Witch Monastery

Raw terror electrified Charles' nerves. He didn't dare glance back, gulping air as he braced against the alley's crumbling wall, staggering forward through the claustrophobic passage.

His lungs burned as if about to explode. Yet despite the agony, he pressed forward—through the cramped passage, emerging onto the broader streets beyond.

But there would be no respite.

From the right-side corner, another band of thugs surged forward, torches aloft. Spotting his silhouette, they howled: "There! Get him!"

In the pitch-black night, the torchlight barely pierced the gloom. These gangsters couldn't distinguish foe from bystander. Their solution? Beat everyone in sight—better mistaken than merciful.

Charles snarled through gritted teeth: Damnable wretches! May Ruth claim all your heads!

Yet even so, his only choice was to pivot left and sprint.

The gangsters bellowed again: "Crossbowmen—loose!"

Whish-whish-whish—

This time, experience lent Charles speed. He barked the clipped incantation: "Shield!"

Shield!

An instantaneous, formidable spell. At any moment, it could drastically blunt physical strikes against its caster.

Its sole flaw? A fleeting six-second duration. Too slow to react, too poor in timing, and two precious Spell Slots would be squandered.

Just as now. The gangsters' bolts found only air. Six seconds later, his shield dissipated—two Spell Slots wasted for nothing.

No matter. Two slots for peace of mind.

A bend lay ahead. But as he rounded it, torchlight flared—six more gangsters blocked the way.

These guys, why are they everywhere!

Exhaustion anchored his feet. Wheezing, he scanned the surroundings—then spotted it: a crumbling, abandoned shack at the alley's mouth.

Summoning his last strength, he lunged inside, using the ruin as cover. His breath sawed like a bellows.

His retreat only emboldened the gangsters.

Torch-bearers in the front drew curved blades from their hips, edging toward the door with jeers: "Come out, coward!"

"You're trapped! Beg for mercy, and we'll spare you!"

"Hand it over, and you walk away unharmed!"

...

Inside the wooden shack, Charles listened to the jeers outside, his fury rising like a storm.

Hunted by a witch—fine. But you gutter-scum dare chase me too?!

Very well. Since you're hellbent on dying—don't blame me.

Gritting through the dust and the stench of rotting wood, he silently chanted the incantations. Blade Ward and False Life—two protective spells—wrapped around him like a second skin.

He'd considered Armor of Agathys, but hesitated.

Compared to False Life, its defense was pitiful—a single crossbow bolt could shred it. Worse, the spell's frigid retaliation only worked in melee combat. Against ranged attacks? A waste.

Good. Buffs applied. Now…

The alley was narrow, the gangsters packed tight. Charles mouthed another incantation, then spun, arm raised—

Bzzzt—

A circle of crackling magic flared in his palm. A beam of raw force lanced out—

BOOM—!

A thug at the back caught the blast square in the chest. Ribs caved; he slammed into the ground, vomiting blood. Lung-punctured. Likely fatal.

Eldritch Blast—a brutal, reliable cantrip. And with Charles' Charisma at the mortal peak of twenty, it hit harder than a heavy crossbow.

Chaos erupted:

"What the hell?!"

"Did something hit him? A rock?!"

"Damn it—that bastard's got strength!"

With only two torches illuminating the sharp corner, shadows swallowed most of the narrow alley. The slums' rubble-strewn ground made it impossible to discern what had just happened.

"Could it be magic?" one gangster suddenly shrieked. "I heard a mage beat the hell out of some guys just days ago!"

The tale of the bald small boss getting thrashed by a white-haired young mage had already spread through the South Harbor District. Now, facing another white-haired young mage, they immediately connected the two.

Panic surged through the group. Seizing the moment, Charles cast Eldritch Blast again—

BANG!

This time, the bolt missed entirely, leaving the thugs unharmed.

"Bullshit! If he were a mage, why'd he hide in some shack?" another thug growled. "He's just got a strong arm, that's all! Don't fall for his tricks. Chel's crew's on the other side—we'll pinch him from both ends!"

"He's alone. There's no way out!"

Most slum gangs had never seen a real mage, so rumors about their abilities ran wild.

Even the fight at the Foggy Fisherman Tavern had been twisted beyond recognition. These thugs believed Charles had crippled the bald small boss with a single spell, so now, watching him, they assumed he was just some stone-throwing warrior with freakish strength!

They crouched low, making it nearly impossible for Charles to land another hit. His remaining Eldritch Blasts all whiffed. Then—footsteps, loud and chaotic, closing in from the other end of the alley. Reinforcements.

Peeking out, Charles saw seven or eight more thugs rounding the corner, torches high, blades and crossbows gleaming. Their murderous intent was palpable.

He let out a sharp breath.

So much for conserving Spell Slots.

Fine. Time to burn one.

Without hesitation, he silently chanted the incantation.

"Sleep."