Witch Monastery

Afternoon.

Sephera returned from outside the monastery. As she predicted, last night's tragedy had spread through the slums like wildfire. Panic now gripped the residents, and even those who previously thought nothing of it now considered fleeing.

Under these circumstances—combined with the nuns' favorable reputation and generous offers—negotiating deals with the locals proved effortless.

At this rate, she estimated acquiring ten thousand square meters within a week.

Pleased with her progress, she headed toward the scriptorium to report to Charles.

Yet as she crossed the garden path and pushed open the door, a thick, musky scent assaulted her senses, freezing her in place.

What in the—?

Her eyes adjusted to reveal Sophia slumped over the desk, barely conscious, the chair beneath her bearing unmistakable traces of... fluids.

Sephera's mind buzzed—then went blank.

They... did it here?!

When?

Right after we left?

Damn it! Hattie called it!

She gritted her teeth, then shuddered with relief.

Thank the gods we were gone. If Hattie had witnessed this, her smugness would've been unbearable!

Wait—our bet wasn't about the location. Hattie wagered on the position!

There's still a chance to win!

Stepping forward, she cooed, "Sophia... still with us?"

Sophia lifted her head, face flushed, eyes glazed. "Ah... S-Sephera?"

Old habits surfaced. Sophia jolted upright, hastily straightening her robes before the Toxic Witch, her expression uneasy. "Y-You're back. Did you... need something?"

Sephera's smile turned saccharine. For once, her venomous tongue dripped honey: "Oh, nothing urgent. I simply worried about dear Sister Sophia's wellbeing. How are you feeling? Has your memory and magic recovered? Shall I fetch anything to help you... recuperate?"

Each "Sister" laced with syrupy faux-concern made Sophia's skin crawl.

Despite being the eldest witch, Sophia had never received Sephera's respect. Any mistake invited ruthless mockery—always justified, always humiliating.

But this? This bizarre kindness? Unprecedented.

What game was the Toxic Witch playing now?

This sudden shift made Sophia deeply uncomfortable. Cutting through the pleasantries, she demanded: "What do you want? Speak quickly - I have other matters to attend."

Sephera's smile froze, realizing her performance had been too exaggerated. Unfazed, she rubbed her hands together eagerly: "Nothing major really... just a question I'm curious about..."

A sense of foreboding crept into Sophia's heart as she watched Sephera blink, her own face flushing: "When you and Master... um... had your first time just now... what... what position was it?"

Clearly, it took tremendous effort for her to spit out the question.

Sophia stared blankly for two seconds before her face turned crimson. Awkward enough to dig her toes into the floor, her brain raced before she exploded in fury: "Sephera! How presumptuous of you!"

"As holy nuns—pure and unsullied beings—how dare you ask such invasive questions! Is this how the Vice-Abbess of the Monastery behaves? I misjudged you terribly!"

After this righteous tirade, Sophia spun on her heel and fled the scriptorium in feigned outrage. Sephera gaped after the retreating figure, muttering, "Why so shy? Acting like some blushing virgin..."

Sophia didn't stop running until she'd put considerable distance between them. Leaning against the monastery wall, she panted heavily.

Safe at last. That humiliating question—completely unanswerable!

Since when had Sephera, once so proper, become this depraved? To ask something so... so...

Her internal scolding was interrupted by a voice: "Sophia? Are you alright?"

Ruth.

Sophia hastily straightened, smoothing her robes. "Ah! I'm fine. Perfectly well."

Ruth studied her skeptically, nose twitching—then her expression twisted at some peculiar scent.

Sophia's discomfort intensified. "A-Anyway, did you need something, Ruth?"

"Ugh..." The petite witch ducked her head, appearing even smaller. "There's... one thing. I'm not sure if I should ask..."

Her hesitation puzzled Sophia. "What is it?" she coaxed gently, adopting an elder-sister tone. "Between sisters, no question is off-limits."

"Well... um..." Ruth fidgeted, hemming and hawing until Sophia nearly lost patience. Finally, she blurted: "What position did you and Master use... the first time?"

Sophia's jaw dropped. "Ruth! You too—?"

By the gods! What was happening to the sisters in this monastery?!

One month later.

What was once Sophia's private chamber had been transformed by Charles into a new construction - the "Training Grounds." The space now resembled a compact gymnasium, complete with mechanical treadmills, heavy barbells and dumbbells, and adjustable benches. At first glance, it appeared nearly identical to a modern fitness facility.

Yet the opposite side told a different story - simple archery targets stood ready, while walls displayed longbows of varying draw weights. Below them rested racks of blunted weapons: longswords, rapiers, greatswords and more, making clear this space served both physical conditioning and combat training.

At the Training Grounds' center stood Charles, bare-chested with weighted straps simulating armor's burden. His right hand gripped a metal longsword while his left arm bore a round shield. Following Sophia's teachings, he channeled pure magical energy - bypassing his "Pact of the Blade" abilities - to control both weapons' movements without engaging his muscles.

This was the Hexblade's training method. Mastery would grant him this coveted Improved Class.

A full month of dedicated practice had passed. Without a powerful Shadowfell patron bestowing knowledge directly, progress relied entirely on the Training Grounds' enhancements and his own disciplined repetition.

Yet Charles remained patient. With all six monastery witches properly tamed and Theresa's rare visits, this was now his undisputed domain. He could train, study, and develop at his own measured pace.

Above, ventilation fans hummed softly, maintaining fresh airflow. Afternoon sunlight illuminated his once-gaunt frame, now showing defined musculature after weeks of rigorous conditioning.

The month's training had wrought visible changes. Simply wearing weighted gear during daily sessions had improved his Constitution and cardiopulmonary function far beyond scriptorium study's benefits.

Beads of sweat traced down his temples. His white hair clung in damp strands while his back glistened with perspiration.

After two uninterrupted hours of drills, physical exhaustion warred with mental exhilaration. His soul burned with supernatural awareness, perfectly channeling magic to replace physical effort - guiding the longsword's motions through will alone.

Whoosh-!

The blade flashed through the air in a razor-sharp arc before twisting into an elegant flourish.

Throughout the motion, not a single muscle activated - yet the heavy metal longsword moved as fluidly as his own fingertips, obeying his every thought!

Success!

Charles sheathed the weapon, opening his eyes as he panted lightly, heart swelling with triumph.

He opened his System interface - just as expected, a new trait awaited:

Hex Warrior: You can channel your will through bonded weapons. When wielding non-heavy melee weapons, you may use your spellcasting ability instead of physical strength to control their movements. This effect extends to all Pact Weapons if you later select the Pact of the Blade, removing weapon type restrictions.

In gaming terms, this meant substituting Spellcasting Ability for Strength in all melee weapon checks - from wielding specialized arms to winning clashes and calculating damage.

And Charles' Spellcasting Ability - his Charisma - stood at a staggering twenty points, placing him among the mortal world's elite!

This meant he could now wield any mundane weapon with effortless mastery.

Brimming with delight, he removed his shield and retrieved a two-meter-long greatsword weighing over six kilograms from the wall. Binding it through his Pact of the Blade, he began practicing swings.

Such weight normally rendered greatswords impractical - even two-hundred-pound brutes struggled to wield them effectively. Yet channeling magical energy, the massive blade moved as lightly as a training stick, cutting through air with audible whooshes.

After several fluid motions, he returned the weapon, noting neither stamina nor magic depletion - as effortless as moving his own fingers. Satisfaction warmed his features.

From today, he could truly call himself a competent melee combatant...

Well, perhaps not quite. His Constitution still fell below adventurer averages.

Checking his attributes panel confirmed this:

Host: Charles

Gender: Male

Race: Human Subspecies (Silver Kin)

Age: 15

Height: 1.71m

Weight: 60kg

Strength: 8

Agility: 9

Constitution: 10

Intelligence: 13

Perception: 12

Charisma: 20

Class: Hexblade Level 4

Supernatural Gift: Toxin Immunity

Class Abilities: Pact Magic, Hex Warrior, Hexblade's Curse, Eldritch Invocations, Pact of the Blade

Remaining Spell Slots: 17/17

Highest Spell Slot Level: 2nd

Eldritch Invocations: Eyes of the Rune Keeper, Eldritch Mind

Feats: Extended Spell

Spells:

Cantrips: Blade Ward, Eldritch Blast, Light, Shocking Grasp

1st-level: Create/Destroy Water, Mage Armor, Shield, Absorb Elements, False Life, Sleep

2nd-level: Gust of Wind

Remaining Purification Points: 4729

A month's rigorous training had boosted his Constitution by one point alongside noticeable physical growth. Yet he barely reached normal human standards - far from exceptional melee combatants.

Take Kendrz - built like a wild boar, that man had tanked five Eldritch Blasts through poison clouds without slowing down. His Constitution surely exceeded sixteen, perhaps higher!

Charles sighed. His previous world's saying "the poor study letters while the rich practice martial arts" held twisted truth here. While true wealth pursued magic, martial training demanded massive nutritional investments.

That Kendrz developed such physique in the slums' malnutrition spoke volumes about his exceptional talent - a veritable prodigy among warriors.

Yet this genius died achieving nothing, wasting his gifts brawling with gutter gangsters over scraps...

Gazing beyond the monastery walls toward the slums, Charles wondered - how many other exceptional talents languished in South Harbor District, their potential buried by this unjust world?