Witch Monastery

After more than a year working together, Charles knew this blue dragon’s personality like the back of his hand, so he didn’t bother with pleasantries. “I tried talking to Anno about it. But Blackstaff Tower has no intention of getting involved, and she wasn’t even able to get approval for her leave to accompany me to Bharata.”

Rahman nodded slowly, his draconic whiskers swaying gently. “Blackstaff Tower prioritizes protecting Liberl Port. That’s to be expected.”

After a pause, he said softly, “My brother’s recently developed some new equipment—special power-assisted plate armor, activated by magical current.”

“These suits are extremely sturdy—average plate thickness is five millimeters, and each weighs almost two hundred pounds, with top-tier defense.”

“But don’t worry about usability. According to field tests, you’re almost as agile in these as you are in simple leather armor. If anything, you get more dexterity, not less.”

Rahman’s gaze grew expectant. “So I was thinking: why not assemble a thousand-man squad, equip them all with this powered armor, and deploy to Bharata to aid in their struggle?”

“With this state-of-the-art gear, I know you’ll stand out on the battlefield.”

There were ulterior motives here: to promote his brother’s inventions, to boost the blue dragon conglomerate’s reputation. If Charles agreed, their thousand-strong squad would march under the blue dragon’s banner, putting them on par with the gold dragonborn in public perception. And if Charles racked up heroic feats, the blue dragons could outshine their rivals just like after the Montport disaster.

Rahman himself would be hailed as a new star in the family.

But Charles frowned, considered, then shook his head to refuse.

“Not suitable,” he said. “Numbers mean nothing against the undead. This isn’t like fighting demons—the ones from the material plane need a lot of downtime after a battle to be summoned again, so a war of attrition works.”

“But the undead? They just keep coming. If you send too many troops, you actually risk swelling the horde’s numbers, since every fallen soldier becomes more of the enemy. I’m sure you’ve heard of that, Prince Rahman?”

Rahman nodded. He’d never adventured himself, but he was learned. “You’re right. Sigh…”

He dropped the idea, respecting Charles’s plan. “So what do you have in mind? I can’t say I know the details—just lay out your strategy, and I’ll back you with as much funding as you need.”

“Decapitation strikes are most efficient,” Charles said. “I want to form an elite strike team, go after the enemy’s leader. Take down the death knight riding the dracolich, and the entire undead army will crumble.”

He was confident this time: Unlike his first encounter with an Abyssal Lord at Montport, whose battle style he didn’t understand, this death knight was practically an old sparring partner—he’d already beaten him countless times in the game and knew every trick.

A little more time in Bharata, a few more Purification Points, maybe another level or two—he was sure he could take the death knight down.

Rahman’s expression was approving. “Excellent. So, specifics? Thanks to your success last time, I can authorize up to 500,000 dragon crowns for your campaign.”

He said it gently, but the sum was staggering—nearly five million gold, all for Charles alone.

Charles rubbed his chin. Suddenly, he asked, “Prince Rahman, could you pull some strings to get Blackstaff Tower to make an exception—just this once?”

Rahman paused. “Oh?”

“For example, if I negotiate some conditions with Laeral Silverhand, get Blackstaff Tower to send people in an official collaboration—have them join us and assist in Bharata. It really helps to have paladins for a decapitation mission, and as far as I know, Lady Anno’s the only reliable paladin we’ve got.”

Charles’s tone was open—no use hiding his personal interest.

Rahman nodded, thinking aloud. “A direct official partnership, if we pay enough… yes, we could increase the allocation further that way.”

…

The next day, Blackstaff Tower, top floor.

At precisely six a.m., Vajra rolled out of her large bed, dressed, washed, and prepared for her daily magic training.

She lived with strict discipline—her body had no holy bloodline, only devilish ancestry and its associated weaknesses. Rigorous routine was how she refined her will, kept her desires in check, and stayed focused and reliable.

After cycling through all her mastered spells, she sat down to a simple breakfast. Despite leading Blackstaff Tower, she ate nothing but bread, fruit, milk, and eggs—the same as any other well-off family.

It was another way to curb desire, to keep the devil’s temptations at bay.

Finally, with breakfast finished, the clock approached eight. Vajra murmured an incantation, activated the teleportation circle in her room, and instantly appeared in the first-floor conference room.

Like leaders everywhere, her first duty of the day was a meeting.

She materialized at the head of the table, where several yawning mages were already in attendance.

Though her mornings were modelled on self-discipline, Vajra now slouched back in her seat, acting a bit lazy. “Everyone, what’s on the agenda today?”

There was an awkward silence, until one mage finally spoke up: “We got orders from the Mithral District. They want us to assemble an elite squad, led by Anno, to support Lord Charles in decapitating the undead horde’s leader in Bharata.”

At this, Vajra frowned.

“Didn’t we already discuss this?” she said. “Blackstaff Tower’s job is Liberl Port’s security. Foreign aid is none of our business.”

“Besides, we’re busy sealing up those Cthonians’ tunnels, blocking Underdark creatures from slipping into the city. Why would there be fresh orders about this? Didn’t you push back?”

She glared at the table. The older mages swallowed hard.

“It’s the Open Lord’s suggestion,” one of them muttered. “We wanted to refuse on principle, but, well, her offer was… much too generous.”

Vajra was stunned. “Huh?”

…

South Harbor District, monastery.

Charles had been studying on the second floor of the scriptorium, but soft footsteps sounded on the stairs behind him.

He could already tell who it was—but pretended not to notice, setting down his pen and staring absently at his spellbooks.

A pair of slender hands suddenly covered his eyes as Anno, disguising her voice, teased, “Guess who?”

Charles sat up straight and played along: “Hmm… Well, it can’t be my lovely Anno. Who else could have such a sweet scent and a voice this nice…”

His compliments brought a burst of giggles. Anno withdrew her hands and softly punched his shoulder. “You totally knew it was me!”

He looked back to see her in her creamy sweater, its snug fit highlighting her curves, her full bosom stretching the fabric.

He pulled her into his lap, sliding both hands under her sweater to roam across her warm, soft skin. “Honey, you got your leave approved?”

Anno nodded, excitement in her voice. “Just got the order—Mithral District wants me to lead a squad of spellcasters with you to Bharata, go after the undead, show Liberl Port is committed.”

Charles kissed her, squeezing the toned softness at her waist. “Perfect—now we can fight side by side again.”

Anno’s face flushed bright red. Feeling his wandering fingers, she squirmed away, voice full of embarrassment. “Not now—wait till tonight, when everyone’s asleep…”

He grinned, not stopping at all. “It’s fine, nobody else is here.”

“Don’t be scared, I just want to hold you. Promise I won’t go further.”

While he said this, his hands reached behind her, silently unclasping her bra beneath her sweater.

With nothing in the way now, his hands closed around her breasts.

All pretense of study vanished—the scriptorium was filled only with soft, breathy gasps.

…

A bit later, Anno—face still blazing—pounded his arm, straightened her clothes, and went downstairs, lamely excusing herself to “practice her cooking.”

She was terrified that if she stayed just a minute longer, she’d give in to her desire right there. It was broad daylight, this was a scriptorium, and if someone heard her… She just couldn’t take that risk. And so, she escaped.

With Anno gone, Charles read a bit more but soon grew too weary to keep going. He gave up, closed his books, and headed out.

Now that Anno’s leave was set, it was time to shift personnel and make travel plans.

This trip could last two or three months—maybe half a year. He couldn’t rest easy without everything in order.

First, he found Sephera to relay instructions for running things in his absence. Since the enemy was mainly undead, her poisons would be useless—she could only obey, teary-eyed.

Next, Hattie: Though incredibly powerful, she’d struggled against the Death Knight at Garbage Island. She still wasn’t quite suited to high-level battles, and her tentacles would’ve been wasted just cleaning up mooks. He decided to leave her in charge of the monastery, taking another witch with him instead.

Ekta.

The Flame Witch’s personal power was weak, but her fire—when unleashed—covered areas no other witch could match. If Charles, Theresa, and Anno handled the boss fights, she was perfect for clearing mobs.

And with so many fresh corpses among the Death Knight’s army, there’d be no shortage of fuel; Flame Witch would really shine this campaign.

As for the rest of the girls, they’d maintain the monastery for now.

With the witches sorted, Charles headed to the training hall. Someone—someone who’d been avoiding him—was waiting there.

Nymeria.

Inside the training hall, Nymeria stood with arms behind her back, watching the battle nuns’ drills. Her silver ponytail trailed behind, and her tall, slender figure—over 170cm—stood as straight as a drawn blade.

She wore form-fitting light green leather armor. Though not as busty as Hattie or Theresa, her lithe maiden’s figure was still something to be proud of.

With hands clasped behind her, she paced at the edge of the training grounds, her sharp gaze scanning the trainees.

Though as the youngest, she was often teased by the others off the field, every training session saw her strength radiate real authority—no one dared meet her eyes.

Just then, the doors swung open. Charles strode in, walking straight toward her.

Nymeria saw him and visibly blushed—a flush blossomed on her cheeks, making her stunningly cute.

She tried to maintain her steady pace, pretending to calmly patrol the trainees’ exercises—but her stiffened steps betrayed her nerves, and her breathing was uneven.

Charles walked up beside her, leaned in, and whispered, “Step outside. We need to talk.”

His breath tickled her face, making the moon elf turn even redder. But Charles didn’t give her time to dwell, and simply walked out.

Nymeria took a deep breath, trying to stay dignified: “Training pause—everyone take a break!”

Without her in charge, more training would do harm than good. Letting her group rest, she quickly left the hall.

The battle nuns watched, puzzled by this unexpected break. Some with more experience started grinning, whispering among themselves—they saw right through Nymeria’s condition, but none called her out.

Outside the hall, Charles waited. It didn’t take long before Nymeria emerged, head down, still not daring to meet his gaze. “What’s up?”

Charles didn’t waste time. “There’s an undead disaster in Bharata. Laeral Silverhand invited me to lead a mission to kill their commander. It’s a dangerous adventure—are you coming?”

Nymeria kept her head down, then muttered, “Yeah…yeah, I’ll go.”

Her tone was a bit distant, like her mind was somewhere else.

Charles frowned.

“Nymeria!” he said, a bit more sharply. “Look at me!”

Startled, Nymeria instinctively met his gaze.

At once, her pale, flawless skin flushed an even brighter red.

Charles took half a step closer, lowering his voice. “What’s going on? You’ve been avoiding me, never talking straight. Did something happen? You can tell me. Even if you made a mistake, it’s okay—you’re still young, and the goddess forgives all.”

He couldn’t help worrying. Her recent behavior was strange—turning and running every time she saw him, as if hiding a secret.

Nymeria jumped a little, then quickly shook her head. “No, nothing’s wrong, Priest—you’re overthinking it!”

He stepped a little closer, intending to press her further—but suddenly, the moon elf girl turned and fled.

“I… I need to go! Got something to do!” she called, hiding her face as she ran.

Charles scratched his head, watching her go.

What is up with that girl?

~~~

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