CHAPTER 76: I HAVE NO VOICE AND I MUST SCREAM

Just as Finn was about to sprint forward, three more knives swooshed through the air—thunk thunk thunk—landing right where he was about to step.

He froze.

’This woman is insane!’ Finn’s heart dropped. Whoever this maid was, she had lethal precision. She wasn’t just dangerous—she was a walking one-woman raid boss.

Majestria shrieked as the blades hit, hopping around like a frog in lava. "MOVE! DO SOMETHING! GO LEFT, RIGHT—JUST NOT HERE!"

"I’M TRYING!" Finn yelled back, completely lost. If this were a real firefight, he’d have been shot twenty times and teabagged already.

He glanced behind him—and his blood went cold.

Chestelle was gone. Correction: she had turned into a chest. Three knives were sticking out of her lid like toothpicks in a cursed hors d’oeuvre.

And Lickthorn? Hanging from a tree by her belt like she’d just rage-quit life. Limp. Unmoving.

Finn’s hope disintegrated.

"Oh god... they’re dead," he muttered.

Majestria smacked the back of his head like he was a malfunctioning vending machine. "Forget them! GO!"

"I can’t just leave them!" Finn barked.

"You’re insane. I’m not dying because of dumb mortal emotions!"

"Then get off or come with me," Finn snapped, eyes sharp. He wasn’t wavering.

Majestria bit her lip. Then—"Just go!"

And Finn bolted, heart thundering, straight toward the spot where the others had fallen. He wasn’t leaving them behind. Not like this.

But—

A sudden scream pierced the forest—sharp and brief—and vanished just as fast.

His back felt... light.

Finn’s steps slowed. "Majestria...?"

He looked over his shoulder.

She was gone.

She’d been snatched.

Finn’s brain imploded.

’OH HELL NO!’

Panic wrapped around his lungs like a vice. This wasn’t a battle. It was a massacre.

He wanted a logout button so bad it hurt. Anything to eject him from this real-life horror game.

Then—silence.

The whole forest fell eerily still.

Too still.

Just moments ago, screams rang out like alarms. Now? Nothing. Not a chirp, not a breeze. Nothing.

Like one of those proximity chat horror games where everyone disappears one by one... and you’re the last idiot with a mic.

But this wasn’t a game.

This was real. And Finn was scared shitless.

"G-Guys...?" he whispered.

No answer.

A lump formed in his throat. "Ohhh... fuck me," he whimpered, voice cracking like glass.

He stepped forward, each foot crunching leaves like they were explosives. Every shadow looked like a corpse. Every twig? A death sentence.

Then—

SWOOSH.

Movement. Something darted behind the trees, fast.

Finn jumped. "GAH!" he shrieked in full soprano, whipping around—

Nothing.

Dead silence again.

His pulse was going nuclear.

"Funk this," he muttered, eyes wide, hands shaking, legs ready to betray him at any moment. "This is why I stay inside. This is why I don’t camp."

He started talking to himself. Anything to keep his brain from folding in on itself.

His fight-or-flight system was in full meltdown mode—and the only instinct he had left was play dead and hope the bad thing goes away.

Finn’s teeth chattered like castanets, though it wasn’t cold. It was fear. Raw, stupid, primal fear.

He moved forward anyway.

Because what the hell else could he do?

He couldn’t run.

Not because he was brave—but because that maid woman definitely wouldn’t let him get away. No chance in hell.

So he had one option: push forward and pray to whatever gods were bored enough to listen.

At least if he died, he’d die with some dignity.

Maybe.

Probably not.

Finn now really wished he had listened to Majestria and booked it the moment things went sideways. But he was in too deep now. Knee-deep in anime-tier regret.

"Mama didn’t raise no bitch," he muttered under his breath.

"I ain’t scared of nothing," he added.

Again. Louder.

"I ain’t scared of nothing!"

And to his own surprise... he was starting to believe it. His breathing steadied. His spine straightened.

"Yeah. That’s right," he puffed his chest. "You’re Sir Finn Wiggles, damn it. You got this!"

CRACK.

Finn froze.

He turned around slowly.

The maid was standing right there. Like a damn ghost. Staring at him with a flat, unreadable expression.

She leaned in slightly.

"Boo."

"AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHUUGHHHHHH!!!" Finn screamed so hard his voice cracked in four different octaves.

He whipped around to run—

—tripped over his own shoe.

Faceplanted into the dirt like a sack of failure.

Then immediately started rolling across the ground like he was on fire.

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!"

He flailed. He screamed. He kicked up leaves.

In that moment, it was confirmed:

Mama did, in fact, raise a bitch.

And his name...

was Finn Wiggles.

***

Finn kept rolling. And screaming. Like tomorrow was cancelled and he wanted the world to know.

He had fully clocked out of sanity. There was no rational thought left—only primal, unfiltered panic. He looked less like a man and more like a patient in the deepest ward of an asylum doing unspeakable things with a pudding cup.

But even chaos had limits.

His screams began to crack. His voice faltered. It started dying out like a dying engine on a budget car. He coughed. Wheezed.

His voice box had officially filed for divorce.

Eventually, Finn came to a slow stop. Face-down. Exhausted. Eyes wide and twitching. He slowly looked up—

And she was still there.

The maid girl.

Standing over him like a statue. Still. Unreadable. Expressionless.

Like a poker face carved from anxiety.

She held one of her knives out. And by the heavens—it was gorgeous.

It wasn’t some basic fantasy butter knife, no. This thing was forged for war and elegance. Slender, needle-pointed, lethal. Crimson runes curled along the blade in delicate spirals, almost hypnotic.

The hilt was wrapped in black velvet. And the pommel?

A sculpted silver rose.

This was art. This was status. This knife probably had a more prestigious background than Finn did.

It screamed "high-end death-dealer." And she had a whole arsenal of them—no clue from where. Maybe a cursed tea set. Maybe hell.

Finn wanted to scream again—but nothing came out. His voice had abandoned ship. He was silent. Shaking.

This was it.

This was how he died.

Not to a dragon. Not in an epic battle. Not even to Majestria’s thighs (which, let’s be honest, was still a better way to go).

But to a silent, terrifying, knife-wielding maid.

In the middle of nowhere.

In a fantasy world that clearly hated him.

’Yeah. I quit,’ Finn thought. ’Just... just give it over already.’

He closed his eyes.

This was his fate.