Witch Monastery

At the Blue Dragon Bank's top floor, Rahman, who had just returned to his room, gazed downward with calm vertical pupils. His eyes followed the figure of Charles as he slowly stepped out of the bank's main entrance, watching until the man disappeared into the streets. Only then did he let out a quiet sigh.

The gift for his mother was within reach—but it still needed a little more time to prepare.

Last year, Rahman's mother had lost her second husband in a battle against an ancient mummy. Worse yet, the corpse had been turned into a dracolich, rendering resurrection impossible.

Though the family had swiftly destroyed the blasphemous undead, his mother had fallen into deep grief, from which she still hadn't recovered.

Rahman himself hadn't been particularly close to his stepfather, but he cared deeply for his mother. He longed to find a truly exquisite gift—one beautiful enough to pull her from her sorrow and restore her joy.

And Charles… was the most perfect candidate he had found so far.

The human's captivating charisma had ensnared Rahman's attention, convincing him that this man would bring his mother immense happiness.

During their negotiations, the blue dragon had been sorely tempted to simply seize Charles—to bind him, adorn him, and stuff him into an ornate gift box before presenting him to his mother.

He was confident that, given his mother's beauty, generosity, and gentleness, the human would eventually understand his good intentions rather than resent him.

Yet after careful consideration, he abandoned the idea.

His mother was still drowning in grief, unable to escape the shadow of her lost husband. In this state, what she needed was a devoted pet—one that could soothe her pain—not a terrified, resentful human doll requiring her warmth to soften its heart.

Besides, the family already had plenty of beautiful playthings seized through force—creatures ranging from celestial unicorns to lovely svirfneblin—all harboring quiet resentment. One more silver-kin human wouldn't make a difference.

So, no. Better to find a way to make Charles willingly, sincerely, love and serve his mother.

With that in mind, Rahman had approved the staggering sum of twenty thousand gold, allowing Charles to spend it freely.

To him, the amount was negligible—hardly worth a second thought. Even the lowest-ranking bank teller could authorize a dozen such investments in a single day.

But for Charles? It was an unimaginable fortune.

Even as he stepped out of the Blue Dragon Bank, the signed contract in hand, his consciousness remained hazy, his steps unsteady. He could scarcely believe it—not only had he met a real blue dragon, but after refusing the creature's initial demand, he had somehow secured 150% more funding than expected.

Twenty thousand gold?

Just… like that?

This…

Yet, the moment he recalled the blue dragon's proposal, Charles shuddered in disgust.

Damn it all—that overgrown lizard actually wanted to ship him off to some middle-aged female blue dragon's bed as a plaything!

I'd rather starve, die in the gutters, or leap off South Harbor's cliffs than become some rich wyrm's toy boy!

Dignity aside, the real issue was that a dragon's "plaything" had a horrifically short life expectancy.

Shaking his head to dispel the grim thoughts, Charles realized his stomach was growling.

The sun had dipped past noon, so he wandered the streets, weaving through the shadows of towering buildings until he found a minotaur-run grill. After ordering an absurdly expensive lamb chop, he dug in.

Hmm. Not bad. After years of monastery gruel, a proper meal was a rare luxury.

The feast cost him five gold—a steep price in an age before industrial farming.

Then again, this was the Central District, where every inch of land bled coin.

Any business here had to charge exorbitantly just to break even.

Ever since the Empire of Sein collapsed under its own rot, the once-oppressed minor nations had awakened, diving headfirst into global trade.

The Amazon Kingdom was one example, but countless others followed. Their independence fueled an economic boom, with thousands of merchant ships crisscrossing the seas daily—hauling ore from the Blacksoil Continent, dwarven-forged steel, blue dragon-crafted powerstones, and elven-woven magical artifacts…

This endless trade birthed fortunes. A single price swing in commodities could mint new tycoons or ruin speculators overnight. Ambitious opportunists sniffed out deals daily, their schemes bankrolled by conglomerates hungry for growth.

And Liberl Port, blessed with natural harbors and the University District's patronage, stood at the heart of it all. The Central District? A gilded cage reserved for international megacorps.

So yes. Five gold for a skewer of meat was downright reasonable.

After eating, Charles roamed Central District's streets, hunting for spellbooks (second-circle or higher) and trinkets for the nuns.

The tram back to South Harbor wouldn't depart until evening, so he had time to browse—and to reminisce about strolling through a modern city's towering skyline.

Alas, with no reliable contacts, the spellbook search proved futile. By sunset, he trudged to the tram stop, laden with jewelry boxes, and boarded the rattling carriage home.

As twilight faded, the gleaming spires of Central District gave way to South Harbor's squalor. He finally reached the monastery, where a cluster of nervous nuns waited at the gate.

The sight warmed his heart. Smiling, he stepped forward, gifts in hand—

—only for Hattie to rush up, face pale.

"Master! There's trouble in the slums."

She swallowed.

"Blackstaff Tower's investigation team… it looks like they've been wiped out."

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