Witch Monastery

The night of the show.

The Cassalanter Grand Theater was packed to overflowing—there were even people who paid under the table just for a chance to stand in the aisles and witness the spectacle.

Charles had called on every connection he could muster, sending invitations to reporters from every newspaper and all the city’s nobles and socialites, determined to make this event as sensational as possible.

Of course, much of this was the blue dragon’s doing. After Charles mentioned the plan to Rahman, the latter—flush with idle funds—poured the cash into every media channel, instructing them to go all-in on the coverage and make sure tonight’s show would rock the entire city.

The result: a frenzy to get seats. People were so desperate to witness the event that many came knowing they’d spend the whole night on their feet.

Charles honestly felt a little embarrassed. By Sephera’s estimation, Rahman alone had dropped at least two hundred thousand gold on promotion—money they’d never make back on clothes alone. It was all a massive loss leader to drum up buzz.

He felt bad about it, but what could he do? Rahman had money to burn, and the blue dragon would feel anxious if he didn’t burn through it. So Charles just had to let him have his way.

And thus, here they were.

When the host announced the opening, the first model’s appearance sent a ripple of awe through the entire hall. She had short, frosty white hair, her skin a glowing wheat-gold, not a hint of excess flesh, her muscles clearly defined for all to see.

She wore skin-tight black leather boots, hot pants, a black tube top, and matching black round sleeves up her biceps—all of it linked together by silver chains into an inseparable whole.

At first glance, she might have looked like a prisoner, but the longer you looked, a sense of wild, irresistible power shone through—like she was breaking free from all restraint.

Her walk radiated charisma. She spun, struck a pose, and left the stage in style—only for the next model to usher in a completely different aesthetic.

Though also white-haired, the newcomer had the gentle, glowing skin of polished jade. Her visage and physique were soft and graceful, her gentle smile every bit as noble as it was welcoming, with none of the former aggression.

She wore a bright red qipao split high to the hips, revealing flashes of silky thighs with every step—a vision of temptation that had the crowd straining for a closer look.

And this was just the beginning; the energy in the theater was hot and electric. The third model took the stage and set off a flurry of whispers among the crowd.

She wore a translucent shawl, her silhouette barely hidden. Instead of a regular bra, her chest was tightly bound with layer after layer of white bandages—danger and allure oozed from every wrap, as if one wrong move and everything would spill free.

At her back, a beautiful bow added a touch of innocence—giving the illusion that you could untie it and watch the entire ensemble fall away.

Each girl who walked that stage was a vision—beautiful, fearless, brimming with confidence, and the designs were daring and seductive. The audience was in a frenzy from the very first moment. Reporters snapped photos, editors filled their notebooks; and it was clear that even without the blue dragon’s gold, this event was destined to shake Liberl Port’s fashion world to its core.

In a private box on the second floor, Charles sat sipping red wine, taking it all in.

To his right, Anno snuggled up in a bright orange gown, clinging to his arm, lips pouting just a bit—she seemed far less impressed by the spectacle than the crowd below. On his left, Fatima—entirely masked in makeup—sat in silence, watching the seats below.

By now, she’d lost all interest in the models; after seeing so many rehearsals, she knew every outfit by heart.

Tonight, what fascinated Fatima was the crowd. She wanted to see how modern folk responded, to see if things were as open-minded as Charles claimed—or if she really was just a piece of outdated deadwood.

Charles didn’t mind at all; his own attention was focused on Anno.

Anno, naturally, knew all about the fashion show, and when she heard that it’d be held at the Cassalanter Grand, she dropped everything to stick by his side—if not to keep him out of trouble, then at least to make sure nothing would go wrong.

He knew there really wasn’t anything to worry about, but with Malena backstage, his conscience stung. For now, he barely noticed the show at all—all he could think of was Anno.

He watched her pouty-face, and squeezed her nose gently. "What’d I tell you? Nothing sketchy about this show, right?"

Anno wrinkled her nose, glancing at Fatima to make sure the mummy-princess wasn’t listening, then leaned in and whispered, "You’re not thinking about dressing me up like that, are you?"

There were some outfits she kind of liked, but a few were just too much—the bandage-tops with fishnet stockings, for instance, were way too revealing for her to imagine wearing in public.

Charles reassured her quickly. "Of course not. Whatever you wear is up to you. The best I’d do is give you a suggestion—or maybe beg you to indulge a tiny little wish of mine..."

Beside them, Fatima did her best to keep a straight face and pretend she hadn’t heard a thing.

Anno wrinkled her nose and suddenly whispered, "I’ll buy one set of everything... but only for the Last Time, okay?"

Charles caught the blush on her face and had to fight to keep a straight face—a rush of relief and joy swept all his worries away.

He stroked her golden hair and nodded. "Then, for the Last Time, we’ll try it all."

Beside them, Fatima realized coming here had probably been a mistake.

She did her best to pay attention to anything but their conversation, scanning the audience, reading every expression.

Suddenly her brows furrowed.

"Wait!" she said abruptly. "Charles—I just spotted someone I know."

Charles turned, startled. "What?"

Anyone Fatima would call an "old acquaintance" could only mean one thing.

A shadow fell over his eyes; his tone chilled with murderous intent. "Is it Von Stein?"

Fatima nodded. "Yes. Even though he’s using invisibility, ever since we both turned undead, our magical auras are connected."

"I can sense him. I’m almost certain I know where he’s going—he’s heading for the backstage entrance."

Charles’s eyes flashed, and the killing intent inside was impossible to hide.

Malena’s career was on the line tonight—he could not allow that damned vampire to screw things up.

So, Von Stein, instead of hiding out in the sticks after being resurrected, you came to Liberl Port—right to my turf.

Fine, then. I’ll take all those precious points you’re delivering right to my doorstep!

"Anno, did you bring your weapon?"

His gaze was cold as ice, but his voice remained gentle. Anno nodded, though a note of worry crept in. "I have it, but with what I’m wearing tonight, putting on my plate armor is going to be a pain..."

She’d come fully dressed up—makeup and all—just in case she had to meet the models backstage. In this state, she wasn’t really ready for a fight; her self-defense would be limited if things went down.

"No problem," Charles said. "He’s weak—I can handle him myself."

"In a moment, just use Divine Sense to pinpoint his position. I can take Von Stein out on my own!"

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