I Revived My Maid, Now She Hungers for My Blood

Chapter 179: The Blood Pool

A cold, calculating light danced in Aldrich’s eyes.

“Her biggest mistake was thinking prey could toy with the hunter. So we stop chasing her shadow. Instead… we draw her out. Then we kill her. For good.”

“I have the plan,” he said, his gaze sharpening like a needle as it stabbed toward Wilbur. “But I need a sharp enough blade. I assume there won’t be a problem this time? I don’t want another failure. Not like with the Baroness.”

Wilbur met his Lord’s heavy stare. The skin on his slapped cheek twitched. Then he smiled—a raw, blood-hungry grin. Savagery and excitement burned in his eyes.

“You have my word, my Lord. This time, I end her myself. Completely.”

“Good.” Aldrich gave a single, slow nod, the gloom on his face receding a fraction. “Then come with me. To my villa by the forest lake. There, I will give you the details of our… hunting plan.”

..................

Beneath the lakeside villa, the air was nothing like the damp quiet above ground.

The basement was separated from Mirror Lake’s icy water by a single stone wall. A deep, penetrating dampness lived here, a wetness that never left. Fine beads of water slicked the walls. The air felt thick enough to wring out.

But the true suffocation, the gut-churning wrongness, came from more than the wet.

It was the smell.

A thick, cloying stench of congealed metal and blood, underpinned by a deeper, instinct-repelling rot.

The source lay in the basement’s deepest part. A massive depression took up most of the floor, filled to the brim with a pool of thick, dark red liquid, nearly black. Blood.

Exposed to the damp air, of course it rotted. The basement was cool, but not cold enough to stop the swarm of microscopic life breeding within.

If anyone drew this filthy brew and tried to inject it, they’d be dead from sepsis in hours.

The master of this Blood Pool, The Blood Tonic Aldrich, didn’t care. This was a primary ingredient for his unique potions. Even he wasn’t foolish enough to put this “fungal blood”—cultured by special strains until it was unrecognizable—directly into his veins.

Now, Wilbur stood with him in that unsettling space.

Wilbur’s eyes tracked over the pool’s surface, which shimmered with a strange, oily sheen. A flicker of doubt crossed his face, followed by a deep, instinctive unease. This wasn’t a visit for payment. He was here to see the “other thing” Aldrich had mentioned. The thing for the Scarred Woman.

What was it?

Aldrich stood at the pool’s edge. In his hand was a small pouch, sewn from a patch of human skin, its mouth tied with sinew. He carefully loosened the cord and pinched out a fine, dark blue powder. In the gloom, it almost vanished into the shadows.

Wilbur didn’t know its exact source, but he guessed: something from the mutated fungal zombies in the Botanical Gardens.

Aldrich’s expression was unusually grave, touched with a rare, grim ceremony. He bent slowly and began sprinkling the powder onto the bubbling, rotten surface of the pool. His rhythm was even, deliberate. At the same time, the cold, viscous power of a third-rank Corpse-Plague Acolyte flowed from his gloved fingertips, seeping into the falling grains.

The moment the powder touched his power, it ignited.

A dim, profoundly clear ghost-blue glow erupted from each grain.

Each glowing speck that hit the pool was like a tiny, cold blue spark falling into dark oil.

But… nothing else happened. No boiling. No new bubbles. Just the same awful blood pool, its surface now holding the barest, thinnest film of blue shimmer.

Wilbur’s confusion grew, but he kept his mouth sealed. He stood two careful steps behind Aldrich, holding his breath. Waiting.

Time stretched in the cold, bloody, eerie silence.

Finally, Aldrich straightened. He tossed the empty skin pouch aside and turned.

His face was a mask of exhaustion, anticipation, and cruelty.

“Alright.” His voice echoed with a damp chill. “Come here.”

Wilbur stepped forward immediately, taking Aldrich’s place at the edge of the foul, metallic pool. He took a sharp breath—the act flooding his lungs with nausea—and held it. He drew a ritual bone dagger from his belt. Its blade gleamed with a sickly light in the dimness.

Without pause, he pressed the tip to the dark vein on the inside of his left wrist and sliced.

The skin parted. Dark venous blood welled up and spilled over in a thin, steady stream.

The drops fell, merging with the dark, rotten soup below.

The moment his blood hit the surface, it was like he’d thrown a switch.

The thick liquid, silently “fermenting” with the dark blue powder, erupted.

From the pool’s surface, from its very depths, countless fine, white filaments—like mold spores—burst forth. They spread, intertwined, and wound around each other with terrifying speed.

Under Wilbur’s widening, horrified gaze, a whirlpool began to form in the pool’s center.

It looked as if an invisible creature lurked at the bottom, swallowing the surrounding blood in great, greedy gulps.