To the east of the monastery lay the only relatively tidy neighborhood in the entire South Harbor District. The buildings on either side were mostly two or even three stories tall, with small shops on the ground floor and living spaces above. While far from wealthy, the residents here were at least modestly well-off.
The wide central road was paved with weathered stone bricks, cracked and worn in many places but free of mud, allowing carts and wagons to pass without issue.
Along the edges of the street ran a row of drainage gutters—crude by modern standards, but enough to keep the streets reasonably clean.
At every intersection stood a City Guard in a chainmail vest, armed with a shield and a short spear.
They were little more than ordinary folk with some basic training and decent strength, nowhere near the skill of true warriors. Against any real threat, they’d be of little use. Still, they were enough to maintain order on these streets.
These two roads were the pride of the South Harbor District, largely because the district’s Government Affairs Hall stood at the far end. But anyone who thought this meant the entire district was well-kept would be sorely mistaken.
To the west of the monastery sprawled the slums—filthy, crumbling, and reeking of rot.
Shoddy shacks, built from whatever scrap wood was available, leaned unevenly against one another, their connecting beams visibly rotting.
By any standard, these were death traps. The next storm or typhoon could easily flatten entire rows, burying countless poor souls beneath the wreckage.
The central path was a cesspool of mud, vomit, and waste. Piles of garbage lined the edges, where a mangy, skeletal stray dog pawed through its breakfast.
The clean heart of the district and the squalor of the slums stood side by side, separated only by the monastery to the east and west. It was as if Charles’s domain were a dividing line—between wealth and poverty, progress and decay, filth and order—splitting the South Harbor District into two worlds.
But he knew the monastery wasn’t responsible. It merely stood—by chance, or perhaps the witches’ design—on that boundary. The true culprits were Liberl Port’s broken systems and the corrupt middlemen who infested it.
Still, these were problems far beyond his power to fix. As wretched as the slums were, he had no choice but to venture in if he wanted to survive.
He shifted his arm, gently freeing himself from Hattie’s grasp, and murmured, "Not here. We shouldn’t be seen."
Hattie quickly realized her mistake. After a pause, she added, "I’ll see what I can do. Once the Night of the Witches passes, perhaps I can secure you a Priest’s identity."
Charles smiled and nodded. "Good. I appreciate it."
After a beat, he continued, "Go on with your duties. I’ll scout the slums alone."
Hattie’s face paled. "Absolutely not! Master, the slums are dangerous—brigands, wild dogs, even cultists lurk there. For someone like you—"
Charles kept his tone light but firm. "Relax. I’m a spellcaster now. If nothing else, I can handle myself."
His confidence wasn’t just in his spells. It was in his knowledge of the South Harbor District slums—a map he knew all too well.
This zone bordered the monastery, meaning it was absolute beginner terrain. The enemies here—whether slum thugs, stray dogs, or cultists—were essentially low-level fodder.
In-game, even a completely unskilled new player could easily clear the area with a fresh Level 1 character, so long as they avoided the gang strongholds.
And Charles? Sure, his total attributes were a bit low, but his primary Charisma was outrageously high, and he had double the usual Warlock spell slots to burn.
On top of that, he carried five spellbooks, each granting one free cast. If he swapped them quickly enough, he could unleash five extra 1st-level spells in a single fight!
With that kind of combat strength, the only real danger was running into one of the zone’s rare bosses on patrol. Otherwise? No threat at all.
So without hesitation, he firmly pushed Hattie back and said, "I know I’m not as strong as you, but in these slums? I can handle myself."
"I won’t slow you down. Go prepare what you need for the Night of the Witches. And..."
He paused, thinking. "Meet me at the Foggy Fisherman Tavern when you’re done. I’ll wait there."
His last unexpected encounter with Ruth had left a psychological shadow. Now, he dared not return to the monastery alone.
He’d only go back with Hattie by his side.
At this, Hattie smiled softly and nodded. "Mm!"
Her eyes darted around—no witnesses in sight—so she pressed a quick kiss to his lips before turning to leave.
Charles, meanwhile, stepped into the slums.
A faint, sour stench, barely diluted by the wind, crept into his nostrils. It made him nauseous—yet also stirred an odd, almost nostalgic familiarity.
Ah. Leftover memories from the original owner?
Just like how his body had trembled in terror upon first seeing Hattie, now this filthy slum felt... like home.
Heh. What a strange, unwanted experience.
Shaking his head, he pressed on. Within moments, drunken shouts spilled from a nearby alley:
"Pointless... It’s all pointless..."
"We’re just cards on a table... Our fates? Rolled by dice..."
Charles glanced over. A group of young people—dressed in grimy gray shirts, their sickly pale skin stretched over visible ribs—slouched against the wall, puffing on leaf and slurring nonsense.