Chapter 6: Chapter 6: A Quest of Her Own

Chapter 6: A Quest of Her Own

The cultists stirred. One by one, groans broke the silence as they shifted on the cold ground. Damp grass pressed against their robes. Night air bit into their bones.

Sevrin opened his eyes.

For a moment, nothing made sense. His head throbbed like he’d been struck again, his vision blurred. He pushed himself upright, wobbling as his legs struggled to obey.

“Where… am I…?”

It wasn’t their temporary home. Not the blood-soaked merchant estate. Not the cellar that had doubled as their “cultist hideout,” as Marie had mockingly called it. No, this was some place else entirely.

A lake stretched before him, its surface like black glass, perfectly mirroring the pale moon overhead. Along the edges, clusters of glowing flowers bathed the clearing in a ghostly light.

“Moonflowers…?” Sevrin whispered. His breath caught. They only bloomed deep in the forest, far from roads or villages. Had they really been carried this far?

Behind him, the other cultists stirred. Groaning. Rubbing their eyes. Slowly pulling themselves upright. But the groans of the others faded into nothing when his eyes landed on it—something so immense he couldn’t believe he had missed it at first glance

There, rising out of the earth itself, stood a manor.

It loomed over the clearing, massive and oppressive, its walls built of black stone that seemed to swallow what little light touched it. Spires clawed into the sky like skeletal fingers, their tips glinting under the moon. The windows were tall and narrow, framed by arches carved with patterns that twisted in ways the eye didn’t want to follow.

The front doors towered above him, carved from heavy wood reinforced with dark iron, a pair of grotesque gargoyles glaring down from either side. A chill rolled from the structure, not the chill of the night but something deeper, as though the building itself resented the living who stood before it.

It was in equal parts beautiful and terrifying.

Sevrin’s lips parted, a whisper escaping before he could stop it.

“What… what is this…?”

The other cultists slowly gathered around Sevrin, their gazes fixed on the manor that loomed before them. Black stone walls drank in the light, and the eerie glow of the moonflowers painted the clearing in ghostly shades. The gargoyles on either side of the doors seemed almost alive, as if they were only waiting for the moment to leap down and devour them.

“Sevrin…” Marie’s voice shook behind him, but it was laced with fury. “You freakin’ idiot. You did it. You damned us all!”

He turned, meeting her glare.

“No, I didn’t. Didn’t I promise you?” His voice cracked, but he forced strength into it. “I told you—we would summon the Princess of the Abyss.”

Marie stepped forward, her fists clenched. “And you said she would grant us three wishes! Did you forget her speech in the dining room?”

The memory slammed into him. The way the Demon Princess had stood on the table, crimson eyes burning, aura crushing them to the floor. His chest tightened at the thought of it.

“No…” he whispered. “I didn’t forget.” His voice rose again, defiant. “But we’re alive, aren’t we? That has to mean something!”

From the back, a small voice spoke. Marlon, the youngest among them, his eyes wide and face pale. “We… we shouldn’t fight. Shouldn’t we just… go inside?”

“WHY,” Marie snapped, “in all the hells should we walk into this creepy manor that just appeared out of nowhere?!”

“Marlon is right,” Sevrin hissed back, heat in his words. “Calm down, Marie. We’re alive. If we stick to the Demon Princess, I’m sure she’ll reward us for freeing her from her prison in the Abyss.”

Marie groaned, her nails digging into her palms. “She’ll do nothing of the sort. Didn’t you notice? We made a mistake! A huge mistake! How could she even have a manor like this? Where even are we? We’ve lost control, Sevrin. Completely. I thought—we all thought—we’d summon a minor demon, something we could command, something to make us stronger bit by bit, until we could crawl out of the dirt we live in. Not this. Not her.”

Sharen and Tristan, the siblings, exchanged glances and nodded silently, siding with Marie.

Then Garron, the largest of them, crossed his arms and rumbled, “I say we’ve got nothing to lose anyway. What else can we do? Run into the forest? And then what? Even if we reach civilization, we’re already done for. You think they won’t find out? We’ll be hunted like rats.” His eyes fell on Sharen and Tristan. “What do you think they’ll do to you two when they catch us? You know the answer. Execution.”

Sharen stammered, her voice thin. “But… I didn’t kill anyone…”

Tristan gripped her hand, jaw tight.

Marie’s face twisted in anger, but even she couldn’t deny Garron’s words. She spat at the ground. “Fine. We’re screwed. All of us. And it’s all because of Sevrin.”

“Enough!” Sevrin raised his hands. “You all followed me of your own free will. And things did get better, didn’t they? Didn’t I give you a chance?”

Marlon spoke again, soft but earnest. “It’s almost like… like we’re a family now.”

Marie looked at him like she wanted to slap the words out of his mouth.

And then a sound cut through their bickering.

Creeeeak…

The massive doors of the manor groaned open. Slowly, and without anyone touching them.

Warm light spilled into the clearing, golden and inviting. It washed over their stunned faces, chasing back the ghostly glow of the flowers.

They all froze, staring… then Sevrin moved.

Just one step. Forward, into the golden light spilling from the yawning doors.

What else could they do, anyway?

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

He swallowed, his throat dry, and pressed on. Behind him the others followed, hesitant, but unable to stay behind.

They entered a long corridor.

Chandeliers glowed above, their flames steady and bright though no one had lit them. A black carpet stretched the entire length of the floor, stitched with intricate silvery patterns that shimmered faintly when their eyes caught the light. Alone, the carpet looked like it could have paid for a noble’s estate.

The walls were lined with paintings. Dozens of them. It was a gallery Sevrin realized.

Scenes of war and triumph. Armored champions locked in battle with dragons, mages hurling lightning across skies split with fire, kings crowned in halls of marble. Every figure was painted with such lifelike detail they seemed to shift as the cultists walked past, as though the eyes of warriors and beasts alike followed their every move.

The armor and weapons those figures bore were nothing short of legendary, each one gleamed with the brilliance of myth, as though the canvas itself struggled to contain their power.

The group slowed, their awe drowning out even their fear.

“…Sevrin,” Marlon whispered, pointing to a particular canvas. “Isn’t that… the Demon Princess?”

All of them froze.

The painting was clear. A black-dressed woman with horns, crimson eyes gleaming, striking a proud pose at the center of the piece. Around her stood others:

A towering demon with cruel wings folded behind him.

An elf, smiling broadly with an arm slung around her shoulders.

A dwarf flexing his muscles in the front, hammer resting on one knee.

A woman in ornate mage’s robes flashing a playful V sign with her fingers.

And a pale man with fangs bared in a toothy grin, red eyes glinting like coals.

They stood together atop the corpse of a monstrous beast. Its bulk filled the background, grotesque and alien, like some nightmare from the Abyss. Dozens of lidless eyes glazed in death across its face, its fanged maw split in a final, silent scream, and its claws—each longer than a man was tall—lay shattered in the dirt. The kind of abomination no mortal army could hope to bring down.

And yet the six figures in the painting had slain it, standing victorious on its carcass.

All of the cultists swallowed hard, the sound echoing down the corridor.

“…Who were these people?” Marie’s voice was hushed, almost reverent.

“There’s… a date,” Marlon said, squinting at the inscription beneath. “Third of Embermoon, Year 321 of the Obsidian Age.”

His words sent a shiver through the group.

“That’s… more than five hundred years ago,” he added faintly.

“No. Impossible.” Garron’s voice was low. “It looks like it was painted yesterday.”

Sevrin tore his eyes from the painting, his stomach tight. “We should keep moving.”

At the end of the hall loomed a massive set of double doors, their black wood banded with iron. Left and right, staircases curved upward to the upper floors. Smaller doors lined the sides of the hall, leading to other rooms.

They walked, steps hushed against the carpet, every eye flicking nervously between the paintings and the great doors ahead.

And when they reached the end, the doors to the main hall groaned open on their own.

☽⛧☾

It was fun, decorating the mansion felt almost nostalgic. like those early days in Xantia when she’d scraped together her first gold, bought her first plot, and spent hours squeezing every ounce of charm out of a new home. She’d slipped right back into it, placing things, rearranging, maxing out space.

Sadly, most of what she had brought along this time was decorative junk. A few quality-of-life essentials like a standard mage library, an alchemy setup, and of course her two gargoyle sentinels. Those were nothing special—level 250 house-guards you could buy in the shop. Decent against random thieves and wandering NPC mobs, but against other players? They were just alarms, stalling with defense wards until reinforcements arrived.

In Xantia, real estates from top players had private armies for defense, dozens of mercenaries, sometimes literal battalions, because the whole game was PvP outside starter zones. Sure, if you lived in the heart of a major NPC kingdom you got protection, but even there, nowhere was a hundred percent safe.

Still, it had been an hour well spent. She was fast, efficient, and she knew exactly what she was doing. The obsidian throne—her signature RP centerpiece—was the last piece to place in the main hall. Every house she had ever owned in-game had one. It wasn’t a home unless she could lounge on her “royal” seat.

Now she sat on it… and… waited.

Strangely, she felt neither exhaustion nor hunger. So she opened her menus again. Skills. Status. Inventory. She scrolled, flicked, and closed them again. Over and over. It was the same restless fidgeting she used to do on her phone—senselessly browsing the same three apps like something new might pop up if she checked one more time.

Her guild list. Still greyed out.

Her friends list. Empty.

Her throat tightened.

In her inventory was a painting she’d always carried. A gift. It showed her guild, her online family, after they cleared Orcanosh for the first time. Their raid had been the fifth group worldwide to down that monster. It was one of her proudest moments. So she had placed this picture in her new gallery on a prominent place.

And now it hurt. Because everything here was real—the stone under her, the flicker of the torches, the weight of her dress she wore. But her friends weren’t.

The thought wormed in: Could she summon them too?

It seemed absurd. But hadn’t she been pulled here through squeezing the most out of it. Sadly, most of what she’d brought was decorative, with only a handful of quality-of-life items, and the bare necessities: an alchemy lab, a summoning stand? Maybe the system was the same? If she had the right circle, the right ritual…

She pictured Lissy. Her guildmate. The bobbling mage and her best friend. Would Lissy mind? She’d probably laugh it off. Maybe she’d even thank her for dragging her to a fantasy world.

Lily’s eyes widened.

“No. Stop. Bad thoughts.” She squeezed her temples. “Don’t kill your friends just to have them here.”

Besides, how would she even form the right summoning circle? No. No, absolutely not.

Friends killing is bad, Lily. Bad.

To distract herself, she lifted a finger and poured mana into the air. The arcane formula etched itself like glowing ink. It was still fascinating how she did it with her muscle memory.

[Farsight].

Her vision blurred, then cleared, stretching beyond the manor’s walls.

And there they were.

The cultists, still lying unconscious in front of the manor’s gates.

Her lips pursed. She wasn’t even surprised. She just… watched them.

And when they stirred awake, her mild curiosity shifted into amusement. Their groans, their whispers, their clumsy bickering. Six second-rate cultists fumbling around in front of her mansion like children.

“Definitely losers,” she muttered to herself.

They were low-rent, second-rate cultists. Not worth much. Why even stick with the [Cultist] class? In Xantia, NPCs were level 50 in their main class by the time they reached adulthood. But Sevrin had said he was level 26. That was… pitiful.

Maybe she should ask them later. But more important was… what now?

Try to return to Earth? She scoffed. For what? A world where some twitchy hobo with a gun had killed her? She’d just vanish and what, her body would be gone? No. That door was probably closed.

She was here now. The problem was: it was like Xantia here, but also not. Her friends weren’t here. There was no ladder board to climb. And if she died, it would be probably for real.

Maybe carving out a new life here wasn’t the worst idea. Give herself a quest. That always worked before. Sevrin had said the Xares Empire was a thing of the past. Maybe she could start there. Dig through history. And find her own path.

The thought almost made her laugh. A quest. Of course she would frame it that way. Real life had never been anything else. You gave yourself quests. Do a bachelor’s degree. Earn money. Spend it on cosmetics. Grind toward the next goal. Life was always gamelike—it was just the stakes that changed.

“Fine,” she said, almost smiling. “I’ll give myself a quest. Dig into what happened to the Xares Empire. That’s a start.”

And with that, she waved a hand.

The massive front doors of the manor creaked open, pulled by invisible force [Telekinesis].

Her crimson eyes watched as the cultists shuffled cautiously through her gallery. They gawked at the paintings, at the legendary figures immortalized on the walls.

And Lily felt something shift.

Inside, deep in her chest, she could feel the thought pressing harder every minute: these weren’t like her. They weren’t players. They weren’t people, not in the way she was. They were more like NPCs, no even worse, this incompetent idiots were even lesser then NPCs, they were worms.

Her stomach twisted. Where did that thought come from?

She didn’t want to dehumanize them. She really didn’t. But it was getting harder and harder. The role of Lilithia Nocturne bled into her—the arrogance, the disdain, the cold separation.

“As the Demon Princess, I can’t afford to care for these low creatures…” she whispered, then stopped cold.

Her hand tightened on the throne’s armrest.

Wait.

No.

She was Lily Carter. A tired student who’d worked night shifts. A girl who lived online. And she definitely wasn’t a bad person. She wasn’t a Demon Princess. No, she was only playing one...

…Wasn’t she?