Witch Monastery

The moment Ruth recognized her, her mood plummeted. And upon hearing those words, she glared at the nun with barely contained fury.

"Sephera, what exactly are you trying to say?"

Sephera, the Toxic Witch—another member of the monastery. She was the first to follow Theresa, her loyalty absolute, and thus enjoyed her absolute trust.

When Theresa was absent, it was Sephera who managed the monastery's daily affairs, constrained the other witches' behavior, and mediated their conflicts—ensuring none of them went out of control or acted recklessly enough to endanger the entire monastery.

Normally, the witches hunted independently, coexisting peacefully. But if one made a mistake or embarrassed herself, she could expect no mercy from Sephera's sharp tongue—only relentless mocking, taunting, and scorn.

Like now.

Though Ruth burned with rage, she couldn't muster much conviction.

Her conscience had been purified, and every time she recalled that night, guilt and remorse overwhelmed her.

Beyond that, over a hundred deaths had shaken Liberl Port to its core. The other witches might indeed face repercussions because of her loss of control.

"Oh, nothing. I just think you've brought so much trouble to the monastery that my lord Theresa, will be very displeased. And that… irritates me."

Sephera flicked out a slender, forked tongue, like a serpent's. "Normally, your wastefulness—killing a person just to nibble at their soul—could be overlooked. But that night? You couldn't even restrain your hunger. Tsk. Are you truly one of the highborn witches? Tell me, how were you any better than a sow in heat?"

"But I'll stop mocking you… if you admit you're just a pig. Go on, Ruth. Oink for me."

Her laughter was a razor's edge.

Deep within Ruth's striking purple-red eyes, fury ignited—then crystallized into something far colder.

"Push me further, Sephera, and I will kill you."

...

Charles stood in the kitchen, browsing the system interface as he decided on lunch. Just then, Hattie's voice called from outside the window:

"Master, are you in there?"

He tapped the interface a few times, setting the kitchen knives and ingredients into motion on their own before responding. "I'm here."

Creak—

The door opened, and Hattie, bundled in her thick nun's habit, stepped inside. She shut the door softly, then murmured, "Master, there's something I'd like to discuss."

Charles slid an arm around her shoulders, silent, urging her to continue. Hattie nestled against him before speaking. "By tradition, the monastery should hold another porridge offering soon."

As she spoke, the hem of her nun's habit lifted slightly. A large, warm hand pressed against the lush curve of her hips, kneading with slow, possessive strokes.

A flush of excitement bloomed across Hattie's face. Hearing her words, Charles arched a brow, then nodded. "Ah, right. It is time for a porridge offering."

The Porridge Offering Hall was one of the monastery's essential constructions. Each offering boosted the monastery's prestige—essentially experience points needed for its growth. In short, it was a place to trade gold for progress.

After disasters, when the slums were riddled with broken homes and panicked souls, relief porridge offerings yielded even greater prestige.

Charles agreed the timing was perfect. With over a hundred dead in the slums just days prior, the scale of the tragedy demanded action. Fearful residents needed comfort—and the rewards for aiding the poor now would far outweigh usual returns.

"Then let's proceed as usual," Charles said, even as his other hand moved forward to claim her chest. His palms engulfed her full breasts, kneading the soft flesh with practiced strokes while his fingertips pinched the hardening peaks, rolling those tender grapes between his fingers until they stood taut beneath her dress.

"Mmm... I'll... make preparations tomorrow," Hattie gasped, her cheeks flushing as his exploration grew bolder. She could already feel his fingertip sliding beneath her skirts, probing the dampening cleft between her thighs before pushing insistently into her tight heat. The intrusion made her hips jerk forward, her body betraying its arousal even as she maintained their conversation. "If all goes well... ah!... we can erect the tents by tomorrow... and use the opportunity to gather information..."

Traditionally, the witches had used porridge relief as a cover for selecting those unwanted souls who could disappear without notice—perfect playthings and meals. Though Hattie no longer needed to feed on human souls, she kept up the practice both to maintain the monastery's image and to monitor the slums' unrest, collecting intelligence should trouble arise.

"No need for tents this time." Charles' voice roughened as he withdrew his glistening finger, admiring the slick evidence of her desire before unfastening his trousers. His thick erection sprang free, the swollen head already glistening with precum. "I'll construct a permanent Offering Porridge Room later."

The monastery currently had no dedicated "Offering Porridge Room." During previous almsgivings, Hattie and the others would simply set up a makeshift tent near the monastery's doorway, attracting the poor to line up for gruel.

This method was far less efficient than constructing a permanent monastery addition, but over time, their persistent efforts had earned them considerable prestige—not just locally, but across the entire South Harbor District.

Truthfully, the monastery's Experience Points were already sufficient for an upgrade. However, reaching Level Two required not only one thousand Purification Points but also a physical expansion of the grounds to ten thousand square meters. Charles glanced at the requirements and dismissed the idea for now.

Still, prestige could always be accumulated further, and he saw no harm in spending a hundred Purification Points to build the structure sooner rather than later.

"Hmm? Understood." Hattie's reply was breathy, her eyes glazing over. "Ah, Master… though, the Kitchen will likely be occupied all day. It might… inconvenience you…"

Her arousal was unmistakable. Charles's fingertips traced the slick evidence of her desire, the warm, sticky fluid coating his palm as it dripped from her twitching cunt.

Truly, a witch of the deep sea…

With a low groan, he withdrew his fingers and began undoing his clothes. "No matter. I'll manage." His voice roughened as he added, "While you're out purchasing supplies, keep an eye on Sophia's movements. She remains our greatest threat."

The moment the words left his lips, he gripped her hips and sheathed himself inside her in one brutal thrust.

"Ah—! M-Master…!"

Hattie's throat spilled a seductive moan, her back arching as Charles's hands clamped over her full breasts, kneading the soft flesh. His waist pistoned relentlessly, each snap of his hips making her plump ass ripple under the force of their coupling. The sharp, wet slaps of skin on skin echoed through the Kitchen, mingling with her whimpers and his ragged breaths.

Beneath him, Hattie writhed, her inner walls fluttering around his thick cock, the friction drawing ragged moans from both. He could feel her tightening, her body coiling like a spring—she was close.

"Come for me," he growled, biting her shoulder as his pace turned erratic.

With a broken cry, she obeyed, her cunt clamping down as pleasure ripped through her. The sensation dragged him over the edge moments later; he buried himself to the hilt, spilling his seed deep inside her with a guttural groan.

For a long moment, they stayed locked together, sweat-slicked and trembling. Finally, Charles pulled out, watching his cum drip from her well-used pussy onto the floor.

"Clean yourself up," he ordered, straightening his robes. "Then prepare for the construction. And don't forget my earlier instructions."

Hattie, still panting, nodded weakly. "Y-Yes… Master."

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