as tall as I am."

"That's besides the point. Our Mistress chose you. You look impressive in that uniform, crouching at her feet. It's the looks that matter, not how adept you are at handling delicate stuff."

Shoes lowered the fourth bucket slowly, looking at Old Cook in shock. "That's it? My looks? But I'm not even that handsome!"

"Then it's a good thing that you always have your head lowered, eh?" Old Cook said with a grin. "Just make sure to lift lots of buckets for me, lest you lose all those bulging muscles!"

"Ha ha," Shoes said flatly, then turned back to work. He put fresh logs under the pot—noting that he'd need to bring in more wood—and started the fire. He watched the flames in contemplative silence for while, before turning back to Old Cook.

"If you had to give me a name, what would it be?"

"Hmm. That's a good question, Shoes. I think . . . I'd name you Carrot. Because carrots are healthy, and when I was young, I liked eating them a lot."

Shoes shot him an unimpressed look. "Are you serious?"

"No, I'm not," Old Cook said, cackling. "Hmm, let me think... Do you know how people sometimes compare each other to various types of precious gems? Ruby, sapphire, emerald? Each of them has a unique meaning."

"Umm... I didn't know, but I can imagine."

"Well, you are none of those gems."

"Hey! Now you're just being mean..."

Old Cook laughed. "No, none of those gems, but something just as good. Something that is often overlooked, but also important. You're a bezel."

Shoes frowned. "Bezel?"

"Just so. Solid, dependable, always there when it counts. You might not be as shiny as a gemstone, but you make those gemstones all the more beautiful."

"Is this yet another hidden joke?" Shoes asked, narrowing his eyes. "About cleaning Mistress's shoes till they are shiny?"

"Not at all, not at all!" Old Cook said with another laugh. "I'm serious. You asked me what name I'd give to you, and I chose this. Bezel."

"Hmph. I guess it's better than Shoes."

"Don't let Mistress hear that line," Old Cook waggled a finger at him. "Shoes is a wonderful name, as far as I'm concerned."

Shoes smiled, then sat down and watched as Old Cook began to prepare the ingredients. "Alright, do you need help with anything else?"

"No, no, thank you," Old Cook waved his hand dismissively. "By the by, isn't this your free day?"

"Yes, it is. I have great plans for today."

"Then what are you doing here still? Off with you!"

Shoes tried to tell him that a few minutes of his time didn't matter, but the old man just shooed him away before he had a chance to protest. With nothing else left to attend to that morning, it was time to visit his secret corridor.

[https://i.imgur.com/lEL3Anu.png]

The weather was clear and sunny, matching Shoes's mood perfectly. Others often told him that he was too optimistic, but who wouldn't be in his place? Especially now. He had found something new and mysterious, and he was about to explore it!

Even without this new discovery, Shoes would have considered himself fortunate. He had it easier than most of the slaves in Ylvasil; Mistress Miranda's leash was as loose as it can get. Shoes presumed that he was one of the luckiest slaves on this continent. Not that he wouldn't try to escape if he had the chance, but he had several things going for him. Every slave got a free day once a week. Chief Ormus—the slave supervisor for batch A3—was a prick, but he wasn't unnecessarily cruel. Shoes usually got assigned on construction labor, which could be hard, but he loved seeing the results of his hard work.

Then of course there was Old Cook, who had taught him many things. Like reading and doing numbers. He had told Shoes various tales too. Most of them were probably made up on the spot, but Shoes didn't mind those either. It was always entertaining to listen to Old Cook's stories.

There was only one minor inconvenience in Shoes's life: the duties attached to his name. He didn't understand why Grease was envious of him, because this job was completely senseless. Shoes had to be informed about Mistress's comings and goings in advance, then needed to wash himself, change into a fresh uniform, and for what? For Mistress to feel briefly satisfied as she changed shoes.

The only upside was that Shoes could see, meet, and touch Mistress on these occasions. He called in an upside, though his feelings were mixed about the whole thing.

Either way, it didn't even happen more than once or twice a week—most of the time, only when Mistress had company. Aside from that, Shoes needed to clean Mistress's footwear—which also didn't require his constant attention. Because of this, his tasks were erratic at the moment. No matter how much Chief Ormus wanted to get him to work, Mistress's shoes took priority. It messed up his schedule quite often.

"Enough of that," Shoes muttered, shaking his head. He wasn't willing to dwell on this again. Not today, when he was on the verge of an exciting discovery!

The area that he could freely roam was quite large. It began with the mansion and the buildings surrounding it, while the other end of the estate was high up on the mountain. Considering that most of House Dawngrove's income came from the underground lake located there, it made sense to surround the whole area with high walls.

Shoes followed the stream upriver, looking around constantly. He knew it was just paranoia, but he felt as if he was being followed. The trees around him made it harder to determine if anyone else was around, so he made sure to be extra careful.

When he got closer to the entrance of the tunnel, he waded into the water. It was only ankle-deep, but he had to tread carefully because of the sharp rocks at the bottom. At times like these he really wished that he had a pair of boots, or at least some kind of sturdy footwear.

The stream had carved a small valley, leaving tall rock formations on either side. The scenery around Shoes was surprisingly idyllic; if not for his impeding adventure, he would have definitely spent his free time here. That was, he reflected, the sole reason he had found the tunnel in the first place.

It was one of the cliffs on the right side that he was looking for. It had a small ledge high up on it, one that he could just barely reach. He pulled himself up to it, then pushed away the vines that covered the rock's jagged surface. And there it was. A small hole, rapidly opening up into a corridor. Shoes could see from the entrance that it had brick walls, so it was definitely man-made. Last time he hadn't brought any light source so he couldn't explore it further, but now he had an oil lamp.

He lit the lamp quickly, but then spent a few minutes just staring inside. Despite his earlier eagerness, he suddenly felt hesitant. What if he would get in trouble because of this? What if this wasn't something he was supposed to see, and will be punished for it—or worse, will be killed for it? All those little nagging questions that he had tried to ignore up till now bubbled to the surface.

But he knew he couldn't chicken out now. This was his chance. What kind of chance, he didn't know, but it was a chance nevertheless. He clutched at the wooden figurine in his pocket, gripping it as tightly as he dared. It wasn't exactly a good-luck charm, but it was the closest thing he had to one. Taking a deep breath, he descended into the tunnel.

He walked on and on, expecting at any moment to reach an intersection, or at least find something apart from the bare, moldy walls. Apparently, he was expecting them in vain. The tunnel didn't even change direction, didn't even have the slightest curve. Shoes couldn't visualize very well where exactly he was, but he suspected that he was heading straight towards the main building of the mansion.

Could this be a secret passageway for the Ladies and Lords of the House? Shoes supposed that they could use it as an escape route in case of an emergency. In that case, the corridor would lead straight to their rooms, to the heart of the mansion. Shoes suddenly realized how much trouble he would be in if the tunnel was leading him into Mistress's bedchamber. But on a second thought . . . maybe it would have its advantages too?

No, no, it certainly would be awful. Shoes shook his head to stop his reverie, trying to forget those improper thoughts. It would be really embarrassing to get caught in Mistress's chambers, and he would be definitely punished for it.

Just when he finally got his thoughts back in order, he encountered another problem. Namely, a dead-end. He stopped, disappointment settling heavily in his chest—right until he spotted a door on the left side of the tunnel. The wall around it was slightly damaged, the bricks marked with scrapes and holes of various sizes.

Shoes edged closer as silently as he could. He found the door oddly familiar. After a bit of thinking, he realized that it had the same design as the doors they had installed for the Professor last week. The dark brown paint on it didn't seem to be fresh, though. There was no keyhole to peek through, so he slowly reached out and grabbed the handle. To his greatest surprise the door opened easily, swinging outwards. He jumped back in fright—afraid that someone will discover his presence—but the room behind the door was empty.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Empty, in the sense that there were no people within. Because otherwise it wasn't an exaggeration to say that the chamber was crowded. Shoes raised his lamp higher to take in everything inside. Every wall was covered with shelves, each shelf packed with books, gadgets and . . . guns?

Shoes edged closer to the wall on his left and sure enough, one section of it was packed with various types of handguns, pistols, even rifles. He didn't know much about weaponry, but because of the guards, he had seen guns like these before. There were different kinds of knives and daggers lying around, and there was even a longsword in an ornate sheath.

This chamber wasn't an armory, though. Under the shelves crates were lined up everywhere. As Shoes skirted around the stone block in the middle of the room, he spotted a bed in the corner. A real, proper bed, not the kind he usually slept on. And the books! There were many more books around the bed too, organized neatly. Shoes spent a few minutes trying to decipher what their titles were. He didn't have much practice in reading, so he wasn't very fluent but he got by. In the end, he drew the conclusion that these were mostly engineering books. It explained all those gadgets around the room.

There was a soft, but constant noise in the chamber. Some of the constructs were humming, other were clicking or hissing from time to time. There was a table in the other corner, which looked like some kind of miniature workshop. Shoes placed his lamp down on it, right next to a melon-sized machine that was emitting puffs of steam. He jumped a little when he saw movement through the glass-covered sides of the machine. It turned out that the construct was filled with boiling water, and there was a tiny fish-like creature swimming inside.

Shoes sat down next to the table and looked around. Just what was this place? Obviously someone lived here. There was even a basket of fresh fruit over there. Shoes wouldn't have been surprised if he found more food in one of the crates.

But how was this possible? And why? Why would anyone live down here? The place was too difficult to approach. Living here would be impractical, although . . . perhaps this was a runaway slave's hideout? It could be possible. But if no one could track down that slave by his cuffs, then why didn't he scale the walls to escape?

Shoes took in the stone formation in the middle of the room. He had been so distracted by the weapons and books, that he barely paid any attention to it. Was it a coffin? Or some kind of . . . altar? Standing at chest-level, it's sides were unadorned and dull. The only interesting thing about it was the two small figures standing on top of it. One was larger, a sculpture made from some kind of pitch-black material. The other—

Shoes's heart skipped a beat as he realized what it was. He jumped up from the chair to take a closer look. The other statuette was a small wooden warrior, no larger than his index finger. He grabbed it with a shaking hand, then took out the figurine from his pocket. The two were exactly the same. Same amateurish carving, same absurdly broad shoulders, same tiny little mistake by cutting into the knee too deeply. The only difference was that the one he found on the altar looked more . . . aged. Weathered, as if it had been there for a long time.

Just what was going on?! He couldn't make any sense of this. Tanner carved this figurine about a month ago. Why was there a copy of it? Why did it look so old? His thoughts swirled, but he couldn't come up with any answer.

As he stared at the two figures in confusion, he noticed something else. A piece of paper was resting on the altar. His breath caught as he read the first two words, then picked the paper up and brought it closer to the lamp. Slowly but surely, he began to read.

> Hello, Shoes!

> I know this is going to be hard to take, but please stay with me till the end of this letter. It is you who is writing this letter. More precisely, you from the past.

What? Shoes wasn't certain he read that right, so he went through it once again. Still, the meaning remained the same.

> Yes, you read that right. It's confusing. Here is the explanation: you are in a time loop.

Eh? Did the letter react to what he was thinking? He was getting even more confused now. The last two words didn't help either. He didn't know what a time loop was.

> You don't know what time loop means? Let me explain. Starting today, you have one week in your world. One week, then the world ends. After it does, everything goes back to be the same as before. Everything will be the same as it was this morning. You will be the same as you were this morning. You won't remember anything. Everything will go back the way it was, except whatever you leave in this room.

"Not possible," Shoes muttered.

He narrowed his eyes, glancing around the room once more. Whoever wrote this was clearly playing with him.

> Can't be possible, you say? It certainly can. I'm telling the truth, Shoes. You saw my figurine, didn't you? In case you don't fully believe me (and I know you don't) I left more evidence on the other side of this paper. Events that will happen in your future. Things that you can do.

Shoes turned the sheet over and sure enough, the other side was full of writing too. It gave him a headache just by looking at it. He turned back the paper, even though that side wasn't any better.

> Check them out later on, but for now, please keep on reading. There is a way to escape this endless cycle. You might not be able to do it yourself, but you can help your future selves closer to that goal. I would ask you to help your future selves as much as you can . . . but there is no need for me to ask. I know you aren't selfish. I know that you'll do your best.

Shoes wasn't too sure about that one. To him, it felt like this other person—this Shoes from the past—was trying to force him into helping.

> To break out of the loop, we need to collect the four Krinil Sculptures that originally stood in the Chamber of Ancestors. The Chamber of Ancestors is a room right above this one, in the heart of the Dawngrove mansion. These Krinil Sculptures were either sold or given away to various people over the years; finding them is our main objective.

>

> You can find out more about this from our notes that are on the shelf right above the bed. You will also find further instructions and reports of our findings there.

>

> Lastly, but most importantly: don't forget to leave a note before this week is over! Tell your future selves what you did in your lifetime. Otherwise, all will go to waste.

>

> Good luck, Shoes.

Shoes put the paper down the table and just stared at it blankly for a while. This was . . . this was almost too much. Too complicated. Impossible. What could he do? He glanced at the shelf above the bed, but couldn't bring himself to search for the note that his previous self left there.

Even if this whole thing wasn't just a rouse, what could he achieve within a week? It was too little time. What would happen to him once it was over? Would he really just . . . disappear? Would his current self be dead for good? His mind reeled at that thought. This— This was awful. For his life to be reduced to a single note left behind. This couldn't be true.

Shoes looked at the shelves once again, hesitating. In the end, he turned back to the table. He grabbed the lamp and the sheet of paper, then stormed out of the chamber. He was going to check whether the writing on the paper was true. There was no point in trying to figure out what this whole thing meant, if it was all just a lie.

[https://i.imgur.com/lEL3Anu.png]

He almost couldn't believe it.

Everything was happening the way it was written down.

Thanks to what the paper said, Shoes avoided conflict with Grease on three separate occasions. Even the little tips and tricks were working; he complimented Camille on her new earrings, and she actually blushed! Originally, Shoes hadn't even known she had earrings. Slaves weren't allowed to own any jewelry, but it seemed like the same didn't apply to Mistress's bed slaves.

Shoes missed some of the events that were on the paper, but he was convinced anyways. He was going to go back to the chamber and read the task his past self had left for him. It was already the second day of the loop, so he had only five more days left.

But before that, there was one last thing he wanted to try out. Mistress was going to leave for the city this morning, and Shoes would be there to give her exactly the pair of shoes that she desired. Mistress would be so satisfied with him!

"Ah, Shoes, is it?"

A voice startled Shoes and he looked back to find one of the servants standing behind him. He was a middle-aged man with balding head and a big crooked nose. Shoes couldn't remember ever seeing him, let alone what his name was.

"Y-Yes, sir."

"Perfect, perfect!" the man said. "Don't go anywhere, Lady Dawngrove will be here soon. She is leaving."

"A-Ah, but Chief Ormus will punish me if I don't show up in time for work," Shoes protested. "We have important work to do at the Research Facility."

Shoes had no idea why he had to say this, but the paper said it was necessary. According to the instructions, he could actually skip work this day and avoid being punished if he played his cards right.

The servant raised an eyebrow. "The Research Facility? Professor Sylven rarely tolerates your kind there."

"You're right, sir. This is an exceptional case only. We are building new homes for Professor Sylven's newest . . . umm, creations."

"I haven't heard about that one," the servant said, frowning. "Very well, then. I'll tell Chief Ormus that you'll be late."

Shoes blinked in surprise, but the servant already had his back to him, storming away. He wondered if the man was really going to speak with Chief Ormus. Would he do it personally? For someone like Shoes?

No time to worry about that though, because Shoes needed to get ready. In the next few minutes he went through Mistress's vast collection of footwear. He found what he was looking for; a pair of black court shoes with long ribbons attached to them. The ribbons would be wrapped around Mistress's calves in an intricate pattern, accentuating her shapely legs. Shoes already had some practice putting on this type of shoes, but he was still a bit nervous.

He knelt beside the wall—not too far from the double staircase—and waited. There were only three other men in the foyer: two guards standing at the entrance, and a slave cleaning the floor. Due to the unusually sunny weather, the slave didn't have much to do. No mud tracks to clean up, no shoes to tidy in their owner's absence. Still, he kept scrubbing the lower part of the foyer, the area where people usually changed their outdoors footwear.

Shoes kept fussing over his uniform, adjusting it and double checking whether it was spotless clean. It was, of course. He had learned it very quickly that his clothes shouldn't be anything less than perfect.

By contrast, the two guards at the entrance were doing a poor job wearing their uniforms. Their shirts weren't properly tucked in, their vests were crumpled and their trousers were dirty. Maybe they didn't hear it when the servant said that Mistress was coming? Or maybe this was actually an acceptable look for them? Shoes didn't know much about what regulations the guards had.

Still, at first glance they didn't look too bad. They had the same colors as Shoes's uniform—red and orange with lots of gray—but the guards' clothing was more fit for combat. Well, except for the hat. Shoes didn't understand the purpose behind wearing those peaked caps. They would be useless in a fight, and they didn't even look good.

Shoes noticed his Mistress's approach even before she came down the stairs; her aura was unmistakable. The other slave scrambled to get to his knees as well, trembling in fear. As for Shoes, all he felt was a sense of awe. It rarely happened anymore that he reacted to his Mistress's aura with fear.

His Mistress was in the company of her butler and two of her maids, but he had only eyes for her. She was beautiful as always. Perfection itself, with her flowing raven-black hair and her emerald-green eyes and her flawless, fair skin and her soft, red lips. Shoes felt himself melt just by looking at her. His Mistress wore a formal black dress and glided elegantly down the stairs while she listened to her butler's speech.

"I'm not going to repeat myself, Sebas," his Mistress's beautiful voice washed over Shoes. "I'll bring Vince, but Grom and you definitely need to stay here. This yearly council is a farce. I'm not going to bring my whole retinue when they have better things to do!"

"This farce, my Lady, is the annual gathering of Ylvasil's leading Houses. I cannot stress enough how important—"

"Yes, yes, whatever. I'm not going to—oh, Shoes, very good. Follow me."

His Mistress walked to the display of footwear at the side of the foyer and Shoes hurried after her.

"Something formal that matches my dress," Mistress murmured to herself, her voice like warm honey.

"Mistress, would this be to your liking?" Shoes asked, presenting the pair of shoes that he had already prepared. His voice was slightly shaking, but at least his hands were steady.

"Oh? That's perfect," his Mistress remarked. "How did you know I was thinking about that one?"

"Just a lucky guess, M-Mistress."

"I see your sense of fashion is improving," his Mistress complimented him as she sat down elegantly on a cushioned chair. "Alright, get on with it."

Shoes's heart skipped a beat as he heard his Mistress's approval, and he got down to his knees immediately. He started with his Mistress's right foot, slipping off her comfortable indoors shoe. She wasn't wearing stockings this time, so he could touch her skin directly. He could only admire how good her petite foot felt in his large hands, and—no, no, he had to focus. Shoes concentrated on putting on Mistress's court shoes and tying the ribbons.

"No, Sebas. Enough," his Mistress interrupted whatever the butler was telling her. "I'm not going to bring a whole army, it's completely unnecessary! Must I remind you that I'm one of the strongest Krinfused out there? I know you're worried, but don't be ridiculous. I'll be fine."

That was right. Shoes's Mistress was incredible, strong and powerful. She was a true lioness; proud and fierce and nobody stood a chance against her. Shoes's head filled with warm thoughts as he kept working on the ribbons.

"Thank you, Sebas. I'm counting on you," his Mistress said just as Shoes finished putting on her other shoe. "Etty, Betty? Come on, we're leaving."

Shoes scrambled back to his previous spot as his Mistress and her maids got going, leaving the butler behind. He knelt there, head lowered, bursting with pride. He continued kneeling until he felt Mistress's aura fade . . . and she was gone. Shoes took a deep breath, then a second one. He felt as if he had sprinted several laps around the mansion. Or—he supposed—as if he had made love to a woman all night. He couldn't be sure about that one though, because he had no experience in that area.

The slave next to him fell forward, his face pale as death. His breathing was much more labored than Shoes's, and he was seemingly on the verge of vomiting. Shoes moved closer as he tried to stand up, supporting him until he was steady on his feet.

"Damn her," the man muttered as the two of them walked out of the parlor. "She could have suppressed her aura, but she didn't even bother. Inconsiderate bitch, almost killed me there."

Shoes only grunted, keeping his silence. He didn't agree, especially not about the insult. That was the kind of thinking that made Mistress's aura feel worse.

"So, Shoes, eh?" the man continued speaking. He looked at him up and down, craning his neck as he did so. Shoes was more than a head taller than him. "Thanks for the help. Name's Chubby, by the way."

Shoes nodded in acknowledgement, and wondered if Chubby was a new slave here. He didn't remember seeing him before, and the man certainly talked too carelessly. Chubby could be a new purchase, which was an unusual occurrence nowadays. Did something happen that made Mistress bring in new men? That servant earlier had been a new face too...

"You're quite something, man," Chubby chattered on. "You have some nerves. Being practically unfazed by that bi— ermm, beautiful Mistress of ours."

A couple of servants passed them on the corridor, but they didn't even take notice of Chubby and Shoes.

"I'm not as tough as I look," Shoes said with a shrug, "It affected me as well, I just tried to hide it."

"Well, I dunno 'bout that. If it was me who had to touch her feet, I'd have pissed myself in fear!"

Shoes offered Chubby a forced smile, but stayed silent. He didn't really want to chat with this man now. He had important things to do. Now that he had pleased Mistress, he was thoroughly convinced about the time loop. It was time to get back to the chamber—

Camille turned around the corner and entered the great hall. Shoes stopped abruptly, then patted Chubby's shoulder.

"Sorry man," he told him, "I got to go. See you later!"

Chubby said his goodbyes, but Shoes was already hurrying after Camille. After their last conversation he was feeling confident about her. It was time to push his luck a little bit further.

[https://i.imgur.com/lEL3Anu.png]

The dark corridor was as haunting as it had been last time. The meager light of Shoes's oil lamp cast eerie shadows all around him, and the only sounds that could be heard were his footsteps and his breathing.

Shoes had to admit that he had spent way too much time flirting with Camille. Well, flirting might be a strong word here. His face heated up in embarrassment at the memory. Still, Camille had found him funny, so it should be considered as a success, right? She had even agreed to meet up with him later at the fountain.

Among normal circumstances, chasing after one of Mistress's girls would have been a really, really bad idea. But since it was a time loop, Shoes figured that he had nothing to lose. He might die within five days anyways. He still held the hope that he wouldn't cease to exist so soon, but in his heart he knew that it was likely. He wasn't sure what to think about that. Most of the time, he tried to not think about that.

The trip along the corridor seemed to pass quicker than the last time. When Shoes reached the door, he grabbed the handle eagerly—just to jump back in fright when he pushed the door open. There was light inside!

"Come in, come in, don't be shy. And close the door behind you, would you?"

Shoes gaped in shock. The light bulbs inside were providing soft, yellowish light. More of the machines were humming and whirring, but they barely registered to his senses; the figure at the desk held his every attention.

"Hello?" the man prompted him. "We can talk if you come in."

Shoes shook himself out of his stupor and went inside, pulling the door shut behind him. He couldn't take his eyes off the man's familiar face. His black hair was slightly longer than Shoes's, he had stubble on his cheeks, and his brown eyes looked cold and tired. But his other features—simply put, the man looked exactly like an older version of Shoes himself.

"Apologies for the mess. You're here earlier than I expected," the man spoke, turning back to the desk. Bits of metal were strewn all over, and the man was currently . . . cleaning a handgun? Yes, that was what he was doing. He moved some of the components with quick and practiced movements, reassembling the weapon.

"So, did you succeed?"

"Succeed with what?" Shoes asked numbly.

"With completing the tasks I've left to you, of course!" the man said, then wrinkled his brow. "Don't tell me you haven't even read them."

"I... No, I haven't."

The man glanced at Shoes with an inscrutable expression, then slumped back in his chair and sighed. "What could I have done to convince you to read the second paper?"

"I don't know," Shoes slowly said. "It's— it was a bit too much to read at once. I'm, uhh, I'm not used to reading that much."

"Maybe I should shorten the list by leaving out the tips about Camille and Miranda," the man grumbled, continuing to tinker with the handgun. "See how you like that."

Shoes's mind was trying to catch up with everything that was happening. He—this man—must be the one who had written that paper. All of it. Of course, that was what he had done. Shoes tried to think about what this meant.

"Umm, just to be sure . . . you are me, right?" Shoes asked. "Like, an older me?"

His other self grunted. "Yes. About ten years older."

Wow. So this meant that not only objects could escape the time loop, but people too! Shoes grew excited. This could mean that he had more than five days in this world! He was about to question his older self further, when another thought crossed his mind. If this was a time loop and he kept finding this place every time . . . and this whole thing had been going on for more than ten years now . . . then where were all of his other copies?

Realization hit him, making his blood run cold.

He looked at the handgun his other self was assembling, then looked at the exit of the chamber. He could have reached it in two strides, but the door was closed. It would take a precious second or two to open it up and slip out.

"Come to think of it," Shoes spoke up nervously, "There are still five more days in this loop. If you gave me the instructions now, I could go back and try to complete them."

"Oh? But you don't even know what the instructions are."

"W-Well, that's true, but that's why I said try to complete. I know it's a late start, but I want to be useful, you know."

Shoes's older self just continued assembling his gun, fitting a small cylinder into the side of the weapon. He didn't look up, so Shoes took another glance at the door. Could he deceive his other self into letting him go, or should he just make a run for it?

The last piece of metal clicked into place, and his older self sighed.

"I hate it that I always try to be so goddamn clever." He looked at Shoes, his eyes now filled with pity. "I know the way you're thinking, Shoes. I'm you, after all. You have no chance of deceiving me."

Shoes's stomach lurched in panic, and he dashed for the exit. He reached the door and pushed down on the handle, but it was stuck. There was some kind of locking mechanism installed on it. He put one shoulder against the door and tried to rip it off its hinges, but it didn't even budge.

Shoes's eyes were wild with terror, his breathing ragged. Now that he was this close to the door, he recognized the faded patterns splattered on its wooden surface. Dried blood. A desperate cry escaped his lips. He clutched at the lock frantically, trying to rip it off.

"I'm sorry that it comes to this," the serial killer whispered behind him, "Please understand that it's necessary."

The last thing Shoes heard was the sound of a gunshot, deafeningly loud in the small chamber.