Chapter 185: Duck Assemble!

Genevieve stared at the terrifying, scarred monster. She realized, with absolute certainty, that he was not joking.

Genevieve swallowed.

"Yes, Mr. Sebastian."

She turned.

Then stopped.

"May I at least ask—"

"No."

Genevieve stammered, her face a mask of humiliated rage. She turned on her heel and practically sprinted down the hallway, dripping milk onto the blueberry-colored carpet.

Sebastian watched until she disappeared around the corner.

Sebastian snorted in disgust.

He pulled a clean, pristine white handkerchief from his breast pocket, wiped the single drop of spilled milk from his leather glove, and knocked twice on the heavy oak door.

"Enter," came Seraphina’s sleepy little voice.

Sebastian opened the door.

Seraphina was already sitting in the middle of her enormous bed, wearing a fluffy cloud-patterned nightgown.

Ignis was curled beside her like a tiny pink furnace.

He wasn’t carrying a silver tray.

He was carrying an insulated ironwood mug filled with thick, rich, heavily spiced Northern hot cocoa, made specifically to Kaelus’s exact, paranoid nutritional specifications.

"The Archduke is detained at the Palace," Sebastian said. "He sends his apologies and orders you to sleep."

Sebastian reported softly, his gruff demeanor softening the moment he saw her sitting in the center of the massive, four-poster bed.

"Okay."

Sebastian handed her a large ironwood mug.

Seraphina sniffed.

Her eyes brightened.

Seraphina smiled, taking the heavy mug with both hands.

The cocoa was incredibly hot, but her core naturally regulated the temperature, allowing her to take a deep, comforting sip.

"Hot cocoa!"

"Prepared according to His Grace’s specifications."

She took another sip.

"Did the fake lady try to come in?"

"She was intercepted and redirected to the laundry facilities," Sebastian replied dryly. "You need not worry about her."

Her entire face melted into happiness.

"Mr. Sebastian."

"Yes, My Lady?"

"You’re the best."

Sebastian’s expression remained completely stoic.

But somewhere deep inside his veteran soul, a tiny flag of victory was raised.

"I merely perform my duties."

Seraphina took another sip.

"You’re still the best."

"...Thank you."

Sebastian checked the windows.

Checked the locks.

Checked the fireplace.

Checked the wards.

Then he tucked the blanket carefully beneath Seraphina’s chin.

"Sleep well, Sovereign." Sebastian murmured, turning the magical lamps down to a faint, glowing ember.

"Goodnight, Mr. Sebastian. Thank you for the cocoa."

"I shall be outside."

The retired knight bowed deeply and exited the room, the heavy locks clicking securely into place behind him.

He closed the door.

Silence returned.

Seraphina remained perfectly still.

One minute.

Five minutes.

Ten.

For thirty minutes, Seraphina did not move a single muscle.

She heard Sebastian’s footsteps outside.

Then silence.

She smiled.

’Phase One: Fake Sleep.’

She closed her eyes.

Her breathing slowed.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

She carefully imitated the deep, steady breathing of a sleeping child.

Her adult mind calculated the timing.

Sebastian’s hearing was exceptional.

If she moved too quickly, he would notice.

If she made noise, he would investigate.

So she waited.

Thirty minutes.

Forty.

Then—

DONG.

The grandfather clock struck midnight.

Seraphina’s eyes snapped open.

The innocent, sleepy toddler vanished.

The tiny mastermind returned.

She threw the blanket aside, her bare feet touching the plush rug with the absolute silence of a seasoned phantom.

She looked toward the door.

"Alright." Seraphina whispered to the empty, darkened room.

She cracked her tiny knuckles.

Pop.

"The hedgehog is trapped in a meeting."

Another tiny crack.

"The watchdog is guarding the door."

She smiled.

"The skies are clear."

Seraphina looked toward the darkened room.

"Time to convene the Ghost Assembly."

***

Seraphina walked to the center of her bedroom.

She sat down, crossing her legs into a disciplined lotus position.

Back straight.

Hands resting on her knees.

She looked like a tiny monk.

A very dangerous tiny monk.

The Capital Estate contained hundreds of ghosts. Unfortunately, they were not organized. They floated around the mansion doing whatever they pleased.

Dusting things.

Complaining.

Arguing.

Losing helmets.

Complaining about losing helmets.

Finding helmets.

Then losing them again.

Seraphina had decided this was unacceptable.

If she was going to establish an intelligence network, she needed organization.

Structure.

Hierarchy.

Management.

If she was going to use them as an intelligence agency, she needed to establish dominance. She needed to organize the chaotic data pool.

She was about to act as the ultimate system administrator, establishing a strict, centralized display server for her spectral network, granting herself absolute root access to every single deceased soul in the building.

She closed her eyes.

She didn’t use the violent, explosive, world-ending rage she had used against the demon. She didn’t want to destroy the ghosts; she just wanted to get their attention.

Deep inside her chest, the Supreme Dark Core stirred.

This time, she did not release it violently.

Instead, she treated it like a gigantic metaphysical magnet.

She reached outward.

And pulled.

The dark mana didn’t explode outward. Instead, the ambient energy of the entire Capital Estate was suddenly, forcefully drawn inward, creating a spiritual vacuum centered on her bedroom.

The physical world barely reacted.

The curtains fluttered.

The fireplace dimmed.

A teacup downstairs rattled.

But the spiritual world?

The effect on the ethereal plane was catastrophic, hilarious chaos.

Every single ghost residing within the walls of the Nacht Estate was suddenly caught in an irresistible, invisible riptide.

In the foyer, Sir Reginald was searching beneath a sofa.

"Where is my helmet?"

Suddenly—

WHOOSH!

"AAAAAA—!"

The headless knight shot backward across the room.

He let out a muffled, echoing squawk as he was violently yanked backward by his spectral boots. He flew horizontally through the air, clipping straight through the crystal chandelier, hurtling up the grand staircase.

In the kitchen, Agatha was arguing with the stove.

"Modern ovens have no respect for—"

WHOOSH!

"MY APRON!"

She flew through the ceiling.

The vacuum caught her mid-sentence.

She shrieked, clutching her translucent apron as she was sucked straight upward, flying vertically through the solid marble ceiling like a cork popping out of a champagne bottle.

In the wine cellar, there was Bartholomew, the impeccably dignified ghost butler.