CHAPTER 75: KNIVES, THIGHS, AND TERRIFIED GUYS

Finn stared down into the pit, and immediately his body tensed like a cat on a cold toilet seat.

Below were patches of slime scattered like moss—midnight blue, deep violet, even murky purples that looked like someone had microwaved jelly. It was like a slime sinkhole had cracked open and puked out every shade of gelatinous doom.

And Finn didn’t like it. Not one bit.

The dirt down there was dark brown mixed with black, as if the ground itself had given up on sunlight. Dead leaves floated lazily into the hole, drifting down like nature’s dandruff. A few rocks were strewn about, doing absolutely nothing helpful, just lying there like witnesses to a war crime.

Schlurp.

Another sickening squish echoed through the air—followed by the unmistakable sound of a blade slicing through goo.

Finn turned his head toward the sound, a shiver crawling up his spine. He wasn’t sure if he was scared or intrigued. Both? Could someone be both? Apparently yes—Finn Wiggles could.

There she was.

A woman. Just one. But she might as well have been an entire hit squad.

She stood with mechanical grace, dragging a long, wicked blade through the guts of a slime pinned to the wall like she was buttering toast with violence.

And she was dressed in—of all things—a maid uniform. Classic black and white, pristine and sharp. It clung tight at the waist before flaring out into a skirt so clean it looked like it had never touched the concept of dirt. Her white cuffs peeked beneath snug sleeves, and a perfectly starched apron tied around her back like a ribbon on a wrapped bomb.

The collar was buttoned up to her throat—so high it looked more like a polite noose than an accessory.

Yikes.

Her hair was silver, short, and neat—practically military. A white frilly maid crown rested atop her head, held in place by a thin black ribbon that looped above her left ear and pinned back a section of her hair. The strands in front framed her pale face, falling just to the nape of her neck, softening her otherwise severe aura.

Her eyes—crimson and cold—were locked on the slime in front of her. And with a single flick, she slashed it clean in half. The corpse flopped to the floor like a wet pancake.

She didn’t look like a servant. She looked like she assassinated nobles between tea breaks.

Finn gulped hard.

"I think we should leave," he muttered, taking one slow step back like she was a T-Rex.

Majestria leaned forward on his back, whispering into his ear, "I think we should stay clear of her."

"No shit," Finn hissed, like she’d just told him fire was hot.

He reached out and gently grabbed Chestelle by the shoulder, carefully guiding her back with all the stealth of a cartoon burglar. They moved slowly, hoping not to catch the maid’s attention—

Until a voice rang out.

"One Vaultari... and two humans," the maid’s voice rang out, cold and clinical. "The Vaultari stands approximately one hundred seventy centimeters. The human male—one seventy-three. The woman riding him, one seventy-eight."

Her voice was flat. Robotic. Void of any interest or warmth.

They all froze.

’Did she just measure us... with her eyes?’

"You’ve been observing me for precisely twenty-three seconds," the maid continued, not even looking at a watch. "State your purpose."

Finn’s brain stuttered.

This woman had not only measured their heights, but somehow also timed their staring contest to the exact second.

This wasn’t someone to joke around with. This was someone who killed without blinking and folded linens with military precision.

Then came footsteps behind them—leaves crunching softly.

Finn glanced back. Lickthorn was jogging toward them, waving her "wand" like she was ready to exorcise a ghost with bad posture.

Bad. This looked bad.

Finn frantically waved his hands at her like a man trying to swat invisible bees. "No! Don’t come closer!" he hissed, silently begging her to turn around and pretend she’d seen a squirrel.

But the maid’s crimson eyes were already tracking him. Watching. Calculating.

Lickthorn finally caught up, her expression confused as she peered down into the pit. "What’s with the slime soup—wait, who’s she?" She squinted at the maid, then raised her wand like an idiot about to ask the worst question possible. "Don’t tell me that’s the—"

SWOOSH!

Something sliced past Finn’s face—so close he felt the wind burn across his skin. It embedded in the dirt with an audible thunk.

Finn clutched his nose in raw panic. "WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!"

He looked down.

A knife. Long, silver, and unnervingly clean. Like it had never missed a target in its life.

Finn’s stomach dropped. He turned his head—slowly, horrified.

The maid was already airborne.

A blur of motion.

Multiple knives glinted in both hands, her skirt fluttering like a death flag in the wind.

She wasn’t hesitating.

She was attacking.

The maid crossed her arms in midair—then whipped them outward.

A fan of knives shot forth like bullets from hell.

Finn’s heart screamed louder than his voice. "DAMN IT ALL!" he shouted, bolting like his life depended on it—because it did.

Chestelle darted after him, expression unreadable. Lickthorn, however, flailed in panic and immediately tripped over a root like a cartoon side character.

Knives zipped through the air—whizz! snap!—one sliced a clean strand of Majestria’s hair.

She stopped screaming.

Her whole mood did a 180.

"...Put me down," she said, voice suddenly cold and flat.

Finn gasped. "Are you insane?!"

Smack! Smack!

She whacked him over the head like she was playing whack-a-mole until he staggered and she leapt off his back.

Majestria turned with fury in her eyes, divine rage brewing like a hurricane. "You will pay for that, you fake piece of—!"

THUNK!

A knife landed squarely in the dirt—right between her legs.

Dangerously close to the royal cooch.

Majestria stared down at it.

She blinked once.

Then let out a primal, high-pitched scream that shattered any illusion of composure.

"EEEEEEE!! SHE TRIED TO KILL MY LADY PEARL!"

She turned and sprinted so fast she left a dust trail, grabbing onto Finn mid-run like a terrified toddler clinging to her emotional support idiot.

"RUN DAMN IT!"