Chapter 3

Chapter 3

His heart hammered in terror as he flicked a covert glance toward the window from the corner of his eye.

Not daring to turn around, he edged silently toward the window while straining his ears for any movement behind him. Surprisingly, he made it to the window without incident—something he hadn’t expected.

Before he could let his guard down, a sudden, gut-wrenching wave of danger crawled up his back and made his scalp crawl.

His heart hammered violently, pounding hard enough to crack ribs, pumping blood frantically to fuel his survival instincts. He swiftly reached out to push the window open, clambered onto the sill, and kicked off with his legs, hurling himself outward.

Behind him, there was a faint, wet, slithering noise, but he had no energy left to dwell on it.

Ryan heard the window slam shut from the recoil, the loud *bang* cutting off the unnatural sounds that had been pursuing him. His body was now in a midair plunge—all he had to do was adjust his posture for a safe landing.

The sun was slowly rising at the horizon, its golden rays gradually warming the air. The relief of survival left his limbs weak.

*Smash!*

The sound of shattering glass and a whistling *shunk* tore through the air behind him. His midsection collided with something monstrous and gelid, the sudden, excruciating pain sending his world tilting violently.

From the moment he jumped to the impact, only a few breaths had passed—Ryan almost thought he’d been hit by a runaway coach. But instead of being sent flying, he was… coiled around by a thick, sickly-hued appendage.

"...Cthulhu?"

The enormous appendage had shattered the glass, effortlessly reaching out to seize him. A single loop was enough to fully encase his upper body.

Dangling helplessly in midair, his head and legs hung limply as the morning sun cast a pitiful glow on his face. His dark hair fell back, revealing his corpse-pale face. His eyes gazed vacantly into the sky, a trail of crimson blood trickling from his nose. The bones in his chest and waist shrieked in white-hot pain as if shattered.

"Shapeshifter. It feeds on victims to reshape itself and requires large amounts of moisture to maintain its soft exterior. Normally, they are pitch-black, covered in blisters, and emit a foul stench—but this one seems to have mutated."

So it was a Shapeshifter. That made sense… His thoughts grew sluggish, his eyelids weighed down with lead.

"If you fall asleep now, you’ll die as a man in a maid dress. Everyone who knows you will learn about your… questionable proclivities."

"Though, out of respect for the dead, they’ll only gossip behind your back."

"Are you… the devil…?"

He forced himself to stay alert. No matter what, he couldn’t die in a maid dress! Fighting to pry his eyelids apart, he suddenly noticed the tentacle’s inner surface pressed against him—covered in half-melted eyes and organs. The sight nearly made him vomit.

With a nauseating *schlorp*, the creature poured forth like living pitch out of the window frame, gripping its prey as it slowly advanced.

Now Ryan could see its full form—a semi-fluid, semi-solid, tar-like mass grotesquely approximating a five-armed giant octopus. Its enormous spindle-shaped head bore two flat, gill-like slits near the bottom, resembling blowholes. Its entire body was a murky gray-blue, its blistered skin glistening with nauseating rainbows. The writhing tentacles had a disturbingly fleshy texture, embedded with liquefying sensory clusters.

Amid the chaos, Ryan caught a glimpse of a figure near the shattered window—but before he could process it, the monster dragged him toward the macabre garden of blossoms.

Now he finally understood what the Shapeshifter intended to do…

The roses were stunning in the morning light, glowing with false innocence. But the thought of becoming their fertilizer killed any appreciation he might’ve had.

He struggled, but suspended midair, he had nothing to push against. His strength was draining fast, his thoughts growing sluggish—this was bad.

Suddenly, a complex rune materialized before his eyes—projected by the system.

"Is this… Fireball?" Ryan wanted to weep. "But I’m a cleric!" Until now, he’d only used basic healing and support spells in combat.

"Who told you clerics can’t use offensive magic? That person must be the most common type of theory-obsessed fool."

"...I’ll try." He attempted to twist his trapped limbs and torso, trying to reach the wand strapped to his thigh.

No luck—he couldn’t even touch it. Worse, his fingers squished into pulsing viscera…

Then, something loosened at his chest. A padded cloth—the one he’d stuffed into his dress—tumbled into open air.

Panicked, he jerked his leg up to catch it—only to accidentally kick it straight at the monster’s head.

The cloth flew valiantly… before being bat aside dismissively by a tentacle tip.

"...I didn’t mean to attack with *that*."

"Obviously, it wouldn’t work, right?"

"So it was just an accident. Even experts blunder—"

"Stop explaining."

"I’ve trained professionally. No matter how funny—"

The system went radio silent. Ryan’s face burned with humiliation, his mental scream echoing in his skull.

In moments of extreme embarrassment, the mind clears, and the body summons inexplicable strength. He strained to lift his right leg, flailing wildly midair as he attempted to trace the Fireball rune. Despite the awkward motion, the wand strapped to his thigh seared into his flesh.

"My first offensive spell, and it’s this difficult. If I pull it off, I must be a magic prodigy." He laughed bitterly, sweat stinging his eyes.

This cleric’s wand burned like a hot iron whenever he cast anything slightly complex—it was definitely leaving scorch marks on his thigh.

As the rune completed, a few feeble sputters burst near his skirt—then fizzled out.

Before he could despair, a crude, blazing fireball erupted, streaking through the air with searing heat before slamming into the monster’s head.

"Not bad. I can sense the primitive charm in it."

The flames exploded on impact, spattering boiling ichor like fireworks. A small patch of the creature’s skin blackened and cracked.

"What the hell just hit me in the face?" A jarringly casual voice called from afar.

Suddenly, a figure dashed through the sparks—moving with predator's grace—leaping high with a sword aimed at the monster’s scorched spot. After striking, they disengaged without hesitation, spinning midair to slash at the tentacle gripping Ryan.

Yet the blade failed to sever the limb. The heroic flourish became a pratfall as the figure landed clumsily.

"Altai!" Ryan, still dizzy, recognized the man—the usually unserious hero now was a glorious sight.

"A Shapeshifter this big?" Altai held his sword in one hand and something else in the other.

Ryan’s soul left his body—it was the brave cloth pad that had fallen from his dress and attempted to attack the monster!

He lied instantly. "...A patch from my clothes."

"Oh!" Altai absently pocketed it before springing up, narrowly dodging another tentacle.

Meanwhile, Ryan choked as the crushing pressure tightened, forcing a dry heave.

"Shapeshifters exsanguinate their prey before consuming the rest—blood interferes with their transformations. Their protective mucus layer makes them resistant to ordinary blades."

So the missing servants had likely all been devoured by this abomination. And it didn’t waste anything—using the blood to feed its garden.

"They originate in unique environments. Their mucus is vulnerable to heat—fire can break through their protective layer."

Struggling in the tentacle’s grip, Ryan gasped for air and shouted to Altai, "It’s weak to fire! Is Hill here yet?" Then he tried tracing the Fireball rune again with his wand.

"Signal's out—they should be here any minute..."

Altai fell silent, gaping at the sight before him. The Junior Pastor's slightly downturned eyes were tinged with a stark crimson, adding a sharp edge to his otherwise gentle and harmless features. Between his bloodstained lips, Altai could even catch glimpses of his gleaming white teeth. His fine, soft black hair clung damply to his pale cheeks, leaving him looking helpless.

Normally, the Junior Pastor dressed conservatively, but now he was stuck wearing a frilly short skirt—one side of the hem singed black from the earlier flames. His toned thighs were bound with a dark green wand, while his slender calves were clad in white stockings and black leather shoes, the tips of which bounced slightly with each movement.

Ryan’s spellcasting was more practiced this time, but before he could finish, a tentacle violently flung him away.

What made him think a monster cunning enough to replace a lord and rise to the top would just stand there and take the hits?

The damn thing was intelligent—it could even understand human speech!

"Oh my god!"

A cry came from behind as Ryan, unable to stop himself from imagining the hardness of the ground, crashed into someone’s arms. Looking up, he saw Silvius and Kai Lan had arrived.

The elf’s violet eyes were full of panic as he instinctively cradled the injured pastor in his arms. "Ah, I... you..."

"Sorry for bumping into you. I’ll heal you in a bit," Ryan said guiltily, lightly touching the red mark on the elf’s cheek where he’d collided. "The Shapeshifter’s skin is weak to fire. Go help Altai, okay?"

"Oh..." Silvius, for some reason, blushed even harder. Flustered, he turned his head away and shoved the pastor into Kai Lan’s arms. "Y-you protect him! Don’t let him get in the way!" Then he beat a hasty retreat, staff in hand, toward the warrior and the monster.

"Ryan..." Kai Lan’s hands met cool, smooth skin—one side a slender back, the other a supple thigh. The pastor’s bloodstained lips still let out soft gasps, and Kai Lan’s body froze as if paused, unable to move.

"Put me down. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine." Ryan patted his shoulder guard. "Go on, I can heal myself!" With that, he hiked up the torn skirt and began untying the rope securing the wand to his thigh.

Kai Lan’s face instantly turned red, his blue eyes darting around in embarrassment. He nodded stiffly before turning and marching rigidly into the fray.

"You’ve been fighting this long and only cut off one?" Silvius eyed the warrior locked in combat with the monster, then glanced disdainfully at the severed tentacle. "Even a damn octopus would be faster! The one you just cut is already growing back!"

A nub of regenerating flesh was already writhing wildly from the stump, stretching outward.

"You think it’s easy to cut something this slippery?" Altai snapped, furious. He’d finally found the right angle to slice through the protective mucus and sever a limb, only for this elf to show up late and start criticizing.

"And you’re stepping on the flowers! Those beautiful roses!"

"Here, take the sword and do it yourself! See if you can fight without stepping on them!"

Altai shot the elf an annoyed glare—only to catch sight of the Junior Pastor lifting his skirt in the distance. The words died in his throat.

A tall, well-built young man wearing a maid’s skirt should have looked absurd, but...

Somehow, the Junior Pastor weirdly pulled it off. He looked... oddly good in it.