In the end, Nidalee joined Anno and Willo for bathing, while Charles, Hattie, and Theresa pulled out folded tents from the Bag of Holding and distributed them to Danche and the others, setting up camp.
As they hadn’t lacked money, they’d been extravagant with their tent selection, purchasing a diverse assortment—varied in size, brand, even a few spares—just for the experience of trying different types. Now, if everyone squeezed into the larger tents, it was enough for all nine of them.
Pitching the tents was quick, or perhaps it was just that the three ladies took their time bathing—likely washing their clothes as well, then using Create Water/Destroy Water to dry them directly.
This spell not only conjures water, but can also make it disappear as if it never existed, thoroughly ignoring the laws of conservation of matter.
But magic—that’s its wonder.
At last, just as they finished pitching the tents and had waited a good while, the bathing trio finally returned.
Leading the way was Anno. The confident paladin strode ahead on long legs, taking the lead among the three. She’d removed her heavy magic plate armor, stored it in her Bag of Holding, and now wore only a light gray fitted cloth tunic and trousers that hugged her ample chest and rounded hips, her curves leaving nothing to the imagination.
Her golden hair tumbled freely over her shoulders, already dry, but giving her a serene, maidenly beauty. Her face, still a bit youthful like Charles’s, paired with her stunning figure, formed an arresting charisma that made Charles unable to look away.
Behind her, Nidalee was privately gritting her teeth. Her own figure was decent and, being a bit older, she ought to outshine Anno. Yet next to Anno—who had enjoyed excellent nutrition since childhood—she felt she rather fell short.
As she walked, she made a conscious effort to puff out her chest, trying to look fuller, but it made little difference—the moment she compared herself to Anno, she fell behind.
Following them was Matriarch Willo, the satyr. In truth, as a mother, her body lines were the most exaggerated among the three. Despite her petite stature, the curve of her chest rivaled even Theresa’s.
Of course, Theresa wore the somber habit of a nun, while Willo’s only garment was a robe woven of dry leaves, worn without any undergarments—amplifying her allure even more.
Willo, well aware of her current state, made sure to hunch her shoulders and slouch, trying to diminish her figure and avoid the men’s aggressive gazes.
Glancing toward Danche, she saw that the young half-orc prudently kept his eyes down, not sneaking looks at anyone. The other men were equally behaved—the shaman well past such urges, and the male satyr she brought conducted himself with perfect decorum.
With that, Willo relaxed: at least, even the Chimera tribes maintained some manners.
Then she glanced at Charles and found him was focused on Anno, not glancing her way. This made her privately doubt herself: Am I really getting old? Do I have no charisma left? Nᴇw ɴovel chaptᴇrs are published on 𝕟𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕝⁂𝕗𝕚𝕣𝕖⁂𝕟𝕖𝕥
Can my figure no longer capture the attention of an easily excitable young human?
So she straightened, squared her shoulders, and let her full bosom rise, pushing the limits of her robe—so much so, the mage’s robe’s collar showed two tiny, raised points through the fabric.
And sure enough, Charles’s eyes shifted momentarily toward her before quickly looking away, awkwardly gazing into the distance as if nothing had happened.
Though the glance was brief, Willo caught it. Realizing what a bold gesture it had been, the satyr matriarch blushed, her milky skin flushing pink.
But together with her shyness came relief—she could be sure she hadn’t lost her allure after all.
Anno, oblivious to the little contest behind her, walked straight to Hattie, handed her the everflowing water bottle, and sat down quite naturally to Charles’s right, initiating conversation.
She looked up to see Nidalee deliberately plop down on Charles’s left. Instantly, Anno’s face went a little cold, but she carried on chatting as if nothing was amiss.
Nidalee, struggling not to laugh, nonchalantly wrapped herself around Charles’s arm, pressing her chest against him and occasionally conjuring Goodberries to feed him—deeply playing the part of an affectionate lover, utterly unconcerned by the murderous look in Anno’s eyes.
And sandwiched between them, Charles felt truly tormented. One hand, he pinched Nidalee’s backside, signaling her to find an excuse to move away. This only made her all the more gleeful; in fact, she was getting bolder. With his other hand, he gently stroked Anno’s hand, trying to soothe her mood—yet it had no effect whatsoever. Charles could literally hear her grinding her teeth.
He finally shot a pleading look toward Hattie and Theresa, only to see them slipping off, arm in arm, toward the cavern to ’bathe’. Of course, witches don’t sweat, so they didn’t need to wash, but they had to keep up appearances.
All he could do was pray for their quick return, to save him from this Acheron-like torment. But whether they were watching the chaos for fun or out of obliviousness, it took forever before they came back, hair still damp, wearing apologetic smiles. "Sorry, we took so long. Um, Priest, would you like to bathe with us?"
Charles scrambled away from the girls, snatching the everflowing water bottle from Hattie. "Danche, let’s go—let’s make this quick and go as a group."
The half-orc made no objection, joining Charles, the shaman, and the male satyr. The four of them headed into the deepest part of the cavern and stopped only at the far wall.
Danche faced Charles, lifted his chin, and abruptly stripped off his animal hide armor, revealing dark brown skin and two enormous slab-like pectorals.
He grinned wide, showing short tusks, and stared Charles down as if mocking his slender build.
But when Charles pulled off his own shirt, what showed was not a weak body but sharply cut pecs, an eight-pack, biceps and triceps with clean lines—like a marble sculpture by a great artist.
Danche’s cocky expression faltered. Noticing the look, Charles turned, smiled, and asked, "What’s wrong, Mr. Danche?"
"You..." Danche stammered, "I didn’t expect you to be so well-built, Mr. Charles."
Charles glanced down at his own body and muscle, and felt a little sheepish recalling their true origin. "Yeah, I put in a lot of hard work and training to get this shape."
Danche couldn’t help but admire him, and beside them, the shaman removed his garments as well. Though aged, his body still held a remarkable build, showing that he too, in his youth, had been a powerful warrior.
Hearing their exchange, the old man looked up and chuckled. "Danche, don’t underestimate Mr. Charles. The day you fell unconscious, it was he who fearlessly leapt on the Chthonian to land the final blow."
"He was severely burned head to toe for it, even losing a good bit of hair and eyebrows. Thanks only to relentless healing from our mages did he survive."
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