Witch Monastery

Inside the slums.

Charles nearly wept at the sight of the familiar little house.

Finally—he'd found it!

The sun had long since set, and the twin moons now hung slightly to the south. He'd wandered the slums for two, maybe three hours before stumbling upon this place.

It couldn't be helped. The slums by day and by night might as well have been two different worlds.

Another oversight on his part. In the game, unless major plot events unfolded, the map never changed. No matter when he visited, the layout remained identical.

But reality was different. A resident might whimsically redecorate, move objects around, or a mudbrick wall might collapse after a brawl—any of which could drastically alter the area.

Thus, Charles had faced no small amount of frustration.

Compounding the problem, while his Light spell provided illumination, it paled in comparison to daylight, leaving much still shrouded in darkness. Navigating this pitch-black world had eroded his confidence with every step.

Thankfully, he'd at least maintained a basic sense of direction. When disoriented, a glance skyward had always reoriented him.

That was the one advantage of Twin Moons Night—with two moons hanging in the sky, he could never truly lose his way.

So, though progress had been slow, he'd finally arrived at the right place.

He approached the doorway, eyed the padlock hanging from it, and without hesitation raised his hand. Eldritch Blast activated, unleashing an invisible force squarely at the point where lock met door.

Bang—

He wasn't worried about attracting attention. Eldritch Blast was far quieter than Thunderwave—even at this late hour, it wouldn't draw outsiders.

And as for Ruth hiding inside?

Hah! She'd reverted to her true form by now, too weak to so much as twitch. The thought of disturbing her was laughable!

If anything, let the witch tremble in terror as she awaited his arrival!

Bang—

The door, though sturdy, couldn't withstand repeated Eldritch Blast strikes. Soon, the lock clattered to the ground, and the door creaked ajar.

Success!

Without pause, he stepped forward and kicked. The rotten door gave way instantly, its hinges surrendering with a cloud of thick dust that choked the room in an instant.

But Charles had no time to mind the filth. He rushed inside, and under the brilliant glow of his Light spell, his eyes immediately locked onto the heap of rusted, decaying metal piled haphazardly in the center of the room.

And there, buried beneath layers of scrap and corroded iron, lay an unassuming, dust-covered massive blade.

Yet Charles knew better.

This was Ruth's camouflage—her means of surviving the Night of the Witches.

Roughly five centuries ago, a western kingdom had been plunged into years of political turmoil. One usurper after another seized the throne, only to be overthrown and sent to the guillotine by the next schemer...

In less than a decade, sixteen kings had been crowned—and executed. Their average reign lasted barely half a year, with the shortest rule spanning a mere sixteen days.

This particular guillotine, having severed the heads of sixteen divinely-anointed monarchs, became feared as an accursed artifact.

When stability finally returned, the new king placed full blame upon the blade, declaring it had drained the kingdom's fortune and caused the decade of chaos.

Enraged citizens dismantled and discarded the execution device. Yet none realized that sixteen consecrated kings' tragic deaths, combined with a nation's decade of grief, resentment, fury and terror, could birth something monstrous.

Thus during the next Night of the Witches, abyssal magic merged with this lingering malice—and the Blade Witch Ruth came into being.

Her true form wasn't the guillotine itself, but rather a nightmare-like shroud of black mist. Yet her connection to the blade shaped her preferences, drawing her to such implements.

(Amusingly, having claimed sixteen royal heads, Ruth earned the darkly humorous nickname "Louis XVI" among players.)

Ahem.

But such trivia mattered not. What mattered was purging this witch—here and now!

Charles strode forward, knelt, and pressed his palm against the massive blade. Whispering the incantation:

"Purification."

Milky radiance enveloped the weapon.

Dark energies seeped forth—only to be annihilated by the purifying glow. The rusted metal warped and twisted until, moments later, the disguise fell away.

Before him stood Ruth's favored guise: the coldly beautiful nun in black robes, petite and poised.

Yet her usual icy composure had shattered. Violet-red eyes widened in shock.

"You—how did you find this place?!"

Simultaneously, she felt her very soul twisting. Something irreversible was transforming her at the most primordial level!

This sudden change filled her with even greater terror. "You filthy human—what are you doing to me?!"

Charles let out a cold laugh. "That's none of your concern, my noble and revered witch lord."

As he spoke, memories came flooding back—the two times she'd wounded his eyes, the murderous threats that had forced him to cower in that cramped room for nearly a month. Humiliation and rage burned through him, turning his eyes bloodshot and nearly crimson.

At his words, Ruth's delicate brows furrowed tightly, her voice dripping with fury. "I knew it! You were always a threat to the monastery! I should have killed you the first day we met—Hattie's objections be damned!"

The mention of Hattie made her eyes widen suddenly as she recalled the deep-sea witch's strange behavior—her obedience, her doting affection toward this human.

Had Hattie undergone this same transformation to become so docile?!

No. She would never allow herself to become like that!

"I'll kill you, you wretched mortal—ugh!"

She clenched her teeth as the milky purifying light seeped deeper into her being. Then, grotesque tumor-like bulges began swelling across her petite frame, writhing beneath her skin.

"I'd rather lose control forever than—" She ground her teeth, eyes bulging with effort. "Than let some lowly human have his way with me! Aaaah—!"