Long after the kitchen’s automated feast had finished cooking, Charles spent himself inside Hattie once more, this ti with her bent over the dining table, her ass raised high as he took her from behind. Her body went limp afterward, her breath shallow, eyes glazed—still lost in the aftershocks of pleasure.
Charles, ever composed, retrieved his utensils and began his al, while Hattie, having mustered just enough strength, crawled beneath the table. There, with her small mouth and eager tongue, she dutifully cleaned the remnants of their encounter from his half-hard cock, licking away every trace of their coupling until he was spotless.
Once lunch concluded, the pair retired to their dorm, where they rested briefly before resuming their studies.
Yet when they arrived, they found Ruth—usually composed and aloof—curled up on the bed, knees drawn to her chest, her expression one of deep sorrow, as if grievously wronged.
Charles was taken aback. He quickly lay beside her, wrapping his arms around her soft form, and murmured, "What’s wrong? What happened?"
Ruth buried her face against his chest, trembling like a wounded bird. "I... I ran into Sephera."
"She already knows about the slums. She wouldn’t stop mocking . I couldn’t even argue back—because it’s true. I caused so much trouble for you, Master..."
"So... I had to promise her. I’ll handle the slums incident myself. No repercussions for the other sisters..."
Charles suddenly understood.
anwhile, Hattie clenched her teeth. "That bitch ca back early this ti..."
Sephera, the Toxic Witch. Her true form was a monstrous amalgamation of countless venomous vines—crimson, erald, ivory, and a few other hues—twisted together into a thirty-ter-long abomination, resembling a colossal, mottled viper.
Her heart was as vile as her toxins. She delighted in injecting different poisons into every inch of her captives’ bodies, reveling in their agonized screams as she watched their flesh fester and rot. Only when they clung to the barest shred of life would she devour them whole—body and soul.
As cruel as her feeding habits were, her tongue was just as venomous. As the de facto ruler of the monastery in Theresa’s absence, she nitpicked every flaw in the other witches.
The slightest breach of "protocol" would earn the offender a torrent of filthy, degrading mockery, leaving them seething with rage yet powerless to retort.
On the Night of the Witches, Ruth’s power spiraled out of control, slaughtering so many and drawing too much attention. It was no surprise, then, how rcilessly Sephera had torn into her with words.
Realizing this, Charles quickly cradled Ruth’s head and murmured, "It’s alright. We’ll be fine. And as for Sephera..."
His blue eyes glead. "Just endure it a little longer, Ruth... Sooner or later, we’ll make her pay."
In theory, Sephera’s strength was imnse—surpassing even Hattie’s, and potentially rivaling Ruth’s.
Yet, her rank within the monastery was far from lofty. The reason was simple: her combat style.
Poisons.
In a world teeming with demons and monsters, toxins were the lowest form of damage. Immunity wasn’t so rare trait—it was commonplace. The undead, constructs, elental spirits, fiends, celestial beings...
Even witches, as supernatural magical beings, weren’t fully immune, but their resistance was well over ninety-nine percent. Sephera’s toxins were potent, true—enough to tornt ordinary folk. But against her own kind? A fool’s hope.
She knew this. So when taunting her fellow witches, she’d often invoke Theresa’s na, implying she acted with the strongest backing in the monastery. Most nuns could only seethe in silent fury.
And if it ca to blows? Sephera feared little. Beyond poison, her greatest skill was escape.
Hattie and Ruth could easily defeat her. But capturing her, restraining her, and ensuring Charles could safely purify her? That was another matter entirely.
For now, Charles decided to start with the more manageable witches. Once his strength grew, then—and only then—would he deal with Sephera.
That night, inside the western wall of the monastery’s main gate.
Charles and Hattie spent a long ti estimating the area and distance before finally settling on a spot. Then, a hazy white light descended, and a brand-new stone hut with a pointed roof slowly materialized, replacing a small section of the monastery’s outer wall.
This was the "Offering Porridge Room"—a new construction he had unlocked by spending a 100 Purification Points.
He had deliberately placed it closer to the slums, ensuring that the poor coming for gruel could form a long queue within the slums rather than crowding the clean, orderly streets near the District Office.
The lords of the District Office were tender-hearted souls who couldn’t bear to see suffering. So if these ragged, emaciated poor gathered in the streets, they would "pollute the cityscape" and offend the lords’ delicate sensibilities. Then, the guards would violently evict them—and the monastery might face trouble as well.
Charles wanted to keep a low profile for now, avoiding unnecessary attention. Though, conjuring a new building out of thin air was already sowhat conspicuous.
Normally, such unauthorized construction would be a blatant breach of regulations. Liberl Port had an exhaustive list of convoluted laws to prevent anyone from exploiting loopholes for profit.
But the most ticulous laws ant nothing if no one enforced them.
The monastery was already on the slums’ edge, and this new building was even deeper into that territory. The District Office lords wouldn’t bother checking construction there, leaving the poor to their fate.
Well aware of this, Charles had no concerns. He boldly summoned the structure without hesitation.
As for the church—how would they explain this sudden new building on the streets?
For any other church, it might have been tricky. But for the Goddess of Life and Healing...
Tch. Good people never lived long.
Ever since the kind but weak goddess fell victim to a treacherous raid, she had remained in an unending slumber. Many mortals speculated she had perished, with only her most devout believers clinging to faith that she still lived.
But without a true deity’s blessings and guidance, the church—relying only on dwindling divine power—couldn’t sustain its forr scale. Over ti, its top-tier spellcasters and capable enforcers dwindled, leaving many of its forr assets neglected.
This was precisely why the witches had chosen this small monastery. The Goddess of Life Church’s branch in Liberl Port lacked the manpower to monitor them.
And since the witches maintained a pristine image—staying inside to study and ditate, occasionally venturing out to offer porridge and aid the poor—they appeared as model believers, dutifully upholding the church’s teachings.
Naturally, the overburdened pastors and bishops had even less reason to scrutinize them.
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