As magical creatures, witches may not master many spells, nor are their spell tiers particularly high—but their mana reserves are often outrageously vast.
This, precisely, is why Hattie couldn’t share many spells with him yet dared to grant him so many spell slots.
Of course, it’s also the root cause of their losing control on the Night of the Witches.
For now, though, Charles didn’t have to worry about the side effects of excessive spell slots.
With their aid, he needed no more than an hour to fully replenish his spell slots and return to peak combat readiness.
And the time that remained would be his moment of greatest strength!
This—was the optimal solution he had devised after weighing all factors.
The dorm brimmed with an almost sacred energy as the ancient ritual of mana recovery unfolded in hushed solemnity...
Anno and her warriors were bound roughly against the wall. Her golden, wavy hair was disheveled, her delicate face smeared with blood. Her big blue eyes burned with humiliation as she bit her crimson lips, silent yet powerless.
Her finely crafted plate armor had been stripped away, leaving only a thin layer of cloth armor beneath the coarse ropes that bound her. The restraints dug into her curves, leaving little to the imagination—especially the deep cleavage forced upward, its fullness unmistakable, enough to stir desire with a single glance.
Born a noble maiden, though still young, she had never lacked for nourishment—meat, eggs, and milk ensured her body developed far beyond the scrawny frames of common-born girls.
Yet hers was not the soft, plump elegance of a pampered lady. Years of training had honed her arms, waist, and calves into taut muscle, radiating raw vitality.
Had it been ordinary bandits, thieves, or gang members who captured such a young and beautiful female knight, they would have long succumbed to their raging lust, torn open her cloth armor, and defiled her untouched, pure body without mercy.
But alas, her captors were none other than a group of deranged cultists. In pursuit of their elusive grand ideal, they had willingly excised a part of their own brains, completing their spiritual self-castration. Thus, they no longer harbored such worldly desires, single-mindedly devoted to their glorious cause.
"Bring forth the next one!"
At the center of the timber yard, a lavishly dressed cultist—the small boss—barked his order. Beside him stood a wooden plank bed, surrounded by an array of knives, while behind him loomed a three-meter-tall wooden statue, carved in the grotesque image of a devil.
The fiend bore jagged tusks and hollow eyes, but the crown of its head was dominated by a massive brain, twice the size of its lower face, etched with intricate, arcane patterns—both eerie and horrifying to behold.
At his command, the remaining cultists dragged forward an unconscious member of the investigation team, forcing him onto the plank bed. Then, the small boss produced a scalpel and drove it straight into the back of the man’s skull!
Agony jolted the man awake, a choked groan escaping his throat as his body convulsed violently, limbs thrashing. Yet the other cultists pinned him down effortlessly, rendering him immobile.
Unfazed, the small boss swiftly pried open his skull, extracting a still-throbbing brain before turning toward the statue. With pious reverence, he placed the organ into a small compartment at its rear.
Blood gushed freely as the warrior, now bereft of his brain, gradually ceased struggling, his breath fading into silence. Meanwhile, the statue’s hollow eyes suddenly blazed with a bright, crimson magical glow.
"As expected, these minds far surpass those of ordinary people!"
"Quick, the next one—bring another!"
The remaining cultists erupted into cheers. These investigators were all at least Level 2 warriors—elite by any measure—and thus their brainpower naturally dwarfed that of untrained, malnourished slum dwellers!
In the corner, Anno, who had witnessed the entire ordeal, felt her vision nearly split with fury: "Woo——!"
She longed to scream, to resist, but with her mouth gagged and limbs bound, she could neither utter a word nor lift a finger in defiance. All she could do was watch helplessly as the cultists hauled yet another comrade onto that accursed operating table.
A mosquito drifted lazily through the air—until the cultist small boss’s hand shot out with uncanny speed: "Smack—!"
A tiny trail of blood splattered across his palm as the insect was instantly reduced to a lower dimension. Frowning, he glanced upward and muttered in irritation, "It’s already autumn—why are there still so many damned mosquitoes...?"
"That was no mosquito."
A hoarse, grating voice rasped from the darkness. At once, the cultists dropped to one knee, their voices feverish as they chanted in unison: "All hail the Great Lord of Wisdom!"
Pressed against the wall, Anno narrowed her eyes. The sun had fully set, and the crescent moon’s glow was feeble—even with her keen vision, she could barely make out the silhouette of a house-sized monstrosity writhing slowly toward them.
Her heart pounded violently—she already knew. This abomination was likely the mastermind behind everything... the very culprit responsible for the massacre of countless innocent commoners on that cursed Twin Moons Night!
At last, the thing drew near. And when its true form came into view, Anno nearly choked on her own breath.
What a grotesque, horrifying monster it was. At its core, it resembled a three-meter-tall massive brain, its convoluted surface sparsely dotted with elongated flagella. Beneath it, countless worm-like pedipalps squirmed, dragging its bloated, gelatinous mass forward with agonizing slowness.
Anno’s scalp prickled. Merely looking at it summoned an overwhelming terror from the depths of her soul.
By Tyr’s grace... what manner of abomination is this?!
This—this was the thing that had slaughtered hundreds in the South Harbor District. The architect of this vile cult!
I must... I MUST destroy it!
She clenched her fists, her palms slick with sweat, her back drenched. Across the clearing, Sophia—now revealed in her true form—continued her sluggish advance. A rasping, guttural voice seeped from the tiny orifice at her base:
"That was a witch’s apostle... Ah, yes. I remember her. She was called—"
Suddenly, her voice trembled, then twisted into unmistakable agony:
"Ah... I cannot recall! That evil witch... ah...!"
The cultists jerked their heads up, their master’s distress forgotten in an instant. Horror flashed across their faces as they stammered:
"A witch?! A witch is hunting us?!"
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