Several more days passed. The other two witches—Flame Witch Ekta and Insects Witch Andny—returned to the monastery.
Now, aside from Theresa, who rarely returned, only Sophia remained absent.
Yet the witches could wait no longer. Who knew how long it would take for Sophia, afflicted by memory losses, to find her way back? The window for the alms gruel was fleeting, so the two newly returned witches were promptly put to work by Hattie.
As preparations unfolded, word spread. That day, the poor arrived with their families, lined up in front of the Offering Porridge Room in the new construct.
Clad in heavy nun’s habits, their bodies fully concealed, the witches wore solemn yet compassionate expressions. They ladled steaming bowls of barley porridge from the great cauldrons, handing them to the needy while softly urging patience: "Mind the heat. There’s plenty to go around—no need to rush. Everyone will be fed."
The gruel was flecked with bits of salted fish and diced radish, lending it an odd flavor—one that deterred those with even meager means from partaking in the charity.
Yet despite its peculiar taste, it was wholesome and nourishing. Those truly threatened by hunger accepted it gratefully, draining their bowls in earnest.
This, too, was a small wisdom the witches had gleaned from years of almsgiving: a way to sift out the opportunistic middling folk and filter for the genuinely poor and vulnerable.
All to ensure their hunts proceeded without complications.
As the sun dipped southward, the noonday rays—though autumn neared—still bore a harsh sting. The nuns, already swathed in thick garments, toiled beside the seething pots, their brows glistening with sweat.
To those who had come for gruel, the sight stirred something deeper. A quiet awe. Some, whose faith in their old beliefs had wavered, found themselves forsaking their deities in silence, turning instead to the Goddess of Life...
With all the nuns occupied outside during the almsgiving, the monastery stood hollow, its halls empty.
And so Charles hid in the kitchen. Officially, he was there under Hattie’s command, tasked with aiding the cooks. In truth, a mere flick of the System spared him the labor—completing the cooking in an instant.
Thus, he found himself with ample time to wander the monastery unchained.
And wander he did. Pressed against a wall, he eavesdropped on the murmurs of the poor who had received their gruel—proving the old adage: "Walls have ears."
"That investigation team from Mithral Hall’s been the death of us these past days. Questioning everyone they meet, eyeing folk like they’re all cultists. Gods, why can’t they just haunt some timber yard and do real work?"
"Mark my words—this ain’t about cultists. It’s about scapegoats! Hundreds dead in a single night, and they’re too scared to face Xanathar’s Guild. So instead, they spin tales of monsters, devils, cultists—bah!"
"This place is cursed. I’m leaving. Every dawn, I step outside and swear some severed head’s glaring from across the street. At night, I hear weeping at my doorway in my dreams!"
"You’d flee now? They’ll brand you a cultist on the run! Wait till they’re gone—we’ll all leave together."
The murmurs of discussion rose and fell. For the most part, Charles remained silent, listening quietly as he pieced together the information in his mind, gradually sketching out the current state of the slums.
Then, a sudden cry erupted from beyond the wall: "It’s Theresa! Sister Theresa has returned!"
Instantly, Charles’ pupils contracted mid-eavesdrop.
She actually came back?
Hiss... No helping it. Sooner or later, he’d have to face this.
Fortunately, he’d never held any delusions. He’d long prepared for Theresa’s arrival...
Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to abandon his listening post—resisting the urge to sneak a glimpse of Theresa’s real-world appearance. Based on his experiences with Hattie and Ruth, she likely looked much the same as in the game. Suppressing his curiosity, he retreated to the kitchen and hid.
Meanwhile, outside the monastery’s gates, along the eastern street, a tall, voluptuous figure clad in an opulent nun’s robe—pure white trimmed with gold—approached slowly from the direction of the District Office, her silhouette backlit by the morning sun.
Under the awed and reverent gazes of the crowd, she glided toward the monastery, moving through the throngs of the poor who had come for gruel.
She wore black sheer silk gloves that extended to her upper arms, her hands clasped together in front of her chest, fingers intertwined, her head slightly bowed in a pious prayer. Her flawless, jade-like face bore an expression of compassion, and beneath her pale golden lashes, her aqua-blue pupils brimmed with sorrow.
Draped in a delicate, gold-embroidered white nun’s robe, she walked bathed in sunlight, her aura radiating sanctity. Yet her body was a sinful contrast: the opulent nun’s robe could scarcely conceal her ample, towering bosom—even larger than Hattie’s—and despite her slight forward lean, her silhouette remained voluptuous.
And because of that slight forward tilt, her prayerful posture accentuated the full curve of her hips, the sheer fabric of the nun’s robe outlining them unmistakably. With every step, they trembled visibly, a sight potent enough to ignite the deepest lust in any who beheld them!
Her figure was utterly bewitching, like a perfectly ripened peach—gleaming in hue, lush in contour, exuding an intoxicating scent—without a trace of overripeness or decay. Every inch of her promised unparalleled indulgence.
By all reason, such a sinfully alluring form, displayed before the poorly educated poor, should have tempted at least a few brazen souls to reach out with their filthy, covetous hands.
Yet none dared. As Theresa moved among the impoverished, every man who lifted his gaze to her enchanting body would swiftly lower his head, guilt-ridden and remorseful, chastising himself for such vile, blasphemous desires toward the holy Big Nun Theresa.
This was the magic effect, the innate psychic influence of the Archwitch Theresa. It was why she commanded such reverence among the destitute, revered as the South Harbor District slums’ undisputed "Symbol of Goodness and Beauty."
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