Witch Monastery

Morn spoke on and on, his cheeks slightly flushed, finishing a bit out of breath: "Anyway, my classmates and I all agree that what counts is real results! No matter how strong you look on paper, if you have no proof to back it up, it’s all talk—just empty show!"

The old butler nodded slightly, an unknown light flashing in his crimson eyes. "So, if you had to guess, what tier spellcaster is this Priest Charles?"

Morn hesitated for a moment, then sounded a bit uneasy: "Well... based on our deductions, since there’s no intel of him casting higher-circle magic... the best estimate is fifth-tier. I’m a fan, but I’m not going to exaggerate his power just because of his crazy battle record."

The butler nodded: "So, you’re saying he’s merely a fifth-circle spellcaster? That would barely qualify him for tenth rank in the Mage Association, correct?"

Only those who could cast 6th-level spells could be ranked at level eleven. Even if the butler didn’t know magic, he knew this much.

Morn immediately looked quite displeased: "That’s not really fair, I already said—"

The butler waved him off and interrupted directly: "But in fact, that helps him. It means his enemies will underestimate him—get careless—and then he can easily defeat them, yes?"

Morn paused, turning it over in his mind, and realized it did make a lot of sense.

Still, reasonable or not, having his idol talked about like that left him feeling annoyed. But faced with the butler’s authority, he didn’t dare vent, so he just turned his head stubbornly and changed the subject: "How’s my grandfather doing, anyway?"

Privately, he thought: When the old man dies, let’s see how arrogant you are!

"The marquis is just fine now—at this moment, he’s meeting with a distinguished guest," replied the butler. "So please wait outside, and don’t interrupt your grandfather’s meeting."

Morn’s eyes lit up: "Grandpa’s feeling better? Where is he? I’ll go—"

He noticed the butler’s clear disapproval, so he bit off the end of the sentence. "Fine, I’ll just head back to my room."

He turned and headed off. The old butler watched him go, saying nothing more.

Morn, on returning to his room, began pacing back and forth, unable to calm down.

He frowned, bit his lip, and after a while his eyes suddenly brightened.

Wait—could the "distinguished guest" Grandpa is meeting be Mr. Charles himself?

After all, Charles is a believer of the Goddess of Life—he might have the means to restore Grandpa’s health; and even if not, he’d definitely be someone worthy for a sick old man to meet personally.

Yes, the family never liked Lord Charles before, but for the butler to ask about him today... nine times out of ten, their "guest" was him!

Getting more excited the more he guessed, Morn now had only one thought: no matter what, he HAD to meet his idol!

Hah, if you won’t let me go, I’ll just go myself, sneaky or not!

Tonight I’m seeing my idol, no matter what!

Driven by this thought, Morn brimmed with excitement and quietly began chanting an incantation, casting "Invisibility" on himself before slipping out, heading for the remote meeting room on the first floor.

He knew all distinguished guests would be received there by his grandfather or father.

The huge villa was dim, the air chill and unsettling; the bloody scent was stronger than ever, every detail spelling out the house’s ominous atmosphere.

But swept up by excitement, Morn noticed nothing. He crept to the meeting room door and slipped inside—

And what he saw hit him like a bolt of lightning.

What did he see?

The grandfather who, until now, had been bedridden, frail, only alive thanks to medicine, now lay sprawled out on the sofa in loose shorts, one hand holding a crystal wineglass half-filled with what looked like vintage red wine—or perhaps, blood as red as wine.

His skin was pallid as paper, his canines unnaturally long. His dazed, almost manic smile twisted his face, and made his features look oddly menacing—bordering on monstrous.

There was another person on the sofa, a white-haired young man, similarly dressed. At that moment, he was not only holding a wineglass, but also had his arm around—

Morn’s mother!

The mother who had always flaunted poise and dignity, always dressed in heavy robes in public, now wore a revealing purple gown with a plunging neckline, eyes glazed, sprawled across the stranger’s lap with her arms wrapped around his waist!

This man, while savoring blood, was running his hand right into her cleavage!

"You—!"

Morn’s eyes flared red: "You bastard—!"

He forgot he was invisible and shouted, lunging at the stranger. The white-haired man, still kneading the noblewoman’s chest, calmly raised a hand and muttered: "See Invisibility!"

Second-level spell—See Invisibility.

Morn didn’t know he’d been detected. Burning with rage, he tried to strangle the stranger. But then, the man suddenly stood, whipping a right hook into Morn’s face.

Taken off guard, Morn dropped, thrown to the floor as the attack broke his spell’s invisibility.

"Ugh—!"

Morn roared, refusing to concede. Spitting a mouthful of blood, he lunged at the man again!

But the stranger just reached out and, lightning-fast, grabbed Morn’s arms, forcing him to the ground.

"Your grandson?" he asked, turning to Morn’s grandfather.

"Yes," the old Cavendish replied cheerfully. "Young, just a bit rash."

Morn’s gaze was bloodshot, still struggling fiercely. He couldn’t understand a thing, but inside, rage consumed him, an urge to kill that man.

"He’s got some strength," the stranger commented. "I might not be able to keep him down—give me a hand?"

And then, Morn’s mother—the same loving mother who’d never let anyone so much as scold him—walked over and, quite calmly, began choking him herself.

Despair swept over Morn, his limbs went limp, all fight drained at once.

"Good."

Satisfied, the stranger let go, nodding approvingly. Even though his mother’s grip was weak and he could have shrugged her off, crushed by despair, Morn couldn’t muster the will.

The young man barred his fangs—long and needlelike, just like those of the vampires from legend.

He leaned down, biting deep into Morn’s neck—

Shhhk—!

Fangs piercing his carotid, Morn let his eyelids fall, defeated.

...

Central district, in a private room of a minotaur-run grill house, Charles sat across from a dwarf. Between them was a table stacked high with lamb ribs, chops, legs, and shanks—the aroma nearly bursting out the window.

Charles had ordered all the food—to entertain the dwarven guest.

His shipyard specialized in building armored ships. Most resources could be sourced via Bernard’s contacts but as for steel—only the Mountain Dwarf Mining Consortium could provide enough top-grade metal.

Charles had personally gone to the Mountain Dwarves’ headquarters. With his prestige, negotiating the deal wasn’t difficult.

Now, the liaison sent from the Mountain Dwarves was this dwarf sitting before him.

"So, what’s your business? Just say it straight!" the dwarf rumbled, pulling on his gloves and grabbing a chunk of ribs.

Charles nodded: "Two matters, one private, one official."

The dwarf arched a bushy brow: "Do the personal one first. Business during business hours; we’ve got time."

Though seemingly blunt, he watched Charles’s expression closely. Charles didn’t mind: "The personal matter is this armor."

He pulled out a Bag of Holding, followed by the hulking black plate armor won from the Death Knight, setting it against the wall. "This ancient magic plate armor is a recent find, but none of my people can wear it—it’s just too big."

"So I wanted to ask: can the Mountain Dwarf smiths resize it for a woman about one-seventy in height, without losing its protective value? Price is up for discussion."

The dwarf laughed: "That’s it? I thought you’d hit me up for something really hard! Sure thing—leave it with me. Give me a month and you’ll have your armor, just the way you want it!"

He promised with a grin. Charles nodded in delight: "Thanks—then I’ll leave it to your care."

As he passed over the Bag of Holding, the dwarf exhaled with satisfaction and asked, "So, the business matter?"

Charles paused. "It’s about steel."

"To build ironclad ships, we need a huge amount of specialty steel. After some discussion, we’d like to increase our order."

"Price isn’t an issue—just supply."

The dwarf frowned, clearly hesitant. "And you want... how much more?"

Charles said, "Double, at least for now. If it goes well, maybe three or four times as much next year."

The dwarf scowled, shaking his head after a pause.

"Ah!" He sighed. "Lord Charles, it’s not that we don’t want the business, but we simply can’t produce that much steel in Liberl Port."

"Mountain Dwarf steel is forged hammer by hammer. Even if we had our blacksmiths work around the clock, we can’t make enough."

Charles blinked: "Ah... right, I overlooked that."

Reality wasn’t like a game—no infinite ’city market’ for unlimited buying and selling. You couldn’t just pay more and get all the resources you wanted at will.

It simply wasn’t possible, just as this dwarf was telling him—production capacity was the bottleneck.

He could only sigh in disappointment.

"What can you do," the dwarf sighed, then eyed Charles with a spark of interest. "But you’re a Seinite, aren’t you? Why not buy steel directly from your homeland?"

The Empire of Sein was the only human nation in the world that mass-exported steel products, having mastered blast-furnace technology over two thousand years ago. Their steel was as fine as anything made by dwarves.

With international ties and trade booming, they made fortunes selling weapons, armor, and more.

Of course, everyone wanted their secrets, but so far no one had cracked their top-secret methods.

Partly due to great secrecy, partly thanks to strict regulation—raw steel never left the country, only finished goods.

But Charles, being a Seinite himself, could bypass those restrictions, buying raw steel and building his ships.

Charles just smiled bitterly: "You know, sir, the Empire’s in the middle of civil war right now."

"The news made it everywhere, right? Just two years ago, a cult leader spread rumors ’the Green Emperor is dead’ and stirred up a million commoners to storm the capital—no one’s won yet..."

The dwarf suddenly understood: "Ah, that’s right, I forgot. Just yesterday it felt like Sein was flooding the world with steel weapons... I almost didn’t process that it’s all changed now."

He smacked his thigh, visibly pondering. Dwarves were slow to change, not like the day-to-day flipping of humans—dwarven history ran in centuries.

For fast shifts like the Empire’s, rising and falling within a few years, it was hard for the dwarves’ long-thinking minds to fully comprehend.

"That does make things tricky," the dwarf agreed at last. "Unless you conjure up a hundred dwarven blacksmiths who never have to sleep and pound steel around the clock—without that, we can’t meet your demand!"

Charles forced a laugh, disappointment gnawing at him. Still, he kept it off his face, just clinking glasses with the dwarf before sipping his drink.

But he wasn’t giving up—not yet. If Mountain Dwarves couldn’t provide all the steel, maybe he needed to investigate... other dwarves?

The Duergar from the Underdark, for instance?

It might be trouble, but not impossible. He did have a few acquaintances in the Underdark, after all...

...

Underdark, Menzoberranzan.

Beneath the Great Houses’ plateaus, this was where the nouveau riche of the Dark Elves dwelled. Most had rocketed to prominence with new industries, dreaming of one day ousting one of the eight ruling houses and taking their place.

They both feared the abyss of social downfall and salivated over the power above, always dreaming, always scheming.

The Harren family, as it happened, was just such a house—especially since Hanni Harren displayed her prodigious talent at the School of Divination, the family’s ambition burned hotter than ever. They now even nursed dreams of toppling House Baenre itself.

Anyone who knew Baenre would call this mad.

Even the Harrens themselves found their plans increasingly difficult, sometimes wondering if it could ever succeed at all.

No one felt this more than the family’s de facto leader—Hanni Harren, diviner extraordinaire.

"Ah... If we go first against the Baenres, even if we win, their revenge will swallow us whole..."

Right now she was curled up on the living room sofa in a sheer violet silk slip, its elegant drape hugging her slim but graceful figure.

Her bare feet weren’t in slippers, but up on the coffee table, toes lifted like little black pearls.

She looked lazy, but in truth, she was constantly using her spellcasting, sifting through every scrap of intel, checking if her schemes could possibly work.

Yet every plan seemed to end with catastrophic Baenre retaliation; maybe in the end they’d win, but the Harrens would not survive to enjoy it.

She was at her wits’ end when a flippant voice came from outside: "Oh, studying again, sis? You really are a diligent one!"

Hanni frowned, annoyed, glancing up to see her sister—Lasdro Harren—swaggering in from the foyer, drenched in expensive perfume, cheeks and lips flushed ruby red, clearly fresh home from her latest lover’s bed.

Looking at her wild sister, Hanni couldn’t help but show an expression that was half pity, half exasperation, as if she were looking at some failing junior relative instead of her peer.

Her sister saw the look and grinned, lips curving as red as blood. "Lighten up, Hanni. Take a break already!"

"Thanks," Hanni replied coolly. "Reading is my way of relaxing."

Lasdro pressed close, hugging Hanni’s arm. "I mean you should try the kind of fun a girl your age is supposed to have."

"Tonight I tried out two male slaves—they were especially skillful and very well equipped, if you know what I mean. It was a treat. You’re not busy tonight, are you? Let your sister show you a good time—and they can help you with your ’first time,’ too!"

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