Instantly, the tavern’s owner Alan snapped to full alertness. His previous drowsiness vanished as his nerves tightened. He took half a step back, regarding her like a cornered beast: "You’re... Sister Hattie?"
The standing nun was none other than Hattie herself.
Hearing his voice, Hattie lifted her exquisite face slightly, her frosty eyes settling on Alan. Then, her crimson lips parted: "Mr. Alan. Long time no see. How have you been?"
A bead of cold sweat trailed down Alan’s temple. "Well enough, uh... my lord, what brings you here so late at night—?"
"Nothing urgent," Hattie murmured. "I merely heard Mr. Alan is... well-informed. I wished to inquire about certain matters." Her voice softened further. "Rumors say the investigation team from Blackstaff Tower is tracking traces of a certain Mr. Nigel Charles. Might you know why?"
Alan’s pupils shrank to pinpricks.
Damn it. Does she think I leaked Charles’s appearance during the Twin Moons Night to investigation team?!
Though Alan hadn’t stepped outside during the Night of the Witches, his own web of reliable informants ensured he knew everything: Charles’s clash with Xanathar’s Guild in the slums, how he’d lured away that monstrous abomination—all filed silently in his mind, never spoken aloud.
Stay calm, Alan. Think. If she’s here for accountability, she must want something. Killing you gains her nothing.
Her question implied she didn’t want Blackstaff’s team fixated on Charles...
"Ah..." He opened his mouth slightly and revealed an awkward smile. He felt his throat dry and itchy, and every word he squeezed out was so difficult. "It was the people from Xanathar’s Guild who were talking nonsense. They are used to throwing dirty water on people who have had conflicts with them, and then those young people in Blackstaff Tower believed it..."
Hattie gave a slight nod, as if confirming expectations. "So that’s it. What an unfortunate misunderstanding."
A pause. Then: "Mr. Alan, as an eyewitness to that conflict... might you help clarify this misunderstanding?"
Her tone remained gentle, the threat beneath crystalline. "The monastery and your tavern are neighbors. Shouldn’t neighbors... support each other? Don’t you agree?"
Alan’s palm grew slick. She knew he recognized their terrifying strength—and his helplessness.
Defeated, he nodded. "Understood."
Hattie smiled. "Then, on Charles’s behalf... thank you, Mr. Alan."
She turned, stepped toward the tavern’s rear wall—and phased straight through it, vanishing.
Alan exhaled, only then noticing his drenched back.
Only then did Alan exhale, realizing his back was drenched in cold sweat.
Abandoning any thought of relieving himself, he turned and limped back into the tavern. His gaze swept over the remaining patrons before he grabbed a plate of beef jerky and a tankard of ale, sauntering over to a table of still-sober drinkers with an air of casual boredom. "Troubled times lately," he remarked, sliding the offerings forward. "These are on me."
The men at the table brightened instantly. Alan followed up with a theatrical sigh. "Ah, but Blackstaff Tower’s lot grows more pitiful by the day. A few whispers from Xanathar’s Guild, and they’re scurrying about like headless chickens—ignoring actual cultists to chase after some white-haired young mage!"
He shook his head ruefully. "Mark my words, they’ll let themselves be wielded like blunt weapons, harassing every enemy Xanathar’s Guild ever had. By the time they slink off like whipped curs, they’ll have pissed off half the city!"
The table erupted in laughter. "And isn’t that what we want to see?" one crowed. "Serve those high-nosed investigators right! Let ’em learn the ’rabble’ they sneer at aren’t so easily kicked around!"
"Aye!" another spat. "That bitch leading them—yapping about ’city stability’ and ’public safety.’ Damn it, if she spent half that breath fixing the sewers, fewer’d die of filth than in gang wars!"
"Exactly! All talk, no action!" a third slurred. "Bet that white-haired brat’s some noble’s spoiled whelp. Let the highborn tear each other apart—that’s a show worth watching!"
Amid the drunkards’ jeers and curses, Alan laughed along—but his eyes glinted, already plotting to replay this same performance tomorrow...
In the monastery dormitory, Charles lay with his arms around Ruth and Sephera—both disheveled, bare-skinned, and curled beneath the blankets in exhausted slumber—while studying his system interface, quietly mapping out future plans.
Advancing from third to fourth level required 1,800 Purification Points. He’d already stockpiled enough. Yet for now, Charles had no intention of leveling up again.
First, his progression was already alarmingly swift. In under a month, he’d gone from a classless mortal to a formidable 3rd-level spellcaster mastering 2nd-level spells. By this world’s standards, such speed rivaled legendary prodigies.
Consider this: At Strixhaven University, one of the graduation requirements was simply attaining 1st-level mage status and the ability to reliably cast four 1st-level spells.
Yet even so, many students needed two extra years, and some never graduated at all!
So despite his late start, Charles outpaced contemporaries by a ludicrous margin.
But the true reason for hesitation was weightier: At fourth level, he’d gain his class’s first attribute enhancement or feat selection. And he still hadn’t decided.
Would he even get a choice? Would it function like a Pact Boon’s customization, or would the system arbitrarily assign something?
With no urgent need for greater strength yet, he’d tabled the matter.
Yet hoarding unused Purification Points was wasteful. Thus, his current study focused on upgrading the entire monastery to tier two.
How to secure funds... How to purchase adjacent land cheaply...
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