High above, Regolas hovered far out of range of the Stinking Cloud’s effects, keeping watch. But the distance blurred his vision—only after Charles’s blade had already slit Kendrz’s throat did he realize, with a jolt, that the warrior he’d pinned his hopes on had fallen to a mere human!
Witnessing the carnage below, fury boiled in his chest. He spat in disgust, cursing inwardly: Pathetic humans—always churning out worthless, incompetent trash. Handed power and equipment beyond their worth, yet they still lose to some whelp half their age and skill!
Rot in the Nine Hells, you miserable wretch. Your soul is mine to torment forever.
Yet as he glared down at the battlefield, hesitation flickered in his eyes. Should he descend and finish this himself? Claim the Illusionist’s Bracers and Storm Warhammer by force?
But one threat gave him pause.
Somewhere in that timber yard, a paladin lurked.
His gaze slid to the corner where Anno, though half-blinded by the fumes, clenched her jaw and strained to pierce the gloom. The dim firelight offered little clarity, but her determination to rejoin the fight burned undimmed.
Her. She was the problem.
Were it not for that damned paladin, he’d have intervened long ago. But paladins carried that accursed gift from Order itself—Divine Sense—the ability to pinpoint every undead, fiend, and extraplanar being in their vicinity.
And worse: identify them.
He couldn’t risk it. If she had that sense active, if she detected a devil skulking in Liberl Port and reported it to Blackstaff Tower, triggering a city-wide purge—
Everything would unravel.
Months of meticulous planning, all to frame this cult as the sole culprits, to divert suspicion from his true allies—gone in an instant. This operation was meant to save their other cells, not doom them.
Useless Kendrz. Meddlesome paladin.
With a final glare, Regolas chose discretion. His coat billowed as he dissolved into white light—gone without a trace.
So this... is what it feels like to kill someone up close?
Charles wasn’t sure. The blood coating his hands, Kendrz’s terrified expression frozen in death, the body crumpling to the ground—his heart pounded so violently his ears rang. His fingers trembled, barely able to grip his weapon.
"Master! Sophia’s pinned—purify her now!"
Hattie’s shout snapped him back to reality. "R-right. I’m... coming."
Teeth clenched, he forced down the terror gripping his chest. He snatched up the Storm Warhammer and charged toward Sophia.
The scene there was no better. Hattie and Sophia had burned through their magic in their duel, both nearly tapped out. Ruth, still slowed, had taken multiple Chromatic Orbs to dismantle the statue—now lying in ruins, its cultist defenders dead.
Sophia, bloated and barely mobile, was out of spells.
A spellcaster without magic was just... prey.
"Master, go for it!" Hattie gasped.
Charles checked the warhammer—empty. That bastard wasted every last charge.
No matter. He hurled it anyway.
The warhammer clattered at Sophia’s base. Her flagella twitched in irritation—a feeble response.
Meanwhile, Charles circled, leaping onto her flank. He grabbed a flagellum, scaling her grotesque form like some monstrous cliff. Once atop her, he pressed a hand to her flesh and whispered:
White light erupted, enveloping her entirely.
Sophia’s mandibles shrieked as her flagella lashed out, coiling around Charles’s ankle to drag him down.
But her strength was spent. Gritting his teeth, Charles resisted her weakening thrashing, pouring every ounce of purification energy into her corrupted form—scouring away the filth and sin festering within.
At last, the monster’s wails ceased. Her consciousness slipped into slumber—her soul, finally cleansed.
Only then did the purification’s effects begin manifesting upon her physical form. Her grotesque bulk shrank gradually, contours shifting until all that remained was a slumbering nun collapsed upon the ground.
As the white glow of purification dimmed, Charles rose shakily to his feet and lifted Sophia’s unconscious form. Relief flooded through him.
No matter what chaos had unfolded, his primary objective—to purify Sophia undetected—was complete.
Now came the cleanup.
Pulling a spellbook from his belt pouch, Charles tossed it weakly to Hattie. "Check on Ekta. She should be fine, but wake her up."
The book contained Cure Wounds. Though Ekta had taken a direct hit from the Storm Warhammer, her injuries likely weren’t severe—a minor healing would suffice.
Hattie caught the book, then addressed a mosquito perched on her ear. "Andny, use this to treat Ekta."
Clearly, her own spell slots were depleted—only another witch could perform the healing now.
Unfortunately, as the monastery’s weakest witch, Andny had little magic remaining despite avoiding combat. "I... can’t. Sephera, how much power do you have left?"
Sephera, entering through the timber yard’s doorway while supporting Ekta, looked exasperated. "I’m the most drained of all! That massive Toxic Mist took everything—how could I possibly heal her now?"
"Ruth? Any reserves?" she called out.
From a distance, Ruth grimaced. "The Slow spell’s restrictions forced me to burn magic counteracting its effects..."
Faced with their collective helplessness, Charles sighed. "Is there truly no one who can wake Ekta?"
Suddenly, an eager voice rang from a shadowed corner: "I can! Where’s the injured? I’ll treat her!"
Charles squinted toward the source. Muttering an incantation, he cast Light—illuminating horrors that nearly made him retch.
Corpses. Dozens of investigators with skulls pried open, brains removed.
Don’t look. Don’t look.
Forcing his gaze away, he finally spotted the speaker—a golden long wavy hair maiden bound with coarse ropes, her face smudged but undeniably beautiful even beneath the grime.
"Over here! Hurry!" she urged.
Charles blinked. Wait—monster dens actually imprison gorgeous adventurers? That’s not just game tropes?
He’d just dismantled a cultist stronghold—one Sophia built in under a month—yet here was a classic damsel-in-distress scenario?
Waving, he called back: "Coming!"
After entrusting Sophia to Hattie, he issued rapid orders: "Hattie, Ruth, Andny—scour the battlefield. Destroy anything linking us or Sophia to this place. Sephera, bring Ekta and follow me."
Approaching the bound woman, he suddenly paused. "Ah... who exactly are you?"
Better to ask, even if she seemed harmless.
The woman—Anno—winced before answering stiffly: "We’re an investigation team from Blackstaff Tower, probing the Twin Moons Night massacre. These cultists... ambushed us."
Her explanation grew increasingly flustered, cheeks burning with shame as she exaggerated the foes’ tactics to salvage dignity.
Charles exhaled. "I see! You’ve all suffered greatly!"
Perfect. The investigators survived, the cult’s crushed, and the monastery’s safe.
Surveying the Blackstaff agents—some foaming at the mouth, others unconscious—he genuinely pitied them. "How vile, torturing you into this state!"
Sephera nodded vigorously. "Cultists are the worst!"
Anno gritted her teeth. "Actually, it was poison gas that—"
Charles cut in knowingly: "Using stench as torture? Monstrous!"
Sephera gazed skyward. "Cultists are the worst!"
Defeated, Anno sighed. "Just... untie me?"
Once freed, she brushed dirt from her clothes—still strikingly beautiful despite the grime—and extended a hand.
"Anno Amcastra. Paladin, and captain of this investigation." Her smile was warm. "We owe you our lives. Might I know your name?"
Not a warrior or eldritch knight—a full-fledged paladin?!
Did she already discover...?
Noticing his sudden tension, Anno blinked. "Yes? Is something wrong?"
Charles hastily schooled his features into solemnity. "Ah... nothing. Just... have you sensed anything unusual? With your Divine Sense, I mean."
"Monsters employ countless tricks, and my methods are limited. I’d hate to think some remnant might have escaped..."
His gaze locked onto her with razor intensity. If this paladin has seen through Hattie and the others’ true nature...
I’ll have to kill her right here.
No matter the consequences. Frame the cultists later. Expose Regolas if needed. Anything to keep the monastery’s darkest secret buried.
The witches come first. I won’t lose them.
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