Witch Monastery

Sephera peeked timidly from beneath the covers, the corners of her mouth still stained with traces of spilled white fluid. She struggled to swallow the last remnants of semen before whispering, "Did something happen?"

"Yes." Charles nodded, his brow heavy. "They've actually put a bounty on me."

He recounted his conversation with Andny word for word, then added, "We'll leave the rest for later. Once the others arrive, we'll discuss this properly."

As he spoke, the dormitory door swung open, and Hattie and the others filed in. With each of them accompanied by one of Andny's mosquitos, every member of the monastery was now present.

"Everyone, I assume Andny has already briefed you." Charles's expression was stern—though the effect was somewhat ruined by his half-reclined position under the quilt, arm wrapped around a flushed Sephera, her lips still glistening faintly. "In situations like this, how has it been handled before?"

The witches exchanged glances. After a pause, Hattie spoke first: "Usually… we lay low for a while. Avoid attention, and it… should blow over?"

Her tone grew increasingly uncertain as she glanced repeatedly at Sephera, silently urging her to explain.

"Hide?" Charles frowned deeply, displeased with the solution.

Beside him, Sephera tucked herself deeper into the quilt, hiding the exposed traces of her delicate form, before speaking: "Here's the thing. The rich and powerful of Liberl Port have little interest in the slums of any district—let alone the poorest of them all, South Harbor."

"Even with a case this serious, all they need is a scapegoat to placate their superiors. The truth itself matters little to them."

"So, if we just lay low and wait it out, they'll eventually lose interest when they can't find you. Then they'll pin it on some Xanathar's Guild boss or the like and call it done."

Her explanation was flawlessly logical. Despite being reduced to pleading beneath him the night before, the moment the conversation turned to practical matters, she regained the meticulous precision befitting a Vice-Abbess of the Monastery.

But Charles remained deeply unsatisfied. The matter of Sophia weighed on him like a mountain, gnawing at his patience.

This is too passive. What if those guys find Sophia's trail first in the meantime?

No. We need a plan—we have to strike first!

His mind raced as he quickly formulated an idea, then asked, "Is there any way to spread a rumor? Say that a month ago, someone witnessed that young mage with white hair clashing with Xanathar's Guild thugs at the Foggy Fisherman Tavern. That's why they're framing us now."

He laid out the scheme, but unfortunately, the witches had no solutions. "Apologies, Master. We don't have our own intelligence network, so this… might be beyond us."

Fine.

Charles pinched the bridge of his nose, then pressed further, unwilling to give up. "That investigation team—where are they operating? Where do they stay at night? If we can't fight them, at least we can avoid them!"

His mind had already been working on a plan ever since Andny mentioned slum dwellers selling their properties at rock-bottom prices. A golden opportunity to buy land and turn a profit.

Now, learning that they were investigating him, half that plan crumbled instantly—at the very least, he couldn't personally go near the slums anymore—but he refused to let go of this rare chance without a fight.

"I—I'm sorry, Master. I don't know." Andny's voice dropped. "When they split up to investigate, I could risk sending mosquitos to eavesdrop. But when they regroup, it's too easy to get caught."

After a pause, she quickly added, "But if Master wants to go to the slums, I can help you avoid their eyes! That much, I can do!"

She tried to sound useful, but sadly, her suggestion did little for his long-term plans.

Charles stifled a groan, then softened his tone. "Not your fault. Worst case, we play it safe—hole up in the monastery for another month…"

But the more he spoke, the more frustration burned in his chest. If they delayed any longer, Sophia's situation would spiral out of control.

Finally, he clenched his jaw and turned to Hattie. "Hattie. Listen. Tonight, you're going to find Alan, the owner of the Foggy Fisherman Tavern. And you'll ask him this…"

Enough waiting. He'd take the fight to them—and turn the tables his way!

...

That night, inside the Foggy Fisherman Tavern.

A few homeless men sprawled across the tables, dead drunk, muttering their sorrows and slurred nonsense. The stench of sweat, fish, ale, and the sickly-sweet reek of vomit blended together, forming the tavern's rightful nightly aroma.

Alan, the tavern's owner, sat behind the counter, squinting under the dim candlelight as he tallied the number of guests staying overnight. A quiet sigh escaped him, a flicker of irritation rising in his chest.

Damn those Xanathar's Guild bastards and those Amazonian lunatics—look what they've done to the slums!

And now, the ones sent by Blackstaff Tower, prowling the streets, dragging people in for questioning… They've turned everything upside down. Folks are fleeing the South Harbor District. Even the nightly drinkers are thinning out…

Alan held no love for Liberl Port's officials. Once a navy man, he'd served the port with distinction—only to retire wounded with a pittance of compensation, barely enough to scrape by.

Worse, his business now included… less-than-legal dealings. Naturally, he kept his distance from authority.

But it wasn't just him. Most in the South Harbor slums shared his disdain.

Even knowing this investigation team was here for the bloodshed, the monsters, the cult—that their work would shape their futures—the people bristled at their arrogance, at old grudges left to fester. Cooperation was nowhere to be found.

No wonder, after all this time, the investigation was crawling at a snail's pace.

Ah, well. Not like I can chase them off myself. Just have to wait it out.

With another sigh, Alan pushed himself up, weariness weighing on his bones. Time to head to the privy in the back, then up to bed.

But the moment he stepped outside—

Under the cold moonlight, a tall, curvaceous nun stood by the outhouse door, as if she'd been waiting for him.

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