Charles lay limp on the bed. Just moments ago, he had truly felt death's breath on his neck. With Ruth's strength, snuffing out the life of his frail body would have been effortless. Even if Hattie had tried to protect him, it would have been nearly impossible.
Fortunately, she looked down on him enough not to risk a feud with another highborn witch over a mere "plaything." That was the only reason he'd scraped by with his life.
Close call. Too close.
Keep underestimating me, witches. That's the only way I'll steal enough time to grow… to uncover each of your weaknesses and make you pay for what you've done.
He silently chanted the words in his mind. Then, beside him, Hattie flung herself onto the bed, wrapping her arms around his with worry. "Master," she whispered, "these days will be hard on you. If I'm not by your side, you mustn't wander the monastery alone."
"My witch sisters… they're merciless devourers. If they see you, they won't hesitate—they'll drain your soul dry without a second thought."
The mere idea filled her with terror. She clutched his hand, trembling, unwilling to let go.
Charles squeezed her small hand in return, calming himself before speaking softly. "A little hardship means nothing to me. But Ruth… I can't shake the feeling that she—"
Recalling the Blade Witch's unrestrained rage and murderous intent, a headache pulsed behind his temples. "She genuinely wanted me dead."
And Ruth's strength? By the lore, she ranked second in the monastery, surpassed only by Theresa, the Fate Weaver—the one who toyed with the threads of destiny.
In a real fight, Hattie stood no chance against her. If Ruth hadn't cared about maintaining peace among the witches, he'd be a corpse right now.
Hearing him say this, Hattie's face also became gloomy: "With Ruth's keenness, she must have noticed that the Master and I have a deeper and closer relationship. That's why she, who is arrogant by nature, is so determined to kill the Master..."
The witches fed on souls, just as humans feed on bread.They might disguise themselves as humans to hunt, but in their hearts, humans would always be wretched, inferior things.
They didn't even have the concept of "cherishing food." If not for the few humans blessed by deities—those capable of wielding divine power to wound witches—these creatures would be far more brazen.
That was why Ruth had been so insulted, so enraged, upon discovering that Hattie, a fellow highborn witch, had entangled herself with a human.
"A shame," Hattie murmured, clinging to Charles's arm. "Unless she experiences the fulfillment and peace of your Purification, she'll never understand my choice."
Hattie clung to Charles' arm, murmuring to herself, her eyes brimming with regret. Hearing this, Charles chuckled softly and gave her small hand a reassuring squeeze. "It won't take long, Hattie. Trust me—I have a way to subdue her!"
At his words, Hattie's eyes lit up, but then worry clouded her expression. "Master, Ruth's combat style is all about striking lethally with precision. She's nothing like me, a witch who relies on Spells for combat."
"With Master's current physical condition, even if you use that purification energy to suppress Ruth's strength, she could still take your life in an instant…"
As she spoke, she leaned in, wrapping her arms around Charles's neck and pressing her cheek against his. "I'm sorry, Master. I have no confidence in restraining her. And… I can't bear the thought of you risking yourself. I don't even want to imagine what my life would mean if I lost you…"
Charles patted her back, moved by her pure, untainted attachment. It felt strange yet warm.
Just that afternoon, she had been ready to fight him to the death.
Witch, it's amazing.
"Alright, don't worry. I won't take any risks unless I'm absolutely certain." His voice was soft, but his mind was already weaving a plan.
He knew Ruth's weakness—or rather, he knew the weakness of all witches.
Night of the Witches.
When the twin moons hung high in the night sky, the barriers of the world grew fragile. Terrifying magic, carrying the schemes of the Evil God, would sweep through every city and wilderness.
The more mundane creatures—ordinary humans—were the least affected. At most, infants born on this day might develop odd physical traits, like a sixth finger or a stronger affinity for magic.
But the more magic-touched beings—ghosts, fiends, elemental creatures—suffered greatly. They would howl in agony, mutate, go mad, or even take their own lives. Only the most seasoned could suppress the madness and survive the night unscathed.
In short, the Night of the Witches was a major in-game event, recurring every six months to two years. On this night, evil monsters ran rampant, mutating, attacking each other, even assaulting cities—chaos erupted around the world.
And the witches, the player's most crucial assets, were hit hardest. They faced all sorts of troubles, making them exceptionally vulnerable.
Yet, this was also the perfect opportunity for the player to conquer unsubdued witches.
To avoid exposure or exploitation in their weakened state, witches would often hide away, waiting out the night.
And if one could find their hiding place… subduing them would be easy.
Ruth, in particular, lost her power during the Night of the Witches, becoming extremely weak—a perfect target for an early-game player to ambush and force into submission!
So, all he had to do was wait patiently until the Night of the Witches arrived.
Now, it was just a matter of luck—how long until the next Night of the Witches…?
Charles silently plotted, only for his stomach to let out a hungry growl: "Grrr—"
Snapped out of his triumphant daydreams, his expression turned slightly awkward. He hadn't eaten much at noon—too focused on purifying Hattie. And afterward, they'd engaged in such… strenuous activity for so long…
Though he felt refreshed and energized, none of that could fill his empty stomach. Now, his stomach was the first to protest.
Hattie chuckled softly. She rose, preparing to leave. "Master, I'll make you something to eat. Rest here, and whatever you do, don't leave this room. As long as you stay inside, the other witches won't bother you."
Charles nodded, ready to accept her arrangement—until, just as the nun turned toward the doorway, he suddenly sat up. "Wait!"
Hattie paused, glancing back in confusion. Charles swung his legs off the bed, slipped on his shoes, and strode over, taking her hand. "Your kitchen… it's rarely used, right?"
Hattie nodded, "Well, aside from offering porridge and occasionally feeding the caught food, it's not usually used."
Witches fed on souls—they had no need for meals. The offering porridge was merely a lure: among the poor who came for food, the witches would pick the loneliest, most neglected individuals to abduct and drag back to the monastery—just like they had with Charles.
After all, who would miss someone like that?
Those captured in this manner would typically be drained within a day or two.
The witches found it troublesome, so they usually didn't bother feeding them.
Only someone like Charles—with exceptionally high Charisma—would be spared from being played to death so quickly.
For such rare cases, they might reluctantly cook simple meals.
Thus, the monastery's kitchen was rarely ever used.
"Then… if I were to remodel the kitchen, could you cover for me?" Charles pressed.
"Absolutely," Hattie replied. "The others hardly step inside once a year. No matter what changes you make, they won't notice—or care."
"Good."
Charles grew eager.
His fingers swiped through the air, scrolling across the system screen invisible to Hattie.
"Then let me remodel this place…"
"...and make the kitchen my first monastery building!"