A week had passed by since she first discovered her own abilities.

  Isidora marked the passage of time by the rhythm of her waking cycles and the shifts of light through the attic’s lace-draped window.

  ‘Is this…me? Am I this beautiful?’

  She hadn’t wasted energy these past few days. Instead, she spent her time accumulating enough energy for a larger operation, exploring the attic, and experimenting with ways to make her powers more effective.

  It was during one of these quiet lapses of activity that she could truly observe her reflection, the ‘Isidora’ in the painting.

  Up until now, she wasn't aware of her abilities, so her own appearance was elusive to her.

  So, gazing at her painted form, Isidora's startled.

  Pale gray hair fell down to her bare shoulder, framed by a delicate face that looked carved from porcelain. Her face exuded a serene expression, with an air of melancholy.

  She was wearing a black gothic dress, adorned with flowers and lace edges, paired with white lace stockings and dainty shoes.

  The painted ‘Isidora’ sat quietly, its exposed shoulder made her cringe inwardly.

  Looking at her own appearance, with the same gray hair, at least she understood why the old man insisted on calling her his "granddaughter."

  ‘Am I really that lunatic’s granddaughter?’

  Maybe it’s just a coincidence. Who knew how many people in this era had gray hair?

  ‘Really, our Grampa?’

  ‘Don’t call that lunatic Grampa.’

  Come to think of it, why was the first thing her young mind came up with upon meeting with that old man ‘grampa’?

  ‘Anyway, don’t call that thing Grandpa anymore.’

  ‘Oke~’

  The mature mind furrowed her brow briefly, obviously dissatisfied with the young mind's replies. Babysitting her own childish side had never been part of the job description, and this was well beyond her paycheck severalfold.

  Recalling her old workplace, her mood instantly sank. They’d probably made a fortune. She was certain of it, because if they did not, she would really piss off.

  ‘I swear, if my worth wasn’t high, then when I come back, I'll…’

  She trailed off. It’s just her wishful thinking, after all. How could she return in the first place?

  ‘…I hate this, dammit, I need some nicotine.’

  Although Isidora’s mature mind might seem lazy and did nothing in the past few days, in truth, she had been quietly compiling a mental ledger of details that could one day decide her survival.

  For instance, she had mapped out the old man’s schedule, when he would be away from the mansion, when he would ascend to the attic to sit before her, and when he would finally retire to bed and lie on the floor below.

  She tracked the cycles of the days and nights, the exact hours when mice and lizards dared to slip into the attic, the subtle shifts in seasonal air, the changes in wind direction, even the punctual morning chorus of birds outside...

  ‘Luckily, this attic has a window to see outside.’

  Without that view, she might have been blind to half of this information.

  First and foremost, she would have to explore the mansion to see if there was anything she could use, as well as to determine how far her possessed creature could reach from the fixed point of the portrait.

  However, it was easier said than done.

  —

  In the deep of the night, when darkness embraced the whole mansion, a peculiar detail always stood out: only her attic and the staircase remained bathed in a faint, hazel glow.

  Right at this moment, a small mouse crept silently toward the staircase. From the top landing, it paused to twitch its whiskers, then peered down into the yawning darkness below.

  Obviously, waiting for the old man to leave would be the safer choice. However, whether it was the approach of the cold season or the preparations for the Moon Maiden Rite festival, in these past few days, he rarely left the mansion, and each absence was shorter than the last.

  Isidora could discern his increasing tension in each passing day, as if he had become more and more impatient. That tension prickled at her like a prelude to a storm, a warning for an impending doom.

  So she decided to accelerate her plan.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Once she had confirmed his resting hours, she slipped her will into the mouse and commanded it toward the stairs leading down to the lower floor.

  The steps were flanked by a neat row of elegant oil lamps, their steady flames would occasionally flicker eerily.

  Nothing here should have been the cause for her hesitation, save for those unsettling shimmers.

  And really, who lit this many lamps at night? Did the man not know the concept of conserving resources?

  ‘Strange… Does he really have some way to keep them burning this long? Or is that old lunatic simply rich enough not to care?’

  From the top of the staircase, she could only see a solid wall of darkness at the bottom. Why did that lunatic man feel the need to illuminate the steps when the rest of the mansion was just left in shadow?

  She questioned herself but soon brushed it off. No one could predict the whims of the wealthy, after all.

  As soon as the mouse’s tiny paw stepped on the first step, the oil lamps, all of them, flickered simultaneously.

  Hazel light and shadow pulsed in the narrow space, creating a momentary strobe that made the mouse freeze mid-step. Its beady eyes darted from one trembling flame to the next with confusion and uncertainty.

  Then out of nowhere, a breath of heat swept upward, ruffling the fur along her back and sending a chill down to her spine.

  ‘Isn’t this kind of creepy?’

  ‘Is it?’

  The mature mind did not think much of it. In fact, it was occupied with other thoughts.

  ‘Did I just feel the hotness of the wind?’

  Isidora’s mature mind pondered. It was the heat. Through the mouse’s skin, she had felt it.

  Wasn’t her ability more and more fascinating? They could even transmit the accurate feeling of the possessed creature back at her.

  ‘Hold on, doesn’t that mean I could potentially get hurt in this possessed form? No pain reduction at all?’

  The thought alone was enough to be troubling, but her young mind was already tugging her focus away.

  ‘But where does the wind come from?’

  The young mind asked; that single question made her snap into full alertness. After all, this staircase had no windows, and the only window in her reach was the one up in the attic.

  And with the cold season approaching, there was no logical reason for a hot breeze to be moving through here.

  Which meant it wasn’t just a simple wind.

  “Who is it?”

  Suddenly, a calming yet chilling footstep resounded, accompanied by a low and emotionless voice rising from below, making Isidora’s heart skip a beat.

  Without hesitation, she severed her control over the mouse right away!

  Her sight and focus snapped back into the portrait, and she then promptly slipped her consciousness into a harmless object tucked far from the staircase.

  It was an inconspicuous position from which she could glimpse without being anywhere near the danger.

  As for the mouse, she had nothing to do with it. Nothing at all!

  Soft footfalls approached from the lower hall, a figure gradually emerged in the dim haze of the oil lamp's light.

  The flicker caught on his shoulders first, then the lines of his long robe, the shadows dragging his silhouette far across the floor.

  His expression, when it surfaced from the gloomy darkness, was unreadable.

  The old man craned his head upward, his usual serene and senile visage was nowhere to be seen. Instead, a sharp and acute gaze was revealed, his voice showed obvious doubt.

  “How curious, there should have been something passing this way. Did the device malfunction?”

  His hands were clasped neatly behind his back as he ascended; his pacing was composed, yet carrying an unmistakable weight of cautiousness.

  Each tap of his shoes echoed through the staircase; his eyes wandered around him.

  Halfway up, he stopped in his tracks. His eyes slid to one side of the staircase wall and drifted toward the uneven flicker of an oil lamp. Without a word, he stepped closer and inspected it.

  “Ah, this one hasn’t been maintained for a while. No wonder.”

  He murmured, lifting the old lamp from its bracket carefully, then examined it with precision.

  “...?”

  Something caught his attention. His pupils shifted into an unnatural crimson glow. Suddenly, he lifted his head, his gaze locking on the upstairs.

  In his sight, a lone mouse lay curled on the second step, motionless in sleep.

  “A mouse? Out of nowhere?”

  He muttered as his brow knitted in annoyance.

  “These pests… really don’t know when to give up.”

  He growled sharply and moved his left hand toward the creature’s direction with an open palm. The distance between him and the unconscious creature was far enough that nothing should happen.

  Yet, with a swift clench of his fist and pull toward himself, in an instant, the mouse’s body detonated in a wet burst, erupted in a spray of fragments.

  ‘!’

  A prickle of danger crawled through Isidora’s senses. Instinct told her to break the link, but before she fully retreated, the man’s head turned unnervingly fast, his eyes leaving a crimson trail. Those crimson eyes swept toward the object she was possessing.

  Their gaze met briefly. Isidora snapped her connection in a rush of panic. She pulled back into the safety of the portrait, not daring to maintain even a sliver of awareness outside.

  “...”

  For a moment, the staircase fell into silence. The old man’s gaze lingered on the lamp near the attic. In the next instance, he shifted his gaze toward the attic on the upper floor, his face showing a peculiar expression, something between suspicion and amusement.

  “Am I truly growing old? Has my dear granddaughter softened my senses?”

  He stroked his chin, and with the familiar pattern, he steadily extended his hand toward the lamp near the attic. He clenched his hand again, pulling sharply to the side as though dragging something through the air.

  Glass shattered instantly; it exploded, shards cascading to the floor in a sharp rain of sound.

  He studied the broken lamp in silence, his crimson eyes dimming as a shadow of contempt crossed his face.

  Eventually, he turned his back and descended. His footsteps gradually disappeared on the lower floor until the sound was swallowed completely by the darkness.

  ‘...’

  ‘...’