The days slowly passed by in this manner, filled with day after day of labor, humiliation, and endurance.
Ling Xiya’s hands had become rough from the long-term labor, and her once-delicate skin had lost its former luster.
Her eyes, which were once bright and proud, were now covered by a thick haze, becoming dim and listless; only in corners where no one noticed would a stubborn, unquenchable flame occasionally flicker.
She was like a blade of wild grass ravaged by violent storms; though lowly, she possessed a tenacious vitality.
She knew that if she wanted to survive and one day escape this hellish life, she had to endure and gather her strength.
Every time she wiped the floor, every time she organized items, and every time she endured Isayat’s cold glares and mockery, it was as if she were tempering her resolve.
The pain and humiliation were real, but the will to survive and the faint hope for the future were the driving forces that sustained her.
The castle remained luxurious and cold, Isayat remained high and mighty, and Ling Xiya’s life as a maid continued day by day through the long passage of time.
—
Today’s first task was to prepare breakfast for Isayat.
The kitchen was cold and cavernous, with ingredients she had never seen before laid out on the stone countertop.
Some of the meat possessed an ominous, ghostly purple hue and twitched slightly; some root vegetables were covered in fine, eyelash-like tentacles that swayed gently, emitting a bizarre scent mixed with decay and cloying sweetness that made her want to retch.
Holding her breath, she carefully picked up the recipe scroll Isayat had left behind, which was made of some kind of glowing beast hide.
The writing on it was distorted and obscure, dancing before her eyes as if it were alive.
She had to concentrate all her mental focus just to barely make out the instructions.
She clumsily imitated the movements Isayat had demonstrated in her memory, her fingertips trembling slightly from nervousness.
While handling a slippery, mucus-secreting piece of Shadow Jellyfish Meat, she was accidentally scratched by a barb on the edge; a drop of blood fell onto the ingredient and was instantly swallowed up, making a faint “sizzle” sound.
Her heart tightened, and she instinctively looked toward the kitchen door, as if Isayat’s cold gaze had already pierced through the walls and was fixed upon her.
Sure enough, in the next second, a familiar, sharp sting flared in her mind, as if someone were stirring her nerves with a red-hot needle.
That was the spiritual brand Isayat had placed deep within her soul, monitoring her every move at all times; any slight mistake would result in ruthless punishment.
The breakfast task was finally completed without further incident, although the food’s appearance was truly nothing to boast about, and its scent made her want to keep her distance.
But this was only the beginning.
Next, she had to clean Isayat’s bedroom, which was as vast as a palace.
Rather than a bedroom, it was more like a treasure house filled with an ancient and mysterious aura.
The vaulted ceiling was so high the top could not be seen, with only a few floating mana crystals emitting a faint light to illuminate the space below.
The floor was mirror-smooth obsidian, reflecting the magic ornaments standing in the shadows—some hideous and others magnificent—there were bronze lampstands coiled with Hydra, their serpentine eyes flickering crimson; there were crystal balls floating in the air, filled with swirling mist where stars seemed to vanish; and there were beast-head specimens hanging on the walls, their eyes seemingly still turning to watch this outsider.
Holding a piece of special, highly absorbent “Lightless Velvet”, she stood on her tiptoes to wipe a silver candlestick engraved with complex runes.
The candlestick was bone-chillingly cold, and the runes seemed alive, causing a wave of numbness to wash over her fingertips.
Hundreds of ancient scrolls were piled in the corner, bundled with tough Dragon skin, emitting a mixed scent of decaying paper and the accumulation of ages.
She could not understand the writing on them, but she could feel the majestic and dangerous power contained within the scrolls, making her not dare to touch them at all.
Isayat’s requirement was ultimate cleanliness; every corner had to be spotless, and even the dust motes floating in the air had to be sucked clean by that “Vacuum Wind” magic lamp.
She like a tiny ant, she shuttled through this grand and freezing palace, wiping, organizing, and cleaning over and over again.
The obsidian floor was polished by her until it shone like a mirror, clearly reflecting her haggard and numb face.
At first, when the anger and resentment in her heart had not yet been completely ground away, she had tried to resist in a passive manner.
She would deliberately leave a small uncleaned stain behind the bases of those massive, ornately decorated statues, or while organizing scrolls, she would accidentally knock over one or two seemingly inconspicuous small objects—such as a skull paperweight inlaid with low-quality gems, or an oddly shaped clay whistle.
She thought these tiny mistake would allow her to vent a bit of the pent-up frustration in her heart and perhaps even cause the high and mighty Isayat a sliver of trouble.
But the result was always countless times worse than she had anticipated.
Breaking things?
Once, she deliberately knocked a glass orb that was flickering with a faint light off the edge of a bookshelf.
The moment the sphere shattered, she even felt a glimmer of vengeful pleasure.
However, Isayat merely gave the shards on the floor a faint glance, without even a word of reprimand.
In the next instant, an invisible gargantuan force seized her; her body lost all control, and like a broken doll, she was violently dragged and slammed hard against the cold, hard obsidian wall.
“slam——” with a loud bang, her bones seemed to wail in agony, and intense pain instantly swept through her entire body.
Before she could even crawl up from the floor, that force lifted her again and slammed her against the wall once more.
Again and again… until her consciousness blurred, her bones felt as if they were falling apart, blood seeped from the corner of her mouth, and her body collapsed on the ground like a pile of mud, so painful that even breathing felt like a luxury; she no longer dared to harbor even a single thought of resistance.
Leaving dead spots?
That punishment was even more unforgettable.
Once, while cleaning a corner hidden behind heavy velvet curtains, she took a chance and only cursorily wiped the surface.
That night, as she lay exhausted on her cold stone bed and had just closed her eyes, the spiritual brand in her mind suddenly erupted.
It was no longer a simple sting, but a deep-seated agony that reached into her very marrow, as if her soul had been thrown into a frying pan in purgatory to be fried over and over.
She curled up on the floor, her body twitching violently, cold sweat soaking her clothes, as she let out silent, desperate roars.
She could clearly “listen” Isayat’s indifferent voice in her mind: “Go and clean the places you missed until they’re shinier than a mirror. Remember, my patience is limited.”
Not until she dragged her broken body and crawled back to that corner in tears, using her trembling hands to wipe every inch of the stone crevices until they were spotless, did that soul-tearing pain slowly recede, leaving only endless weakness and a bone-deep fear.
Fear, like a vine, coiled around her heart, tightening more and more.
But even in the deepest despair, the instinct to survive and the longing for freedom had once caused more intense thoughts of resistance to sprout within her.
It was a relatively “calm” afternoon.
Following orders, she brought afternoon tea to Isayat, who was reading ancient books in the study.
A rich fragrance of ink and an unknown incense filled the study; Isayat sat tall upon a massive throne of white bone, draped in a black robe embroidered with dark gold magic patterns, her face hidden in the shadows of her hood, with only her eyes—like the purest ice—focused intently on the scroll in her hands.
Sunlight filtered through the high windows inlaid with stained glass, casting mottled and variegated shadows upon her, strangely diluting some of her usual murderous aura.
At that very moment, a mad thought sprouted in her heart.
The hand she used to carry the tray shook slightly, causing the scalding black tea to slosh within the delicate bone china teacup.
She looked at Isayat’s lowered eyelids, at that seemingly defenseless profile, and a long-suppressed anger and despair erupted like a volcano.