Compared to the broad, empty classrooms on the first floor, the second floor was much smaller, with more divided spaces and elaborate decor, making it look like the reception rooms of a private club.
Except there were no attendants here, nor any bartenders.
Instead, various grotesque specimens of Magical Creatures were scattered throughout the room: a Tanggula Ice Chi, a Welsh Green Dragon, an armored Minotaur, a unicorn draped in saddlecloth, a dwarf's foot, a giant's eyeball, a whisk made from centaur mane, and crafts pieced together from merman scales.
Many of those ornaments were still "alive."
Nikita could clearly hear wails coming from deep within those ornaments. That pain was like a rich spice, adding flavor to the liches' gradually drying emotions.
Sir Ulrich led the guests deeper into the reception room.
Like a catfish dropped into a box of lifeless sardines, the fresh presence brought by the unfamiliar guests drew the attention of many Old Liches in the room.
They slowly turned their necks. Tiny crimson lights bloomed in the depths of their black eye sockets, and their joints crackled, like rusted machines restarting, like dry gears turning without oil.
Nikita kept her head down and held her breath as she followed behind the captain, silently passing between tables.
From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of the bowl in an Old Lich's hand—it was a deathly pale skull bowl, filled with bright-red liquid. It steamed and bubbled. The Old Lich's hand looked like a skinned chicken claw: withered, pale, and covered in ghastly scars.
The banshee quietly swallowed and withdrew her gaze, staring fixedly at the captain's heels, not daring to make the slightest unusual move. A wizard's reason mixed with a demon's impulses had created a pack of mad liches. The older the lich,