Pandora looked down at Ron, then at the other kids. Her verdict was already in.

  “You’re safe for now. First, answer my question. How did you survive? Why are you all hiding here?”

  She had no intention of answering his question about the Viscount.

  But Ron had no choice but to answer hers.

  Her tone wasn’t harsh, but it carried an undeniable pressure. The excitement on Ron’s face vanished, replaced by a flicker of panic. He stammered, his eyes darting away.

  “Don’t try to lie. The miller’s tricks don’t work on me.”

  The miller’s most common tricks were short-weighing and cheating customers. Privately, he also dabbled in pilfering and other shady dealings. These were things the villagers only guessed at, but the Viscount knew all about it—down to the magistrate’s golden ring in his possession—and so, naturally, did Pandora.

  “We… we…”

  Pandora’s gaze grew colder. She didn’t have to do a thing. The glowering Elsa behind her was a presence that could not be ignored.

  Cornered, Ron finally bit his lip, lowered his head, and spoke with the frankness of a man with nothing left to lose. “We… we were practicing our ‘night-walking arts’ last night. It’s… it’s how to sneak into a house, how to pick a lock, how to move without a sound. Father taught us. It’s a ‘family tradition,’ not what you’re thinking…”

  “Thieving techniques.”

  Pandora finished for him, her tone flat, without scorn or surprise.

  She’d heard about the miller’s underhanded dealings long ago; she just never imagined he was so “professional” about it, turning it into a “family tradition.” No wonder he was so despised.

  But the key issue wasn’t what they’d done. It was who these “apprentice thieves” were. Their age.

  Her gaze swept over everyone. The theory about an “age divider” was confirmed again. A group of survivors, all teenagers. But Pandora felt no joy. This wasn’t good news worth celebrating.

  Still, the terror from the first time she’d had this thought was gone.

  Pandora processed the information calmly, without mentioning it to anyone. But in her heart, it became a certainty: the midnight zombification wasn’t a “disease.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  This was a filter. A bizarre, insidious one, sifting out all the adults, leaving only the children.

  Had this kind of “screening” ever happened in history?

  The moment the thought appeared, she regretted it. If only she hadn’t “extracted” all the books in one go. At the very least, she should have saved the history section.

  But there was no medicine for regret. She had to accept the consequences of her own actions.

  It wasn’t a big deal. History books weren’t only in the manor. The town had them, too.

  Silently adding another item to her to-do list, Pandora turned her attention back to the group of trembling children before her, whose eyes flickered with fear and hope.

  She knew she couldn’t take them with her. One Betty was already her limit. And with so many pairs of sharp eyes around, how could she “reclaim” the scattered “Alchemical Resources”? She had no intention of letting anyone know she had a 【System】!

  “Ron,” Pandora began, her voice calm again, even gentle. “You did well. Surviving was the only victory that mattered.”

  She pointed in the direction of the manor. “Now, go back. It’s safe there now. We’ve cleared out most of the ‘things.’ If you’re brave, you can clean up the rest.”

  “The manor is large and safe, but it will need hands to rebuild.” Pandora paused, her gaze fixed on Ron. She said, word by word, “The world has changed, Ron. Your family’s old ‘traditions’ are garbage now. They might even get you killed. If you want to live—if you want to live better—then forget those tricks.”

  “Take up arms, or take up tools. Use your hands to rebuild a new world!”

  Pandora’s lips curved into a meaningful smile, her eyes glinting with a performative approval. “Maybe one day, they won't call you the miller's son. They’ll call you Lord Ron, and you’ll have your own land and your own manor, open and rightful!”

  Pandora’s words were inspiring.

  They might not have meant much to people accustomed to empty promises, but this was the Middle Ages!

  Including Ron, five pairs of eyes began to light up, one by one.

  It was the flame of “ambition,” being ignited.

  Hope without suppression gives birth to ambition.

  But that wasn’t what she wanted, especially not from a group of teenagers accustomed to thievery.

  So, the moment she finished her last sentence, she gave a clear signal to Elsa behind her.

  Elsa understood.

  She said nothing. She simply took a single step forward. The blood-colored sword in her hand moved, a casual, effortless slash at a long-abandoned scarecrow beside her.

  Shing!

  The scarecrow’s “arm,” made of rags, branches, and dry straw, fell away, sliced clean off at the base.

  There was no sound, no extraneous movement.

  Elsa didn’t even spare the scarecrow a glance, as if she had just brushed away a speck of dust.

  Ron and the youths behind him felt as if they had fallen into an ice cave!

  The hope on their faces was instantly replaced by pure, undiluted terror. They understood the unspoken warning.

  “Yes! My Lady! We’ll go back! We’ll clean the manor, I swear!” Ron’s voice trembled, but it was firm.

  He whirled around and yelled at his companions, “What are you standing around for? Let’s go! To the manor, get to work!”

  The five teenagers, like startled deer, fled without a backward glance, sprinting in the direction of the manor. Their footsteps were frantic and panicked, as if afraid of being left behind.

  Pandora watched them go, a soft sigh escaping her lips.

  Before this, she never would have trusted a family of petty thieves.

  But now… human life was too valuable.

  Pandora sighed softly, with a hint of weariness she hadn't even noticed herself.