Witch Monastery

The underling studied Charles' clothes and nodded. "Local goods, boss. Sharp eyes as always."

After a pause, he whispered: "How do we handle him?"

The bald Small Boss weighed options, then closed his eyes. "No matter who he is—the mission comes first. Knock him out, tie him up."

"If he's connected, we apologize later. If not? Madame Casalante pays well for pretty toys."

Weapons smuggling, drug running, murder—Xanathar's Guild profited from them all.

And trafficking attractive commoners to wealthy perverts? A practiced side hustle.

The lackey grinned, relaying orders. Soon, a dozen hands tightened on hidden weapons.

Three minutes passed. Then—

A red-mohawked human burst in, shouting: "Boss! Paul's dead!"

Code given.

The bald Small Boss roared: "Kill my brother? DIE!"

Chaos erupted.

Gangsters surged up. One lunged at the half-orc woman—a flying kick to her ribs.

Clubs and pipes rained down.

The half-orc—battle-hardened—took the kick, then rolled with the blows. One arm shielded her head; the other yanked her mace free.

Her orcish toughness saved her. Malnourished thugs lacked the strength to drop her instantly.

"YOU—DIE!"

Pain ignited the orcish fury in her blood. She tore the mace from her hip and swung with reckless abandon, cracking skulls in a brutal exchange of injury for injury!

As that brawl erupted, another gangster lunged at Charles—short club raised high—

BANG!

The blow landed square on Charles' skull.

But his preparations paid off.

Crack.

First, his Blade Ward cantrip shattered—absorbing most of the impact. The pain? No worse than a teacher's chalk flick.

Then—

Armor of Agathys activated.

An invisible shield absorbed the remaining force—and struck back.

Frost exploded from the club. The air temperature plummeted ten degrees in an instant. Deadly cold raced up the thug's arm, turning it corpse-pale and lifeless.

Clatter.

The frozen club hit the floor.

"AAAGH!"

The gangster stumbled back, clutching his necrotic limb. "W-what ARE you?!"

The scream snapped Charles out of his daze.

Raised in peacetime, he'd only ever heard of such violence. That sudden blow had stunned him mindless.

Now, realizing he'd nearly been killed—or so he thought—cold sweat drenched him.

And when he saw their weapons couldn't touch him?

All those weeks trapped in the monastery, powerless against the witches...

All that pent-up rage...

It ignited.

The witches bully me because they're strong. But YOU?

You're the trash I slaughtered by the dozens in-game!

UNFORGIVABLE!

DIE!

He surged to his feet, hand slamming onto his spellbook. No incantation needed—raw magic detonated from him.

"THUNDERWAVE!"

BOOOOOOM!

Thunderwave—a 1st-level spell that unleashed explosive force in all directions, blasting away nearby threats while dealing damage.

Perfect for crowd control: non-lethal but devastatingly effective.

Its only flaw? The deafening BOOM that echoed for blocks.

And in this cramped tavern? The sound was brutal. Every patron clutched their ears in pain.

Worst hit were Charles' would-be kidnappers. The concussive blast hurled them backward like ragdolls—crashing into tables, limbs splayed, unconscious or worse.

Even the longtable and benches flipped over. Plates and tankards shattered. Drunks toppled like dominoes.

No surprise. This Thunderwave packed maximum punch—fueled by Charles' 20 Charisma, the peak of mortal potential.

The relentless commotion instantly drew the attention of everyone in the tavern.

Behind the counter, Alan, the tavern owner—who had been mildly irritated that Xanathar's Guild dared to cause trouble in his establishment—suddenly straightened, his eyes wide with shock.

A spellcaster!

Not one of those Strixhaven University students who learned a cantrip or two and called themselves "mage," but a genuine, real spellcaster—one who had mastered 1st-level spells!

How did someone like this end up in my tavern today?

As the most renowned middleman in South Harbor District, Alan's discernment far surpassed the average person's. Just from Charles' movements and the damage dealt, he could tell this man had mastered at least three 1st-level spells: Mage Armor, Thunderwave, and Armor of Agathys!

This was real talent. And given how young he looked, it wouldn't be surprising if he eventually mastered 2nd—or even 3rd—level spells!

Even if others couldn't identify the exact spells, they could still tell this young man wasn't to be trifled with.

The bald small boss spun around, eyes bulging as he stared at Charles.

This… was a mage?!

Though spellcasters made up barely more than one percent of Liberl Port's population, they weren't evenly distributed.

In core districts like Mithral District, Central District, Blackstaff District, and University District, spellcasters could even cluster together. But in the four harbor districts, the Outskirts, or Rubble District? You'd be lucky to find one among a thousand.

So even if these gangster killed without blinking, they might've never seen a living spellcaster—or real magic—until now.

Fear gripped the gangster. Some even lost their grip on their weapons. Ruthless as they were, drenched in blood, they were still lowborn gangster with no education.

They'd hardly ever encountered a true spellcaster, let alone understood the difference between a mage, a warlock, or other classes. Naturally, they had no real grasp of their capabilities.

And now, faced with a living, hostile "mage," old rumors resurfaced—tales like "A mage can turn you into a sow with a single incantation!"—making their knees tremble.

Damn it all, why did we piss off someone like this?!

Unaware of their terror, Charles—suddenly ambushed—was flooded with rage and panic.

He panted heavily, his glare like an enraged bull, locked onto the bald small boss.

Right now, only one thought remained:

Take them all down.