I Revived My Maid, Now She Hungers for My Blood
Chapter 302: The Slaughter on Food Street

Three blocks from Ashford Heights Modern High School lay a food street called Firefly Lane.

It should have been filled with the charred aroma of grilling meat, the cloying scent of syrup, and the scratchy jazz melodies drifting from cheap gramophones. But after the entire street had been warped by something unseen, it had become a paradise for those things.

Those things. Once, they might have been diners, or vendors, or just passersby. Now, they had lost their original forms. Lost their memories. Lost even the basic outline of being “human.” They had become bloated, pallid, perpetually writhing—Maggot-people.

They lurked here. They waited here. For the fresh, living human flesh drawn in by this living street. That was their feast.

But now, there was no aroma. No music. Only the gray-white Wizardry mist blanketing the entire street. And the ceaseless, flickering flash of a blade.

………………

Pandora stood in the center of the street. In her hands, she gripped a razor-sharp two-handed sword nearly as tall as she was. The blade wasn’t metal, yet a line of cold silver light traced its edge. Her silhouette moved like a phantom through the swirling mist and the twisted, squirming maggot-people.

Her movements weren’t fast. They even carried a strange, unhurried elegance. But every shift of her stance, every time the sword-light flared, it was a cut of surgical precision. The blade hissed through the air, a whisper-thin sound.

Then a maggot-person—lunging at her from the side, its maw stretched wide—froze in mid-air. From the center of its head, a perfectly straight, smooth incision appeared. The split traveled swiftly downward, cleaving through the writhing, pallid mass. Like a block of butter sliced clean through, it split neatly into two halves along that seam. A cascade of viscera and nameless gelatinous matter, drenched in viscous fluid, splattered onto the ground with a wet slap.

Pandora didn’t pause. Her steps shifted lightly, as if dancing a deadly, graceful waltz. This time, a horizontal slash. Three maggot-people charging at her from the front—their upper bodies detached from their squirming lower halves simultaneously. The maws on their faces still opened and closed uselessly, emitting a hisssss of escaping gas, before the bodies crashed to the ground.

At the same time, around her form, countless hair-thin, crimson threads materialized. Translucent, nearly invisible. They radiated outward from Pandora, interweaving to form a barrier roughly three meters in diameter. Impenetrable. Airtight. This was the Witch’s Heartstrings.

Any maggot-person attempting to breach this zone—whether crawling along the ground, launching itself from a wall, or dropping from the awnings overhead—the instant they touched those crimson threads, they were carved into even finer chunks.

For a time, sword-light flashed and crimson threads flickered in and out of sight. The severed limbs, the shredded meat, the splattering slime of the maggot-people piled up across the ground around Pandora. She was a human-shaped, hyper-efficient, mobile meat grinder.

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………………

And at the edge of this bloody battlefield, Miss Anomaly was trembling violently.

The moment Pandora had stepped onto this street and the fighting began, they had separated. Pandora needed room. The girl, by sheer instinct, wanted to be as far from that terrifying epicenter of slaughter as possible. As an “Anomaly” who was, at her core, still a normal high school girl, she was utterly inconspicuous amidst the chaos. Pandora paid her no special attention.

And those frenzied maggot-people? Their entire focus was fixated on the human blender that was Pandora. They crawled right past the girl, even bumped into her, yet treated her as utterly invisible—as if she were just a piece of street furniture, a puff of inconsequential air.

But Miss Anomaly’s fear didn’t stem from the maggot-people. It came from that… thing. That shadow which followed her everywhere. The one clad in a black trench coat, clutching a rifle—the Gunman. It had coalesced from the shadows the moment she set foot on this street, and it was hunting her. Again.

Stalking her with those stiff, precise strides, raising its muzzle, taking aim, again and again.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Bullets screamed through the air. Miss Anomaly was terrified beyond words. Her face was ashen. Her lips trembled. Tears welled at the corners of her eyes. She ran, clutching her head, weaving frantically among the waves of maggot-people surging toward Pandora—a panicked rabbit in a stampede.

Her movements were adorably clumsy. She stumbled and staggered, looking like she might fall flat on her face at any second. Yet every seemingly-graceless dodge happened a split-second before a bullet left the barrel.

Duck. A bullet grazed the tips of her hair and buried itself in the skull of a maggot-person behind her, detonating its head into paste.

Sidestep. A bullet punched through the gaping maw of a maggot-person to her side, erupted out the back of its head, and dragged a plume of slime with it.

The classic, perfect, anime-girl face-plant. A bullet sailed over her collapsing body and nailed a maggot-person diving from above, pinning it to the wall.

Every “accident.” Every “narrow escape.” Every single one delivered that lethal bullet with perfect, synchronistic precision into the jelly-soft, red-and-white brains of the maggot-people. One shot, one kill.

And as more and more maggot-people were “mis-killed” in this bizarre fashion—their bodies collapsing into withered, hollow, rapidly-decaying husks—Miss Anomaly’s pale complexion began, bit by bit, to regain its color. Her fleeing movements, though still saturated with fear, were no longer so weak and unsteady. She even seemed more energetic than when she’d first arrived.

Well, as the saying goes: you are what you eat. If you want nutrients and stamina, you do have to eat, after all. Using the very bullets meant to kill her to mis-kill and devour these maggot-people around her—that was Miss Anomaly’s unique method of feeding.

Even though—she herself was utterly oblivious to it.

She was genuinely scared. She believed, right down to the marrow of her bones, with 100% conviction, that the next bullet would hit her. That she would die right here.

Her terror was never, ever fake. It was real. Unquestionably real.

………………

Miss Anomaly’s fear was genuine. And what Pandora was feeling right now was just as real.

It was a long-missed exhilaration. The thrill of completely cutting loose.

She was like a top-tier player who spent every day grinding against punishing, high-difficulty challenges and had, just this once, stumbled into a beginner-level dungeon. Cutting through weeds. Zero effort. Pure, simple, steamrolling slaughter. Every swing of her sword gave clear, satisfying feedback. Every pass of her Heartstrings delivered a tangible, satisfying cut. This kind of curbstomp battle brought with it a cathartic, stress-melting rush.

She even had leisure to spare—swinging her blade with one hand while observing the environment, analyzing this “Food Street Anomaly’s” characteristics, its operational patterns, and its potential weaknesses.

Pandora was having a blast.

But this living, breathing food street—the Anomaly itself—was clearly having significantly less fun.