As Yvette turned into a gray cocoon and stood upon the lawn at the manor’s center, the cold wind lifted bits of grass, and the manor settled back into quiet.

Yet the Central District’s development did not halt.

Because a year before her long sleep Yvette had already made detailed plans and, via the manor’s Central Control Core, fully conveyed her planning logic to the skeletons, in the days that followed the skeletons not only kept advancing the functional buildings and the agricultural zone, but—driven by routines—did so efficiently and steadily. From a god’s-eye view, the white skeleton soldiers looked like a bustling ant colony, their movement never ceasing.

Thus, as winters passed into springs and decades flowed by, new shoots broke ground and in a blink turned to autumn leaves, falling to soil. Under the skeletons’ continual building, the Central District grew ever more renewed.

They laid standardized asphalt roads that tightly linked the manor, the herb fields, and each factory zone. Simple Rune Lamps rose along the roadsides, casting steady halos at night.

The herb fields were vastly expanded, no longer confined to greenhouses; large open-air plots were opened up as well. Beyond the core materials needed for potions, the skeletons planted a variety of crops per Yvette’s checklist—coffee, tea, and all manner of vegetables and fruits. Since Yvette’s personal demand was small, the limited acreage almost encompassed every seed she had collected—the idea being that, upon waking, she could sample everything fresh.

The energy-supply problem had also been solved in advance. At the current scale of construction, the magical energy generated by multiple green-energy plants could supply at least several centuries.

A hundred years later.

On an early-spring morning, mist lay thick upon the sea; all was hushed save for the faint sough of water licking the rocks, echoing across the empty beach.

Soon, with the swell of the surf growing ever louder, a massive black shadow tore through the dense wall of fog and rose from the deep.

It was a spider as vast as a mountain range. Eight long limbs, sheathed in black carapace, pierced the sea and firmly held aloft its colossal body. Along the top of its trunk, soft silver-white guard hairs traced a shining line down the spine. Its facial contours were uncanny—like a beautiful human visage; six scarlet compound eyes, each formed of countless tiny facets, glittered translucent as gemstones.

Clearly, this was a giant monstrosity that married splendor to malice. Every detail of its body looked exquisitely wrought—lovely as a goblet of starlight-laden poison.

Few high-tier aberrants cared so much about aesthetics. Thus it was no surprise when, in a flare of light, the giant spider became a cold, stunning woman in a regal gown of purple-black, her figure graceful. Arms folded, she lifted into the air, drifted into the tightly guarded Central District—without triggering any Skeleton AI to attack.

This icy beauty was, of course, Abella. With two prior cycles of experience, she knew her master’s slumber lasted a hundred years each time, so she chose to time her arrival for the day the master would emerge, to “welcome her back” and conveniently cook up a tale about having stood guard for another century.

All right—obviously impossible; the master wasn’t that easy to fool. In truth, she’d worn out her welcome on the Blacktide Continent,

figured the master would soon awaken, and had come expressly to seek aid.

So how had she ended up unable to get by?

Like this!

It starts with her declaring war on the surrounding powers a century ago.

Back then, because the master had swept Blacktide twice in a row and harvested seventy to eighty percent of the troops of more than thirty commander-level forces, Abella’s Spider Woman faction held a strong advantage—virtually the northern hegemon of Blacktide, looking down on all under heaven, with none daring defy her.

It went to her head. She struck everywhere—smacking this side today, kicking that side tomorrow. No one could match her. What she didn’t expect was that the nearby aberrant commanders would quickly forge a “Tri-King Alliance” to counter her,

and every time she marched out with troops, her home base was raided right after—driving her to fury.

She took the fight straight to their doors, one against three. Likely the strongest commander on Blacktide, she could hold her own three-to-one; with a bit of effort she routed all three surrounding commanders. But when she turned back, triumphant, she’d find her base struck again, vast reserves of nourishment stolen—years of work undone.

But ask her to put up nourishment to raise more fifth-stage lords, or to entice other commanders into alliance—she balked. She had only just been promoted to commander—early Commander stage, not yet at Commander Perfection. She hadn’t “eaten her fill” herself; how could she feed her subordinates? Impossible. That nourishment was her emergency stockpile. In the world of divine scions, subordinates are tools and slaves—benefits aren’t a thing.

Of course, her relationship with the master was different. She was the master’s maid—higher than a slave—which signified a bond of iron between them: as steadfast as stone, till seas ran dry and rocks crumbled, white heads side by side, faithful unto death. And so, under a leader whose command was laughably poor—hot-headed, shortsighted, and exploitative—the once-flourishing Spider Woman faction shrank over mere decades back to the small region centered on Agasha. Others couldn’t break in, but Abella could scarcely expand outward either.

Only then did Abella remember she still had a master! She had been so intoxicated with Blacktide for so long that she had clean forgotten the master. In crisis, though, her loyalty snapped back into place. Thus, after many years, she returned to the island to beg the master—upon awakening—to uphold justice for her and lend a hand. This time, she swore, she wouldn’t disappoint again.

Entering the manor and seeing the gray cocoon still there, Abella let out a breath, a baseless sense of peace welling in her chest.

Then, noting the villa’s outer walls were again veiled in green vines and many materials had reached their limits and were near collapse, she inferred the master would wake before long. She might as well repair the manor first and give it a thorough cleaning.

On one hand, it showed that as a maid she still kept to her heart and hadn’t changed; on the other, it laid the groundwork to ask the master for help later.

Besides, while the Skeleton AIs had done maintenance, it was surely stiff and imperfect—leaving Abella plenty of room to shine.

Soon, she pushed open the wooden door. The stench of rot and mildew hit her in the face, making her sneeze. Wordless, she aired the place out with wind magic, fetched a bucket of water, rolled up her sleeves, and set to work. But after too long living hand-to-mouth in comfort, she stared at the mold spots on the wall and couldn’t remember what to do—she couldn’t just burn it down, right? The plaster was peeling there, the floorboards were rotten here, vines were sprouting from the wall seams—how did you handle that again?

Straining to recall the ins and outs of maid work, she floundered, all clumsy hands and feet, her efficiency painfully low. Frustration welled up at once,

and she thought, Why is all this so fussy, so boring, so filthy and tiring? How did I ever get used to it back then?

Forget it—at worst a year or two and the master will wake. With the rate dust settles here, she only needed to clean every other day. She’d grit her teeth and bear it.

With that in mind—unwilling as she was—her body obeyed. She kept the manor tidy, repaired rot, played gardener now and then, picked herbs, made rounds everywhere—the sole goal being to hold out until the master awoke. She didn’t even dare leave midway, lest the master wake the moment she stepped out and all her work be wasted.

Now and then she put together somewhat wholesome arts and letters to relieve the tedium. But after a few years of such days, she couldn’t help wondering if this slumber was running long—was something different this time?

Still, after all she had put in, she couldn’t just walk away. And if the master didn’t wake, there was no point in going back.

Once the master woke, the entire Blacktide Continent would be her stage for a comeback—why on earth would she leave?

Dammit—she didn’t believe it. She’d weathered a century before; if need be, she’d wait another hundred years!

She, Abella, was loyal to her master—Heaven bear witness!

And so, in that longing vigil—

she waited yet another hundred years.