Chapter 2. 

The Maze and the Maid

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I’d been wandering these identical corridors and rooms for several minutes, still utterly clueless:

“So… where am I supposed to go?”

Realizing no one was going to answer, I sighed and wandered into yet another narrow hallway.

Chaos reigned everywhere in a strangely mundane way.

Someone was arguing over how much salt to put in the stew.

Someone else was waging an epic battle against a spiderweb, as if their life depended on it.

Someone just walked down the corridor—and behind them… floated a laundry basket.

Wait. What?

I blinked, hoping I was hallucinating. But nope—there she was, and her flying basket was right with her.

I just stood there in a daze, watching the maid and her drone-basket glide away, the basket floating over the floor with an expression that said, “I deliver not stinky laundry, but pure absurdity.”

Shaking off the weirdness, I returned to my biggest problem: not knowing which way was which.

I tried, really tried, to remember where to go. But hope died quickly and without the chance of resurrection—Mira’s memories were a black hole, and the only way I could navigate this labyrinth was by following the scent of bread.

But my thoughts were interrupted—a maid suddenly popped out from around the corner, like a life preserver tossed to a drowning fool.

She was a bit older than me, with emerald hair, brown eyes, and a surprisingly warm, gentle gaze.

She looked at my bump, then at me, like I was already a ghost.

No way. I’m harder to kill than a cockroach—no way I’m getting erased that easily.

“Mira? Are you okay? Does it hurt?” she asked softly, taking my hands, as if we were best friends since forever.

Honestly, she probably could be.

In my head, several possible replies sprang up:

A. Look uncertain.

B. Smile and play it cool.

C. Try to flirt.

D. Be silent, like a proper maid.

I pick B—because with my face, flirting is just asking for disappointment.

“All good! Like a mosquito from hell bit me, that’s all,” I said, trying to joke.

The girl raised her eyebrows in surprise and studied me even closer.

Did I say something weird?

“Mira, are you sure you’re okay? You usually just stare at the floor and don’t answer…”

She scanned me, head to toe, looking for fresh trauma.

Ah, got it… The correct answer was D. Keep quiet. Dang it!

“Sorry, sorry. I guess getting my forehead smashed by a teapot scrambled my brains a bit,” I mumbled, scratching my head and trying to look sincerely clueless.

A shadow of irritation crossed her face—the same look my mom gets when she finds out about my grades.

“How could they?! You’re Miss Evelyn’s personal maid, not some piece of trash! How dare they treat you like this?”

Her voice had lost all its previous gentleness.

Personal maid… that sounds familiar. But now is NOT the time to dig into details.

I’d never have guessed that someone so soft on the outside could have a storm raging inside.

It took a few minutes of awkward mumbling to calm her down:

“But I’m up and walking, right? That means I’m fine. No problem. Really.”

She sighed, gave me a look-over, and finally nodded.

“All right. Then go to Lady Evelyn’s room. She’s waiting.”

She looked at me with that worried “sending-your-kid-to-their-final-exam” mom vibe.

“And please, this time, don’t make a mess like usual. The lady’s not in the best mood today.”

“Yes ma—uh, I mean, of course! Got it, friend!” I declared, spinning around like a soldier on parade.

I marched a couple steps… and only then realized—I still had no idea where I was going. I turned—right into her knowing gaze.

“Other way, Mira. Come on, I’ll show you.”

She gently guided me.

“Thanks!” I managed, smiling stiffly, whipping around on my heel.

We walked together down the hallways. I peeked into rooms, watching the other staff at work:

Someone was cleaning, someone was ironing, someone was doing laundry—everywhere, there was this rhythmic, well-practiced teamwork.

This girl—her name, I found out, was Elaine—explained all about this place and the whole “personal maid” deal as we walked.

First, she made sure I wasn’t suffering from memory loss, then she relaxed and explained things.

Turns out, personal maids are like private secretaries. They do more than just clean: they cook, protect, organize schedules, and generally make their masters’ lives work.

And only personal maids can go into their master’s private rooms or offices.

So as Evelyn’s personal maid, only I can enter her rooms.

In summary: I’m someone’s personal… maid-navigator? Great. Now I’m basically a human accessory.

The longer we walked, the more endless this mansion felt. Elaine explained that this was only the side wing.

But what blew my mind most were the… living tools.

Brooms swept the floors with the grace of ballroom dancers, waltzing through the halls.

The dishes didn’t just sit on the stove—they floated and twirled midair like the conductors of a culinary orchestra.

Watering cans, like devoted gardeners, leaned over flowerpots with such gentle care that not even a butterfly could outdo them.

And instead of ordinary lamps, there were sleek, translucent crystals glowing softly, as if they’d trapped little shards of sunset.

I felt like I’d fallen into a living fairytale. But all this… all this was just the opening act.

Because when we stepped into a long, gallery-like corridor and the windows opened to a view—I froze.

Outside, there was a real castle.

Huge, towered, with gargoyle-shaped drainpipes, winding arches, balconies, and spires so tall they seemed to pierce the sky.

Its walls were laced with living vines, and the rooftops gleamed with tiles as black as a raven’s wing.

This wasn’t just a manor—it was a masterpiece of medieval architecture, the perfect backdrop for an epic fantasy.

I could almost see the heroine in her cape, staff raised, facing down the final boss for the fate of the world.

It’s unreal… Or, well, it is real. I’m the isekai heroine, after all. This is literally part of the starter pack.

I stood there, stunned—until Elaine gently took my hand and led me on.

When we reached Evelyn’s room, Elaine patted my head (which was unexpectedly nice) and left.

Mentally, I braced for anything—humiliation, yelling, or, in the worst case, another scheduled teapot to the head.

Just like all those manga I used to binge.

Heroine walks in, makes a fatal mistake, gets smacked, loses all her favor points with the gods and readers. I shivered, as required.

But I took a deep breath, gripped the handles, tensed like before a big exam, and… pushed open the door, blinking just in case I needed to dodge any special effects.

And then—something whipped past my face—

—and in the next instant, something soft, cold, and suspiciously springy smacked me right in the face with a loud SLAP.