Vol 3 Chapter 7 – Boyhood: Late Spring at Age Twelve ・Part 4

Enough time had passed that even the memory of when this mansion was built and by whom had long faded.

To those who now ruled over this mansion, such matters were utterly irrelevant.

A lone goblin loitered down the corridor. Following the instinctual routines of demons, it mindlessly wandered through their territory without purpose.

Demons and monsters born from humans tainted by demonic seeds were truly peculiar existences.

The individuality and ethics they once held as humans had evaporated, leaving only their retained intellect and skills to revel in slaughter. Worse yet, having lost the need to sleep or fear starvation, they even shed the “proper” desires of living beings, becoming entities that craved only violence—a twisted joke of nature.

While they would devour prey if available, even this act was driven by inertia rather than necessity. Their wanton cruelty and irrationality defied the logic of this world. No trace of a living creature’s “reason” could be found in them.

Given their rootless, migratory nature, it was almost understandable why some sorcerers theorized that demons were dregs of the world cast away by the Hidden Moon.

Like the mansion itself, this goblin—having forgotten its origins and even fragments of its past—followed its habitual path into the kitchen. The once-bustling space that filled the stomachs of residents and servants now reeked of mold and rot. Nearby lay piles of half-eaten animal carcasses, carelessly trampled and scavenged.

After confirming nothing had changed, the goblin turned to return to the hallway. It would idle blankly by the door for a while before resuming its patrol of other rooms.

Though it tried to obey its swirling, mud-like instincts, its legs froze. As it tilted its head in confusion, a silvery glint reflecting through a broken window caught its eye—just beyond its toes.

What is this? Before it could ponder, strength drained from the goblin’s body. Its knees hit the floor, and its fractured instincts were finally freed…

【Tips】Even after becoming demons, their capabilities don’t drastically deviate from their human origins. Conversely, the “wisdom” they once used to kill enemies remains undiminished.

A sneak attack from stealth is always potent. The issue is simply the lack of opportunities. After all, if you can enter stealth mid-combat, you’re often better off just attacking outright.

I rolled the goblin’s corpse into a corner and listened carefully for signs of detection.

…Good.

The opening couldn’t have gone better. Slipping through the servant’s entrance, I used Invisible Hand to levitate a dagger and deliver a backstab to the patrolling goblin.

Even I have to admit it’s a handy spell. The tactile sense lets me “feel” during explorations, and within my line of sight, I can manipulate objects—perfect for remote backstabs like this. With practice, maybe I could even wield a sword as a second or third “limb.”

Still, hyper-specialization has risks. If I rely solely on this spell, I’ll be helpless if it’s countered. Simple spells like this are easily resisted, and some foes can physically tear through the forcefield. I need to plan a more robust build.

But for now, it’s time for classic ruin exploration: hack and slash. Every adventurer’s rite of passage.

The large kitchen was thoroughly ruined, with nothing of value. No point lugging around rusted knives, pots with holes, or corroded cauldrons.

I’ll harvest demon crystals later. Heading toward the collapsed hallway entrance, I wished I had a mirror for peeking around corners.

A cautious glance confirmed the corridor—illuminated by the Nightdark Fairy’s blessing as clearly as daylight—was empty.

This eastern wing likely housed servant quarters, given the kitchen. Following tropes, the master’s bedroom or study would hold key items or a boss… but my mission is extermination. I must clear these demons to protect travelers. If I hadn’t been the one ambushed earlier, someone would’ve died.

Crouching low, I muted my presence. Never underestimate my stealth skills—honed since childhood hide-and-seek. Sure, I’d get complaints like “Ugh, so immature!?” but hey, it works.

Moreover, my armor didn’t hinder stealth. Master Smith had ingeniously lined the joints with soft materials to eliminate noise during movement. Given his experience catering to adventurers, he must’ve received countless requests for silent gear. Crafting such meticulous details without explicit orders? Truly the work of a master artisan.

But… this basically makes me an assassin.

While questioning my vocation—and ignoring the fact that my existence itself is chimera-class—I cleared the eastern wing, stacking five corpses.

Well, it’s a dungeon. Making a racket would trigger waves of enemies. Even trained as I am, I can’t handle dozens at once without area attacks. Stealth it is. Call it boring? Who cares? It’s not like we’re livestreaming. No need for flashy explosions.

Close targets? Invisible Hand muzzles them before a backstab. Distant ones? Strangled silently. Five goblins down without a peep.

But why so many goblins? Fantasy’s staple cannon fodder, sure, but their numbers suggest rapid breeding. Yet entire families turning into demons seems unlikely. Where’s the supply coming from?

Too few clues to solve that riddle. I gathered the bodies for later crystal harvesting. Even demons might notice missing comrades, and centralizing loot saves time.

No notable treasures found. No proper weapons—just rusted daggers and bent swords. Stripping their rags? Pointless.

Rooms offered only decayed furniture and discarded rags. Likely evacuated orderly, not vanished overnight.

Hmm. Wish they’d drop cash like in games, but that’s wishful thinking…

No cryptic journals or dying messages either. Skipping the central wing, I slipped into the west wing. Dungeon protocol: clear edges first, save boss for last.

Central areas probably hold banquet halls or guest rooms—prime boss real estate.

Reminds me of that one RPG session. Our stealth-focused party ambushed a dungeon boss mid-monologue. Top-tier assassins don’t let villains finish speeches. Smoke bombs + six simultaneous backstabs = insta-kill.

The GM retaliated next campaign with sleepless golems. Good times.

The west wing’s faded opulence suggested a wealthy family. Tattered but once-luxurious carpets adorned every room—textile wealth here is no joke.

Too bad demons don’t appreciate interior design.

First new enemy: a Dog Demon. Upright canine, 190cm tall. Classified as Kobold or Gnoll in bestiaries, but the illustrations were… questionable.

A humanoid with dog strength? Nightmare fuel. No melee for me, thanks.

As I observed, its wet nose twitched—pissu pissu. Crap! Did it smell me?!

Reacting fast, I levitated a rope found earlier. Durable enough for my Unshakable Might-enhanced grip.

The rope coiled around its neck like a serpent. Thick, muscular, but no match for enchanted hemp.

Crunching fibers tightened. Claws raked uselessly at its own throat. After ten seconds, it collapsed, eyes rolled back.

“Phew…”

Dragging the beast—so heavy—into a corner, I noted its armor-like mane. Dense fur deflects blades and absorbs blows. Glad I used the rope—bare hands would’ve failed.

Close call. A bark would’ve swarmed me. Lesson: always analyze foes. Learned that after a TPK from skimping on monster checks.

Whether due to cramped rooms or sheer luck, I cleared the west wing without encountering the dreaded “two-man cell” scenario. Uneventful, but survival trumps flair. Since resurrection isn’t an option, safety first. I’ve got Eliza’s tuition to earn and future adventures with Margit—no time for dying.

Disappointingly, little loot here too—except one oddity. The study’s empty bookshelves and adjacent master bedroom felt mismatched in size. A discrepancy, like a hidden gap the size of a studio apartment…

Knocking on the study’s bedroom-facing wall echoed hollow.

Oh-ho! The classic hidden room trope!

Pushing the bookcase, it slid smoothly on rails, revealing a secret chamber reeking of chemicals and dust—a lab.

Mildewed books and crumbling parchment littered desks. Glass apparatuses—distillers, crucibles—sat atop tables, their wooden parts rotted but metal still intact.

What was the master researching here? Alchemy, perhaps.

I’ll haul these valuables later. Delicate, but worth it.

A carved cage hung nearby, meant for tiny insects—yet inside lay a palm-sized girl.

Clad in spring-green tube-top dress with translucent wings, she slept curled up—a Sylphid, wind fairy. The captive “pitiful kin” the Nightdark Fairy mentioned.

As I pondered, my pouch wriggled. The Nightdark Fairy, Svartálfr, swelled to palm-size, struggling free.

Releasing her, she smiled on my hand.

“Thank you, beloved. How thoughtful.”

“No problem. So, this is the one you—”

“Yes. A Sylphid, imprisoned here as a test subject. Unfortunate kin.”

She recounted the mansion’s past: once a noble’s villa, a husband driven mad after his wife died in childbirth and his changeling daughter displayed fairy traits.

Convinced the “half-fairy” caused his wife’s death, he imprisoned the girl and obsessively researched “reclaiming” her. Hiring mages, acquiring mystical cages—until funds dried up, staff left, and he died, leaving the fairy trapped.

The clan abandoned the mansion, unaware of this hidden lab.

A gut-wrenching tale. Thank gods Eliza isn’t like this.

“Free her, please.”

A tiny lock—child’s treasure-cheap—sufficed for a frail fairy. My dagger snapped it effortlessly.

“Thank you, beloved. Impressive as ever.”

Svartálfr fluttered into the cage, shaking the drowsy Sylphid.

“Wake. Up.”

“Mnn… sleepy…”

“Don’t laze just because you’re weakened! Up!”

“Huh… who’re you…?”

Their slapstick banter deflated the earlier solemnity. Decades imprisoned, yet this casual?

“Mornin’~”

“Not ‘morning’! Were you asleep this whole time!?”

“Yep~ Couldn’t escape, so napped~ Love sleeping!”

The Sylphid—personified spring breeze—beamed, oblivious to her rescue’s gravity.

“So cuuute~!”

Ignoring Svartálfr’s scolding, she zipped onto my head—I’d removed my helm for visibility—nestling like a kitten.

“Floofy hair~ Smells nice~!”

“Cheater!? I haven’t even—!”

Stop wrestling on my scalp! Ouch—my hair!

Counting lost strands post-tussle, I sighed deeply…

【Tips】For living phenomena like fairies and spirits, time is nebulous. Only high-ranking ones recall years passed. Thus, guests returning from fairy realms often find centuries have slipped by.