Zander sat at the small desk by the window, cleaning his knife with methodical precision. Aron lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, his thoughts racing. Despite their discoveries, there were still too many unanswered questions.
"Do you think the butler knows more than he's letting on?" Aron asked, breaking the silence.
Zander didn't look up. "He's hiding something. Whether it's guilt or fear, I can't say."
Aron sighed, rubbing his temples. "This place is driving me crazy. It feels like we're running in circles."
"You're not wrong," Zander replied. He paused, his knife still in his hands. "But that's exactly what they want. Someone's pulling the strings, keeping us off balance."
Aron sat up. "And we still don't know who—or why."
Before Zander could respond, there was a faint sound outside the door—a soft shuffling, like someone trying to move quietly but not quite succeeding.
Both men froze.
Zander's hand instinctively went to the hilt of his knife, his body tensing like a coiled spring. Aron slipped off the bed, careful not to make a sound.
The shuffling grew louder, closer.
The door handle turned slowly, almost imperceptibly. Zander moved swiftly, positioning himself beside the door, knife in hand. Aron grabbed the closest thing he could find—a heavy brass candlestick from the nightstand.
The door creaked open, revealing a shadowy figure standing just beyond the threshold. For a brief moment, the figure hesitated, as if sensing the trap.
Zander struck first. He lunged forward, grabbing the intruder by the collar and slamming them against the wall. The figure let out a grunt, struggling to break free. Aron quickly stepped forward, holding the candlestick like a weapon.
"Who are you?" Zander growled, his knife pressed against the intruder's neck.
The figure didn't answer. Instead, they reached into their pocket and pulled out a small vial. With a quick flick of the wrist, they smashed it against the floor.
A thick, acrid smoke erupted from the vial, filling the room in an instant. Aron coughed, his eyes stinging as the smoke engulfed them.
"Get down!" Zander barked, pulling Aron to the floor as the figure broke free and bolted out the door.
Aron struggled to see through the haze, his heart pounding. "What the hell was that?"
"Poison smoke," Zander said, his voice muffled. "Stay low. We need to get out of here."
They crawled toward the door, the smoke thinning as they moved into the hallway. Aron gasped for air, his lungs burning. Zander was already on his feet, his knife gleaming in the dim light.
"There!" Zander said, pointing down the corridor. The shadowy figure was sprinting toward the staircase, their footsteps echoing through the mansion.
"Don't let them get away!" Aron shouted, adrenaline surging through his veins.
They gave chase, their footsteps pounding against the wooden floor. The figure moved with practiced agility, darting around corners and leaping down the stairs two at a time.
As they reached the ground floor, Aron spotted a second figure lurking near the main entrance. This one was smaller, their movements more hesitant.
"There are two of them!" Aron called out.
"I see them," Zander said, his voice cold and steady.
The smaller figure bolted toward the dining hall, disappearing into the darkness. The first figure, meanwhile, turned sharply, heading toward the study.
"Split up?" Aron suggested, though he didn't like the idea.
"No," Zander said firmly. "Stay together. We go after the first one."
They burst into the study, the door slamming against the wall. The room was dark, save for the faint glow of moonlight streaming through the window. Bookshelves loomed like silent sentinels, their shadows stretching across the floor.
The figure was nowhere to be seen.
"Where did they go?" Aron whispered, his voice barely audible.
Zander scanned the room, his knife held ready. "They're here. Stay alert."
A sudden noise—like the rustle of fabric—came from the far corner of the room. Zander moved toward it cautiously, his steps silent. Aron followed, clutching the candlestick tightly.
As they approached, the figure lunged out of the shadows, swinging a heavy object. Zander dodged just in time, the object—a brass fire poker—narrowly missing his head.
Aron reacted instinctively, swinging the candlestick at the figure's arm. It connected with a satisfying thud, and the poker clattered to the floor.
Zander didn't waste a second. He tackled the figure to the ground, pinning them with one knee.
"Who sent you?" Zander demanded, his knife pressed against the figure's throat.
The figure struggled but didn't answer. Instead, they reached for something in their pocket—a second vial.
"Not this time," Aron said, kicking the vial out of their hand. It shattered against the wall, releasing a harmless puff of smoke.
With the intruder subdued, Zander pulled back the hood of their cloak, revealing a gaunt face with hollow eyes. It wasn't someone Aron recognized—a middle-aged man with a cruel scar running down his cheek.
"An NPC?" Aron guessed, though he wasn't certain.
"Or a player," Zander said. "Either way, he knows something."
The man sneered, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. "You're wasting your time. None of this matters."
"What doesn't matter?" Aron pressed. "What are you talking about?"
The man's smile widened, though it held no warmth. "The murder. The body. It's all a game. And you're losing."
Before either of them could respond, the man's body convulsed. Foam bubbled at his lips, and his eyes rolled back into his head.
"He's poisoned himself!" Aron exclaimed, stepping back in shock.
Zander cursed under his breath, checking the man's pulse. "He's gone."
The room fell silent, save for the sound of Aron's ragged breathing.
"That doesn't make sense," Aron said finally, pacing the room. "If this is just a game, why kill yourself? It's not logical."
"Unless he wasn't working alone," Zander said grimly.
Aron froze. "The second figure."
"They're still out there," Zander said, standing. "And they'll know we're onto them."
As they left the study, Aron's mind raced. The man's cryptic words—"The murder. The body. It's all a game."—echoed in his thoughts. What did it mean?
Their questions were interrupted by a grisly sight in the main hallway. Written in blood across the wall were the words:
"TRUST NO ONE."
Aron swallowed hard, his grip tightening on the candlestick. "They're trying to scare us."
"It's working," Zander admitted, his voice low.
"Let's keep going," Aron said, his voice steady. "We're not done yet."
Zander's sharp gaze swept the corridor ahead, his knife glinting faintly in the soft glow of the wall sconces. "Stay close," he said, his voice low and commanding.
Aron nodded, clutching the candlestick he hadn't yet put down. The metal was cool in his hand, grounding him as his thoughts spun.
The faint sound of voices carried down the hallway. Aron stopped, his ears straining. "Do you hear that?"
Zander nodded, already moving toward the source.
As they turned the corner, a sight stopped them in their tracks.
Livia lay slumped against the wall, her vibrant pink hair stained with blood. Zane knelt beside her, his hands trembling as he pressed a wad of cloth to her side. The blood seeped through the fabric, staining his fingers red.
"Livia!" Aron exclaimed, rushing forward.
Zane's head shot up, his expression a mixture of relief and panic. "She's hurt! Someone ambushed us!"
Zander knelt beside them, his sharp eyes assessing the scene. "How bad is it?"
Livia groaned, her face pale but defiant. "Not bad enough to stop me."
"She says that," Zane muttered, his voice laced with worry, "but she's lost a lot of blood."
Aron crouched beside them. "What happened?"
"We were looking for clues in the servants' quarters," Zane explained. "Someone jumped us. I didn't get a good look at them, but they were fast. Livia managed to fight them off, but not before—" He gestured to the wound.
Aron's gaze moved to Livia's side, where the makeshift bandage covered a deep gash. "She needs proper treatment. We can't stay here."
"There's an infirmary upstairs," Zander said, his voice steady. "We'll move her there."
Zane nodded, already preparing to lift her.
"I can walk," Livia protested, though her voice was weak.
"No, you can't," Zander said firmly. He and Zane helped her to her feet, supporting her weight between them.
Aron kept his eyes and ears alert as they moved. Whoever had attacked them might still be close.
The infirmary was a small, sterile room tucked away on the mansion's second floor. Zander and Zane carefully laid Livia on the narrow bed, and Aron quickly searched the cabinets for supplies.
He found a roll of bandages, a bottle of antiseptic, and a pair of surgical scissors. Returning to Livia's side, he handed the items to Zander, who began cleaning the wound with practiced efficiency.
Zane hovered nearby, his eyes glued to Livia's face. "You're going to be okay," he said softly.
"Of course I am," Livia replied, though her voice lacked its usual sarcasm.
Aron leaned against the wall, his mind racing. Three attacks. Three deaths. Whoever was behind this wasn't just targeting NPCs—they were going after players now, too.
"Out of the ten guests, three are dead," Aron said aloud, more to himself than anyone else.
"Samuel, Edward, and the guy who attacked us," Zander confirmed, not looking up from his work.
Aron's brow furrowed. "That means seven are left. And if we lose two more NPCs, we fail the objective to protect at least five."
Zane stiffened at that, his jaw tightening. "Then we can't let anyone else die."
"Easier said than done," Zander muttered.
Livia let out a weak laugh. "Great. No pressure, then."