Witch Monastery

Charles sat quietly in the gallery, mind blank, just enjoying the beauty of the girls rehearsing below.

Just then, the doors to the training room creaked open. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a figure silently drifting closer than he’d expected.

It was her—the timeless Mummy Princess, Fatima.

No one among the nuns even noticed her arrival; they were all fully absorbed in trying on their outfits. Fatima didn’t make a scene, either—she simply drifted over and sat down next to Charles.

A faint incense scent wafted up, curling softly into his senses. After all these weeks together, Charles recognized it immediately. It was the subtle aroma of preservation spices woven into Fatima’s very being—it was the reason her body remained unspoiled for a thousand years. Of course, because of it, her sense of taste and smell were so dulled that she only remembered bitterness and the faintest hint of rot.

Her sudden visit surprised him, and Charles whispered, "Feeling alright today? Decided to come out for a walk?"

Usually, Fatima just stayed hidden away in her sarcophagus, sleeping to ease the agony of Undeath. Charles knew this well—every time he checked his system, her little green dot stayed put, unmoving.

Fatima nodded slightly. "Too quiet for too long. I needed a change. I didn’t want to go out in the streets and scare people, so I thought I’d come see you."

He looked at her—still so young, maybe not even thirty years old. Even as an undead, this strange new world could spark her curiosity.

Getting her to come out was a good thing; Charles always worried she might one day find the agony too much to bear...and end it herself. That wasn’t something he wanted to see.

"It’s good for you," he murmured. "I hope it takes your mind off things, even just a little."

Fatima nodded, then turned her attention to the center of the training ground, watching the girls strut in rehearsal. She frowned faintly. "What are they doing?"

Charles replied, "We’re preparing a fashion show—right now we’re rehearsing for it."

Her sudden visit surprised him, and Charles whispered, "Feeling alright today? Decided to come out for a walk?"

Usually, Fatima just stayed hidden away in her sarcophagus, sleeping to ease the agony of Undeath. Charles knew this well—every time he checked his system, her little green dot stayed put, unmoving.

Fatima nodded slightly. "Too quiet for too long. I needed a change. I didn’t want to go out in the streets and scare people, so I thought I’d come see you."

He looked at her—still so young, maybe not even thirty years old. Even as an undead, this strange new world could spark her curiosity.

Getting her to come out was a good thing; Charles always worried she might one day find the agony too much to bear...and end it herself. That wasn’t something he wanted to see.

"It’s good for you," he murmured. "I hope it takes your mind off things, even just a little."

Fatima nodded, then turned her attention to the center of the training ground, watching the girls strut in rehearsal. She frowned faintly. "What are they doing?"

Charles replied, "We’re preparing a fashion show—right now we’re rehearsing for it."

He grinned. "Did anything like that happen in your day? A fashion house shows off its new collection, and pretty girls model for a crowd?"

Fatima considered, then nodded subtly. "Not really, but...I think I get the idea."

She stared at the girls’ cutting-edge clothes, her voice hesitant. "But these outfits are...actually, they’re very bold."

She struggled for the right word, and Charles could tell—just from her tone and look—she was a little embarrassed.

Well, it made sense. In her desert homeland, women probably kept themselves bundled in robes and veils, rarely even showing their faces in public. These sorts of clothes must seem extreme.

Charles smiled. "Times have changed, madam. It’s been a thousand years since your heyday."

"These days people are less conservative. They’re not afraid to show off and celebrate beauty—what do you think?"

His eyes flicked to Fatima’s own silhouette.

Truth was, Fatima’s outfit was actually the boldest of the bunch—just pure bandages, with nothing but her striking figure beneath. While Charles had designed a few bandage-inspired outfits for the show, they all included other layers or touches. Fatima, though... every curve was on display.

Maybe it was because she no longer had her old inhibitions; after dying once, after all, she probably didn’t care about taboos. She just wanted some peace in her afterlife.

Fatima tilted her head, thinking, and then nodded. "You’re right. I might not like these clothes, but people shouldn’t all wear the same plain, ugly robes. They should dress beautifully."

Charles smiled. "We basically agree, just with a different spin."

Fatima nodded again, still studying the fashions on the runway. Charles caught a rare gleam of longing in her eyes.

Did she secretly want to try these things herself?

As he pondered, Fatima suddenly pointed at a girl. "That one—what is she wearing on her left leg?"

Charles followed her finger. There was a short-skirted nun, her pale thigh wrapped in netting like woven silk.

"That’s a fishnet," he explained, "or more precisely, a fishnet stocking. The idea is, instead of socks that just cover the calves, thigh-highs go all the way above the knee—special design."

Fatima stared, frowning a little as if puzzled. "Why only a single stocking? And what’s on her right leg?"

Charles hurried to clarify, "That’s a leg ring. The designer did that on purpose—most styles in daily life are symmetrical, so here, we use asymmetry for a stylish, fresh impact."

Fatima nodded. "It does...pull your eyes right to her."

Another model came up: a long, ornate robe, but split up both sides to the hips, revealing glimpses of smooth thigh as she strode.

"What’s that?" Fatima asked again.

"That’s called a qipao," Charles explained, patient.

"Qipao," Fatima repeated, trying out the word. "Can you really sell something like that?"

"Wouldn’t you...get in trouble wearing something so revealing outdoors?"

Her voice was full of shy wonder—she was already imagining the scandal!

Charles laughed. "No worries—everything’s lined for safety. But most people, seeing designs like these, end up imagining all sorts of wild things. That’s the magic—real beauty begins in the mind."

He tapped his temple. "Imagination is the highest form of beauty."

Fatima nodded in agreement. Looking at that girl, she could almost feel her face heat up—a strange thing, even for an undead who literally felt nothing.

And she couldn’t help but imagine: what if she wore those clothes, walking in front of a crowd, in the spotlight...

"What’s that?"—she asked as another girl walked out.

"Simple thigh-highs."

"That one?"

"Backless sweater."

"And that?"

"That’s a bodysuit in black silk."

"Oh...wait, why is she wearing bandages too—did she get hurt?"

"Oh, no, that’s just a style. We call those ’bandage dresses.’"

"Oh, looks a lot like what I’m wearing."

"Ah, well, actually they’re pretty different—ha ha..."

...

Fatima asked after every outfit, and Charles answered each in turn. On and on, until all the models had taken their turn, and every question had been answered.

"Wow." Fatima finally breathed. "Can’t believe times have changed so much."

Charles smiled. "A thousand years really is a long time. And this isn’t your homeland—of course it’ll all feel strange."

Fatima nodded, then hesitated. "Priest, may I ask a favor?"

Charles nodded. "Of course."

"When you put on the show—could I come watch it? I’d really like to see the crowd’s reaction too."

Charles’s eyes sparkled. "Absolutely!"

But as he agreed, his brow creased—he glanced at her outfit. "But...like this, you might stand out a little."

Fatima said, "Don’t worry, just make me a white robe. I’ll put it on with a veil—no one will ever guess I’m undead."

Charles nodded. "Perfect, let’s do that!"

Afterward, Fatima stayed and watched a bit longer, but then excused herself and floated away. Charles remained in his seat, quietly savoring the rare peace and relaxation, not wanting to think of anything but this calm.

"All right, that concludes today’s rehearsal! Tomorrow morning we head to the theater for our live run. Everyone, go get some rest—dismissed!"

At Malena’s call, the models broke formation and scattered, chattering nervously and excitedly as they went to change clothes.

Malena, always so self-possessed, finally let her exhaustion show. She turned with a touch of anxiety and walked to Charles.

He hurried to her side and pulled her gently into his arms. "You’ve worked so hard, darling."

These past days, she’d run herself ragged, doing everything to make the show perfect—planning, prepping, managing every detail, all because she didn’t want to waste his ideas. She wanted the big day to be brilliant.

And on top of all that, baby Guinevere was still under six months old—she still had to nurse sometimes. The stress was intense.

Charles had seen it all. It made his heart ache for her.

"I’m okay, really. At least it’s almost done."

Malena slumped on his shoulder, eyes closed, mumbling, "Charles, honestly, I’m nervous."

"I have no idea if this show will work—it’s my first time running something like this. If it flops...will you lose face?"

All her nerves and uncertainty spilled out now. With him, her inner strength always melted away—Charles was her anchor.

He gently patted her back, voice soft. "Don’t worry—it’s going to be a smashing success."

He really meant it. Even with his help, Malena had absorbed enormous pressure these months.

He could help with logistics—venues, funds, sewing, marketing—but the heart of the show, the art itself, was all on Malena.

She was a noble by birth, classically trained; but Charles had asked for bold, avant-garde designs—blending those worlds was an almost impossible task.

She worked herself to the bone. Hundreds of discarded sketches and plans proved just how much she cared.

Some atone nuns and even girls from the White Swans ballet troupe had offered to help, but all had their own styles—strong, proud, from tough backgrounds, many still resentful toward the nobility. Every creative disagreement quickly became a full-blown conflict.

When Malena invoked "noble taste" to defend her vision, the atone nuns—bitter about the rich—fought her just as fiercely.

Charles often had to step in and smooth things over.

Thankfully, even with all their artistic pride, the atone nuns never forgot Charles had saved them—and out of gratitude, never let the disputes go too far.

And at last, it worked out. After an internal dance showcase at the monastery, with Malena herself modeling a dazzling new design, every girl finally warmed to her and rallied behind her creative lead.

Thinking back on it, Charles squeezed her gently, fully aware of the pressure and doubt weighing on her. If she failed, those atone nuns might never accept her again—and her career might end before it began.

He whispered encouragement: "I truly believe, wherever you go, people’s desire for beauty doesn’t change. This show will amaze the world!"

He said it with such confidence that Malena couldn’t help but smile. "Thank you, love. I feel so much better."

She snuggled in his embrace and didn’t want to let go. Charles held her tight, his mind set.

No matter what, the show must go on. He wouldn’t let anyone or anything interrupt.

...

Out on Garbage Island, the ground trembled violently.

Energy surged beneath, threatening to drag the five-square-kilometer island down to the seafloor.

With a deafening crack, the central mountain split open, revealing a chasm plunging deep into the earth. A blast of death surged out, and a hoarse draconic roar thundered—it was as if the true destroyer of the islands had at last awakened.

A massive bone dragon slowly rose out—cloaked in darkness and frost.

It stretched nearly twenty meters from snout to tail, wings extending more than twenty meters across—nothing but bone and lingering magic, no flesh or blood remaining.

But in its skull, its eyes blazed with the fire of its soul—a symbol of undying rage and resentment.

It was, unmistakably, a dracolich—fifth of the undead Four Heavenly Kings, the fallen prince’s mount, a once-noble silver dragon forced into undeath!

And now, on the dracolich’s back, sat a knight clad in dark blue plate armor, wielding a greatsword carved with pale bone runes.

His face hidden behind a visored helm that radiated cold, the very air condensed to droplets around him—always clean and gleaming.

This was the fallen prince.

And now, at last, he had awakened.

The ground quaked on. More undead poured from the abyss—ghouls, zombies, skeletons, ghosts.

Each one, to a corpse, raised their heads in ecstatic awe, staring at the skies—at the dragon rider above, their king, their leader, their master!

The Death Knight lifted his head, twin beams of blood-red light blazing from his helmet as if searching the distant east.

"I need... more soldiers!"

His voice rasped suddenly to life, hoarse and imperial—a true declaration of war.

He didn’t care for graveyards, didn’t look to the old master, brothers, subordinates, or fiancée, nor did he bother to gather up every single undead minion. With a single gesture—middle finger pointing west—he seemed to show he’d anticipated all this; the failed seal, the wayward colleagues, it was all irrelevant.

He would build his own army in this new age!

The bone dragon gave a piercing, triumphant roar; with a snap of its wings, it soared westward, carrying its master toward conquest.

Below, the undead stumbled after, plunging into the sea. But icy saltwater didn’t slow their march. These abominations had been engineered to walk the ocean floor, able to withstand pressure and face the terrors of the deep.

Only that way could they hope to face the horrors below—defeat the ancient evil, put it back to sleep, and seal it away once more!

~~~

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