Undead Lucy.

Speaking of the undead—if someone asked whether Caro believed in them… well, she’d freaking time-traveled! How could she not? She’d already seen Flame Demonkin before. Arnold had explained it clearly: as long as their primal flame source remained unextinguished, even if “killed,” a Flame Demonkin would simply crawl back out.

In a sense, they were a downright monstrous race.

So the existence of something like Undead Lucy wasn’t exactly shocking. For a Bard investigating a story—what truly made the investigation complete?

According to Caro’s reasoning, she needed to uncover why this person became undead, what they sought in that state—and ultimately, grant the story an ending.

An ending like “this undead waits eternally” or “the undead vanishes contentedly.” Such conclusions would define the tale.

Then, spread the story far and wide. The more people who knew it, the more who believed—the stronger Undead Lucy she could manifest.

If possible, compose a song to sing the tale. That would be ideal—but obviously no easy task. Caro had no formal training; she could only fumble through trial and error.

First, she checked out of the inn. Following the innkeeper’s directions, she arrived at a desolate patch west of town under cover of night. Honestly, she was terrified. Supernatural threats aside, bandits lurking here were a very real possibility.

A few dilapidated huts stood nearby—and one grand mansion.

Caro’s jaw dropped. “Oh~ No wonder the innkeeper said one look would confirm it. Whose residence is this—Undead Lucy’s? Absurdly wealthy! In a town this small? Such a tycoon? Maybe… Undead Lucy isn’t actually undead?”

After all, could a merchant be this reclusive? Or just a wealthy eccentric?

No wonder she thought that. The surrounding huts were dusty and crumbling, but this mansion was different. Even on this deep, dark night, it exuded dignified cleanliness—giving the illusion of a soft, steady glow.

Was the owner obsessively tidy?

Caro smoothed her clothes, ensuring she looked presentable, then knocked on the door. She rehearsed how to speak—based on what she knew, this person likely wasn’t approachable.

Then the door opened.

No one appeared—but the heavy iron gate swung inward.

“…” Caro swallowed hard. She wanted to convince herself Undead Lucy was just a living person, but the eerie atmosphere made self-deception impossible.

Honestly, could Bards even see undead? Clerics probably could—much like how Bards naturally resisted shock, Clerics might excel here. Wait… was it possible *she* couldn’t see them at all?

A chill ran down her spine. What if Undead Lucy was already watching her?

Her feet turned leaden. She considered herself brave—skydiving, bungee jumping, rock climbing… yet now, she felt the primal fear of a human facing the unknown. She dared not turn back, terrified of seeing something inexplicable. Old-world legends surfaced: turn around, the flame on your shoulder extinguishes… then your soul gets snatched away.

Gritting her teeth, she forced her trembling legs forward. She didn’t even have the courage to flee. *I’m already here,* she consoled herself. *Undead Lucy won’t hurt anyone…* At this point, she had to believe it. *Please let the innkeeper be reliable—he just hired me. Could he really be that bloodsucking capitalist? The type who won’t let you die until he’s squeezed every drop of value from you…? Maybe… he’s still worth trusting.*

Her mind raced with chaotic thoughts—until she stood before the mansion’s true entrance.

“…xxXXXXX”

A voice reached her—whispering, hallucinatory, or just the door creaking open? She couldn’t make it out. She had reason to believe Undead Lucy watched her… and reason to think it was all in her head.

*Yes. Just wind in the corridor. Just the door creaking. I opened it myself—it didn’t open alone. I’m just too nervous… too excited… that’s why I didn’t notice. Yes. Definitely.*

Driven by some unseen force, despite terror threatening to make her faint, she stepped into the grand mansion… and into the living room.

She froze.

All fear vanished.

Because someone was there.

A man dressed entirely in black, hair black as night—dead drunk.

Arnold. The Dragon Slayer. Now branded the False Hero.

*Him again?* Since awakening her class, she seemed to run into him every other day. Logically, she should keep distance—he was a wanted man. Who knew when the Golden Lily Knights or the Sword Saint might track him down…

Hadn’t he been exiled from Cawen City before?

Still. Relief washed over her.

Whether Arnold was good or bad, she couldn’t judge. But this former Dragon Slayer was no unknown entity. And if *he* was here… what was there to fear?

She let out a breath and approached. Still, she didn’t dare get too close. What if he was like that warlord who claimed he’d kill even in his sleep? One swing of his sword, and she’d be dead—no place to even cry.

She covered her nose, wrinkling her brow. The stench of alcohol was overwhelming! *What a drunkard!*

Caro had partied at bars back in her original world—yes, she’d gotten this drunk before. But was that “drowning sorrows”? More like… after her parents passed, she sometimes didn’t know how to process grief. Or maybe she just craved that numbing haze. Staying sober wasn’t always pleasant.

Of course, such thoughts were presumptuous. She couldn’t fathom the Dragon Slayer’s depth. But based on her own reasoning, she could only… *sympathize*.

After all, he’d fallen from revered Dragon Slayer—celebrated by all—to the “False Hero,” exiled by his squad, blacklisted by the Adventurers’ Guild, hunted by the nation… treated worse than a street rat. If she were in his shoes? She’d probably feel just as bitter, drowning sorrows in drink every day.

What hidden truth lay behind it? Caro felt a flicker of curiosity. If she could uncover and weave this story… summoning the Dragon Slayer himself, or other members of the Demonhunt Squad—that would be incredibly powerful!

“Lord Arnold?”

She called softly. Then louder.

“Stop it, Lucy. Let me sleep…”

He’d mistaken her for “Undead Lucy.” Not surprising—after all, the Demonhunt Squad had apparently visited this town and resolved Undead Lucy’s case before.

“I’m not Lucy.”

She stated bluntly.

After ten seconds, Arnold slowly lifted his head. His bleary eyes took a moment to focus—finally landing on Caro.

“Where’d you come from, kid?”

“…” Caro loosened her tied-up hair. “Two days apart, Lord Arnold. Where’s the imposing aura from when you kidnapped me?”

She knew sarcasm was unwise. He was powerful—one wrong move, and she might not live to regret it.

But she couldn’t help it.

*How did that saying go?* “Expecting humans to stay rational is, after all, a luxury…”

If humans always made rational, “correct” choices, there’d be no conflict. But reality? Humans aren’t rational. They rarely choose the “right” path.

Arnold blinked, rubbing his eyes. “You’re that harp girl from the other day!”

“My name is Caro.”

“Caro… Wait!” Arnold seemed more alert. “How’d you end up here? This is Undead Lucy’s mansion—no one dares come near.”

*Heh. Spilling intel right off the bat. Guess that’s what you’d expect from a Heroic Rank Adventurer…* Caro spread her hands. “What can I do? A Bard’s travels require budgeting for lodging.” She sighed. “I worked at the tavern, asked the boss for cheap housing. He said Undead Lucy would never harm anyone… told me to stay here.”

“I see… The tavern owner… He’s a good man.”

Arnold seemed to recall something. He pulled a wine bottle from his coat. *High-end.* Caro, a former rich kid, recognized it instantly—across any world, luxury goods stood out visually. Made for nobles to flaunt. If you couldn’t spot the status at a glance… what was the point?

He twisted the cap off, took a swig. “Ahhh!!! So refreshing!!!” Pure bliss spread across his face.

“So you’re in the same boat~ No coin for lodging either.”

“…Aren’t you wealthy?” Caro was puzzled. He drank high-end wine yet claimed to be broke…

Arnold proudly raised the bottle. “You know how much this costs?”

“…One gold coin?”

Arnold shook his head. “One? Thirty.”

“!”

*You’ve got to be kidding me. Three hundred thousand gold coins for this bottle?* Even as a former rich kid, Caro had never paid such an outrageous price.

After all—most was pure markup. She’d guessed one coin only because of the “show-off” factor. Without collectible value, how could it cost this much? And collectibles… you wouldn’t just *drink* them!

*How can he treat it like soda…*

Her face flushed. Embarrassed, she asked, “Um… Lord Arnold… could I… have a… sip?”

*Honestly, shameless… But for wine this expensive, not tasting it feels like a waste…* She knew it might not even taste good. But still…

Arnold tossed the bottle to her. “Help yourself~”