Welcome to the Rose Mansion - Chapter 106
Rewinding time a little, back inside the refrigeration room.
“GAAAH!”
Richelle couldn’t suppress her scream and fell back onto her rear. Her hands and feet trembled.
What is this? What the hell is this?
A corpse… How is a corpse grabbing my ankle?!
With trembling fingers, she barely managed to touch the hand gripping her ankle. It was a bizarre situation—being attacked by a corpse—but first, she had to get out of here. She needed to get to Alan.
But the grip on her ankle tightened.
“Ugh!”
“W-Wait! I’m sorry. Don’t go. I’m not trying to hurt you.”
She thought she had gone mad from the shock. Despite the slightly awkward pronunciation, a coherent sentence came from the unfamiliar voice.
From deep within the refrigeration room.
Richelle stammered, too shaken to raise her voice.
“Who… Who are you?”
“If you promise not to leave right away, I’ll let go.”
“…I promise.”
The hand gripping her ankle loosened. Richelle clenched her fist and cautiously stood up, moving toward the back of the room.
To her disbelief, there was a man lying there.
He was bound tightly from head to toe in something resembling thorny vines.
“Are you… really human?”
“Uh, well, I’d like to think so.”
The man chuckled. Richelle knelt down and examined him. He looked exhausted, but his eyes were clear.
And, just like Becky Dustin before, his skin carried a faint scent of roses.
Richelle realized instinctively. This man was human. He was definitely a servant who had not yet turned into a rose.
She leaned forward.
“Is there anything I can do to help? Should I untie these vines?”
“Thank you, but we’ll talk more later. I heard some commotion—your companion is in danger, isn’t he?”
The man breathed heavily, as if the effort was taxing.
“I’m the chef’s special meal, so I know more about the chef than anyone. Please trust me.”
“What should I—?”
At that moment, a shout echoed through the air.
“Run! I’ll follow you!”
It was Alan Otis, yelling with all his might.
Richelle quickly stood up. This was no time for conversation. Alan was in danger.
“I’ll come back for you!”
She was about to rush out of the room when the man’s voice caught her again.
“Pour water on him!”
The sudden command made Richelle turn back instinctively.
“What?”
“Pour water on him! The chef is fire. He’s weak to water. Please, believe me!”
Fire?
Suddenly, a series of thoughts flashed through Richelle’s mind. Fire, and roses.
The beings that controlled this mansion were roses. Roses are plants. Plants are weak to fire.
The roses had indeed shown fear of fire. But for some reason, they were also afraid of the chef.
And the kitchen, obsessively filled with fire… If she applied that to the roses overtaking the mansion…
‘The idea that the chef is fire seems likely.’
If that’s true, then the chef must be weak to water.
But she had to be cautious. One wrong move and Alan could die.
‘I can’t just trust this man blindly.’
Seeing the doubt on Richelle’s face, the man shouted in frustration.
“Damn it, believe me! I’ve seen with my own eyes that he loses his form when he’s doused in water! Do you think I’m just saying this to help you? Do you know how long I’ve waited for someone to come? Go kill that goddamn monster now!”
Hatred.
It was so palpable that it made Richelle’s hair stand on end. There was no way to fake such explosive hatred. This man wasn’t trying to help her—he was using her to deal with the chef.
But it was that clearly visible intent that made her decision.
Richelle immediately ran out of the room. The chaotic scene in the kitchen came into view.
Spilled food. Shattered dishes.
And bloodstains, most likely from Alan Otis.
Her heart sank.
‘…No, Young Master Otis should still be okay. If he told me to run, he must have lured the chef outside.’
Repeating that thought like a mantra, she frantically searched the kitchen. Even though the chef’s weakness might be water, the kitchen had sealed water tanks, necessary for cooking.
Richelle grabbed a nearby bucket and filled it with as much water as it could hold. It was heavy, but in her desperation, the weight barely registered.
She carried the bucket into the hallway. A dirty trail of blood and dark stains marked the way forward. Without hesitation, she followed the trail.
Rounding the corner, she saw the chef’s massive form in the distance. And beneath him…
“Young Master Alan…!”
Alan Otis lay there, his limbs limp and his body torn to shreds.
The sight of him flipped Richelle’s world upside down. Her vision blurred with red.
Something bubbled up inside her, rising until it burned her throat and exploded out.
“Get lost, you— you son of a b-tch!”
It was the first time Richelle Howard had ever uttered such raw, explicit profanity.
