Deep within the slums of South Harbor District, amidst a cluster of abandoned construction sites.
This place was once a grand Timber Yard under the Empire of Sein. Since its withdrawal, the area gradually fell into disuse, eventually becoming a haven for lawless elements.
Today, a group of figures in filthy gray cloaks—each embroidered with black-threaded brain sigils—gathered here. They stretched their arms toward a derelict building, chanting in unison:
"Ah—O Great Master! After six long months, You have finally forgiven Your unworthy servants! You grant us this chance to atone!"
As one, they dropped to their knees, pressing their foreheads hard against the dirt. Some struck the ground with such force that blood seeped from their brows, mixing with the soil—yet none seemed to notice.
Beyond the cracked window of the building they worshipped, a monstrous shape loomed: a massive, pulsating brain, its base writhing with grotesque pedipalps. It twisted restlessly, radiating agitation.
Fragments of knowledge swirled in its awareness—yet it remembered nothing of itself.
The humans outside... they called it "Master."
Ah. So I am their Master. Their faith.
Then I shall lead them... to claim more souls.
In the scriptorium of the monastery, Charles sat upright in his chair, eyes closed, his back rigid as a blade.
Behind him, the slightly petite Ruth raised her arms, middle fingers pressed against his temples, her own eyes shut as she channeled steady streams of magic power into his mind.
Nearly a week had passed since the Night of the Witches, and in that time, Charles and Ruth had engaged in deep, meticulous discussion.
Then, he became conscious of something even Ruth herself might not have known—she possessed an Eldritch Invocation.
Its name: Eldritch Mind.
In short, it was a magical technique to train one’s willpower, forging a protective layer around the soul to resist mental domination and shield against the disruption of certain sustained spells.
It was precisely because Ruth unknowingly wielded this power that, on the Night of the Witches, she had managed to retain some semblance of reason even after willingly surrendering to madness—and then being purified a third time by Charles—before turning to flee.
Due to its resistance against mind-altering spells, Eldritch Mind was an essential ability for warlocks in their mid-to-late stages. However, its priority was far lower than, say, the damage-boosting Agonizing Blast.
Still, it was better than nothing. As for whether Sophia knew the training methods for Agonizing Blast—that remained uncertain.
Thus, adhering to the principle of "a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush," Charles drafted a new, albeit crude, pact with Ruth. Binding her in a magical covenant, he tasked her with guiding him in mastering this Eldritch Invocation.
Hence, the current scene: Ruth focused on the peculiar shape within her own mind, then used her magic to construct a model directly within Charles’s consciousness, allowing him to perceive and learn through sensation.
It was akin to teaching a child born deaf to speak—placing their hands upon the teacher’s throat to feel the vibrations, then imitating. The method was, by nature, woefully inefficient.
But there was no alternative. Ruth had no idea how to instruct others. Many of her abilities were innate; she understood neither their principles nor how to teach a human—whose very essence differed from hers—to replicate them.
Fortunately, though laborious, the process bore fruit under the scriptorium’s amplifying effects. Charles’s mind, honed to razor keenness, made steady progress.
Gradually, Ruth exhaled, her magic wavering. Without delay, she withdrew her power, careful not to harm her Master.
Helping Charles find that "feeling" required extremely precise control over her magic power, which was also a tremendous consumption of energy for her. So before long, she was completely drained.
Sensing her exhaustion, Charles slowly opened his eyes, then stood and pulled her into an embrace. "You’ve worked hard."
Ruth nestled against his chest, breathing lightly, and whispered, "How does Master feel today?"
Charles chuckled softly. "I feel good. At this rate... well, if all goes smoothly, another week should be enough for me to master this."
"Ruth, you’ve been a tremendous help."
Hearing this, even Ruth—whose expression was usually as cold and unreadable as still water—couldn’t stop the corners of her mouth from curling into an angelic smile.
After pressing a light kiss to her lips, Charles released her and said, "Go rest. I’ll head to the kitchen to make dinner."
Then, arm in arm, the two stepped out of the scriptorium. Charles went straight to the kitchen, while Ruth returned to her dorm to rest.
Yet she had barely taken two steps when a mean female voice, dripping with mocking, sneered at her: "Oh, you’ve done a fine thing, Ruth!"
Ruth turned to see a nun roughly Hattie’s height, her face twisted in a jeering smirk, staring at her with ill intent.
Her pink long hair was mostly hidden beneath her wimple, save for a few stray locks. Her small mouth was cherry-like, with thin lips that curled ever so slightly at the corners—a smile that held no warmth, only a perpetual, razor-edged mockery etched onto her delicate features.
Her pupils were those of a viper: golden irises split by thin, ink-black vertical slits, gleaming with venomous malice.
Though she, too, wore a black nun’s habit, the fabric clung far more thinly to her frame. And though her chest and hips lacked Hattie’s fullness, the curves of her body were still accentuated, stoking the hunger of any who dared look.
But the most striking thing was her waist—slender and sinuous as a water snake. With her hands clasped in prayer and her body slightly tilted forward, every step sent her narrow waist and the teasing curve of her hips swaying like a willow in the wind, hypnotic enough to dizzy the senses.
Here stood a woman as dazzling and deadly as a viper, her beauty a mask for a cruelty even witches would flinch from.
This is a woman as colorful and charming as a Viper, and similarly, hidden under her delicate face is a viciousness that even witches can sense: "You must be really full after killing more than two hundred people. Let me see, is your belly swollen like a watermelon like a female knight who was gang-raped by an orc?"
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