Charles slowly opened his eyes, his gaze immediately meeting the clinic’s ceiling and the massive chandelier above. The unfamiliar sight confused him—he had never seen this place before.
He tried to move his hand, but his entire body was paralyzed, completely immobile. With great effort, he shifted his eyes slightly and saw Sephera, her face streaked with tears, pressing her lips against his in a deep kiss.
Ah, right. I was purifying Sephera... then got poisoned. Before losing consciousness, I told the witches to take me to Andny’s room...
Wait, no. This place wasn’t a room anymore—it was now a "clinic."
He silently chanted the word in his mind. A wave of overwhelming exhaustion washed over him, and he closed his eyes again, sinking back into deep slumber.
But his command had been issued. The clinic obeyed, smoothly activating its functions.
A small panel on the back cabinet slid open, and a disc with two large needles emerged, hovering over Charles’ chest. The device extended two probes, spraying medical alcohol onto his arms to sterilize them.
Ruth quickly tapped Sephera’s shoulder. "That’s enough—stop now!"
Sephera didn’t hesitate. She broke the kiss, attempting to stand, only for her legs to buckle beneath her.
Ruth moved swiftly, catching her by the waist and guiding her to a nearby chair. "Are you alright?" she asked, concern lacing her voice.
"I’ll... manage," Sephera whispered, her face and lips deathly pale. Yet as she watched the medical equipment spring to life, she managed a weak smile. "I’ll need Master and all my sisters to look after me from now on."
Ruth nodded solemnly. "Naturally."
With that promise made, the two witches fell silent, their anxious gazes fixed on the disc as they waited for the detoxification to complete.
They watched as the needles pierced Charles’ veins, drawing dark blood into the device. A soft, purified white glow emanated from the disc before the blood—seemingly unchanged—was slowly returned through his right arm.
Hattie continued casting Cure Wounds relentlessly, draining every last drop of her magic power before weakly handing the spellbook to Ruth. "I can’t... cast anymore. You take over."
Ruth accepted it without protest. Though she was no skilled spellcaster—preferring melee combat—she still possessed a deep mana pool. With the spellbook in hand, casting a few spells posed no difficulty.
She took up the task, channeling every ounce of her mana into spamming Cure Wounds on Charles.
Meanwhile, Hattie wasn’t idle either. She left the room to fetch Ekta and Andny, and soon, all the witches had exhausted their mana reserves. Weak and drained, they slumped around the operating table, restless yet helpless as they awaited the final outcome.
Six agonizing hours later, as the sun dipped below the horizon, the purification finally concluded.
The disc retracted its needles and flew back into its cabinet. And Charles—his eyes fluttering open once more—stared up in confusion.
His consciousness was still hazy, struggling to grasp his current state. But the moment his gaze focused, all five witches forced themselves upright despite their exhaustion, crowding around him.
"Master! How are you feeling?"
"Can you move? Does anything hurt?"
"Are you dizzy? Do you need food?"
They bombarded him with questions, one after another, pelting him until his head spun. Finally, he raised a hand, his voice hoarse as he commanded, "Stop—all of you!"
Immediately, the five witches fell silent. Charles took a deep gasp, steadying himself as his consciousness sharpened. He carefully pieced together what had happened—and then, a wave of dread crashed over him.
Too close. That was far too close.
But at least now, he’d been saved. The crisis was over.
"What time is it?" he asked. "How long was I out? Did anything else happen?"
"The sun just set. You were unconscious for about six hours," Hattie answered quickly, her voice trembling, tears glistening in her eyes.
She wiped her cheeks with her sleeve before forcing a smile. "Nothing else happened at the monastery. Everything went smoothly."
The other witches nodded eagerly, their emotions plain. Even Ruth, usually so stoic, had reddened eyes, as if she might burst into tears at any moment.
Hearing this, Charles relaxed.
Good. I thought I might’ve been out for days... Six hours? That’s nothing.
"Help me up," he said. Hattie and Ruth, the most senior of the witches, immediately stepped forward, supporting him as he slowly sat up on the operating table.
He stretched slightly, testing his condition, then declared, "I’m fine. Everything seems normal—just a bit hungry."
Hattie’s eyes lit up. "That’s wonderful! I’ll prepare a meal for you at once!"
"No need!" he cut in. "Just take me to the kitchen. I’ll cook for myself."
Hattie didn’t argue. So, with exaggerated care, the witches guided him as if he were made of glass—even though he was clearly recovered.
The short distance to the kitchen felt endless. But eventually, they made it without incident. Once inside, he ordered a proper feast.
He’d missed lunch entirely—spending the morning purifying witches, only to collapse from Sephera’s poison by noon. All told, he hadn’t eaten in nearly eleven hours.
He summoned the system, issuing a command. Instantly, pots, pans, and utensils sprang to life, preparing ingredients with practiced efficiency.
Still, even the most skilled kitchenware needed time. As the meal cooked, Charles sat back to wait—while the five witches stood rigidly around him like a set of particularly attentive fence posts.
With a sigh, he chuckled dryly, "Really, I’m fine. Go do something useful."
Then, glancing up at the Insects Witch, he added, "That means you, Andny. Stop standing around and go gather intel!"
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