The Rubble District, Among the Mountains
Ilarode, Archdruid of the Mountaineer tribe and father to Nidalee, stood at the cliff's edge overlooking the fathomless abyss. Clad in a robe of vibrant avian plumage and leaning upon his gnarled wooden staff, he solemnly recited ancient incantations, channeling the primal energies of nature to pacify the creatures below while purifying a vast, creeping corruption.
Yet his efforts bore little fruit.
"ROOOAAAR—!"
A thunderous snarl of agony erupted from the depths, shaking the very mountains. The Behemoth's tortured cry made the Archdruid's brow furrow. Without hesitation, he raised his free hand, tracing intricate sigils in the air as his chanting grew fevered. Emerald motes of light cascaded into the abyss, soothing the tormented colossus until its roars dwindled into uneasy slumber.
Only then did the elder druid exhale, wiping sweat from his weathered forehead. His emerald eyes flicked toward the jagged peaks behind him, burning with quiet fury.
Such insolence!
Yet there was no helping it.
Ever since the Conquerors of the Sein Empire had swept through these lands, the elders who once upheld the Ancient Rules had been all but eradicated. Timeless traditions were severed, their wisdom lost to the ages. And when those white-haired invaders finally withdrew, the new generation of tribal leaders—raised without discipline or constraint—grew reckless. They dared court the power of demons...
Had it not been for their folly, the Earth Dragon sacred to the Mountaineers would not now writhe in such agony.
A sigh escaped him.
If Nidalee failed to retrieve the Holy Sword Fragment, they would have no choice but to forge an alliance with the minotaurs of the Highmountain tribe. Only then could they hope to banish the Abyssal Lord—the architect of this calamity.
As Ilarode pondered, a multicolored songbird alighted upon his shoulder. After listening to its nature-woven message, the Archdruid gave a curt nod. "Understood."
A gust carried him across the slopes, his feet barely brushing the wildgrass as he descended to the tribal encampment—a sparse collection of thatched roundhouses and watchtowers encircled by a wooden palisade. Its defenses were meager, but secrecy shielded it; no outsider knew its location.
Ilarode strode into the central longhouse, where his honored guest awaited: Torun Highmountain, heir to the Highmountain tribe.
Though humanoid, minotaurs were towering figures with bovine heads and powerful reverse-jointed legs. Those of the Highmountain clan resembled yaks, their jet-black fur thick as winter cloaks. Torun rose respectfully as Ilarode entered, bowing his horned head. "Archdruid. You honor me."
The motion emphasized their disparity in stature. Towering at over seven feet, the adult minotaur's horns nearly scraped the rafters. His 300-pound frame was pure muscle, his chest like carved stone.
Ilarode's gaze warmed. Torun was nobly bred, a promising barbarian who walked the Path of the Ancestors . The druid longed to bind him to Nidalee, uniting their tribes—yet his daughter's refusal gnawed at him.
"Sit," Ilarode said. Once settled, he cut to the heart: "What answer does your father give regarding our alliance against the fallen demon-worshipers?"
Torun's voice was gravel-deep. "He agrees. The demonic taint must be purged before winter. A Great Purification of the mountain clans."
"Good." Ilarode allowed himself relief. "With our tribes united, the others will follow."
The minotaur's smile faded. "And... Nidalee? Has she—?"
The druid's laugh was bitter. "She lost the Holy Sword Fragment—a task that should've been simple. Now she infiltrates Liberl Port to reclaim it."
Studying Torun's hulking form, Ilarode weighed the future: the strength of their alliance, the wars they might win. Some sacrifices were necessary.
"Take heart," he said at last. "When she returns, I will see her persuaded. We shall hold a wedding to unite all tribes under one banner."
Torun's eyes blazed with delight. "My gratitude, Archdruid!"
...
Inside the monastery.
The exertions of last night's battle had left Charles thoroughly exhausted. After rescuing Malena and her daughter, he had to set aside another spot within the monastery, constructing a new dormitory as their new quarters.
So today, he slept until high noon, only then finally dispelling all his lingering fatigue. He awoke slowly.
When he opened his eyes, it wasn't just the ceiling of his own dormitory he saw, but also Theresa's smiling face gazing down at him.
She'd been awake for some time already—her Strength was formidable, and she'd gone to bed earlier. At that moment, she sat beside him, wheat-gold hair cascading by its own nature, while her yellow-green eyes were filled with endless gentleness, like a mother looking down at her child, brimful of unconditional tenderness.
"Good morning, Master," the archwitch whispered softly, her lips parting.
"Morning, Theresa," Charles murmured, turning his head to see her already clad in her resplendent white nun's robe.
His eyes lingered on her proud, full breasts, and all other thoughts vanished. He buried his face against her chest.
Theresa chuckled, deftly unfastening her robe to reveal her ample, snow-white bosom. She pulled him close, enveloping his body against hers.
"Mmph—"
Pressed entirely into Theresa's lush, yielding cleavage, Charles felt an unprecedented surge of satisfaction and security. Taller and more voluptuously developed, she cradled him effortlessly against her body. Her generous embrace absorbed every craving as she surrendered to his unrestrained exploration.
He suckled hungrily at one nipple, his tongue swirling around the hardened peak. Theresa's breath hitched, a soft moan escaping her lips. Waves of pleasure flooded her senses—the wet heat of his mouth ravaging her sensitive flesh, each suck and flick sending shivers through her inexperienced nerves. Her pussy grew slick with arousal.
"Master…" Her voice trembled, caught between pleading and need.
Lost in the rhythm of his suckling, Charles only clung tighter. Yet beneath his ardor flickered a trace of pity: Sadly, even a witch's full breasts yield no milk...
He recalled the milky fragrance from the night before, absent here. Shoving the thought aside, he stripped her bare, pinning her beneath him.
His thick cock, slick and ready, slid effortlessly into her soaked entrance. She gasped, arching to take him deeper as he hammered relentlessly into her tightening channel. With each thrust, her walls clenched around his length, milking him toward climax.
"Ah! Harder—!" she cried, nails raking his back as he pounded her into the bedding. Their cries mingled—the slap of skin on skin, the primal rhythm building until he buried himself to the hilt.
Rope after rope of hot cum flooded her womb. She convulsed beneath him, her orgasm tearing through her as her inner muscles spasmed, greedily milking every drop until he collapsed atop her, spent.
Afterward, flushed and weakened, Theresa dragged her naked form from the bed to dress Charles. Robe by robe, she restored him to the image of a dignified Priest. Though his hair and eyebrows had burned away, her meticulous adjustment of his four-cornered black hat hid most of it.
Save for his completely incinerated hair and eyebrows, he appeared unchanged. Though the hair loss would require time to regrow, his priestly four-cornered black hat obscured most damage at a glance.
Charles cared little for this cosmetic sacrifice. Yet Theresa's brow furrowed as she traced the absence of his eyebrows, her voice laced with guilt: "Forgive me, Master, I—"
Knowing what Theresa wanted to say, Charles immediately stretched out his fingertips and blocked her lips: "It's okay, I don't mind. After all, judging from the final result, we are all safe, right?"
Every purified witch followed this same apologetic ritual upon awakening. He'd long since learned to skip straight to the resolution.
To divert the conversation, he began dressing her, starting with her undergarments. "Now that you're purified," he asked, "can you still wield that Chaos Energy?"
Theresa nodded. "The pact's terms endure. The power remains mine." She examined her palms. "If anything, my control has stabilized."
"Good." Charles exhaled as he slipped white stockings onto her feet. Theresa accepted his ministrations with regal ease while reporting: "With your bestowed enhancements, the Adventurers' Guild would rate me around Challenge Rating 16 now."
This "blessing" referred to the monastery's Level 2 upgrade—every purified witch under Charles gained strength. Normally a CR 13 threat (meaning a well-balanced four-adventurer party of equivalent level could theoretically defeat her), Theresa now demanded CR 16 opposition.
Despite being merely an 11th-level spellcaster with only 6th-tier spells, her witch traits—supernatural vitality, immense mana reserves, and innate cunning—made her deadlier than some archmages wielding 9th-tier magic. Those legendary spellcasters typically merited only CR 12 ratings.
Had she not recklessly tampered with Chaos Energy, Charles doubted he could have bested her conventionally.
His expression soured at her assessment. "Those Guild ratings are... optimistic at best."
Combat effectiveness varied wildly between classes, wealth tiers, and tactical knowledge. Nidalee's haphazard "Land Druid moonlighting as a hunter" proved how little most natives understood optimization. The Guild's manuals grew laughably inaccurate beyond Level 5—a supposedly CR 16 Theresa could likely be toppled by a savvy Level 7 party.
Yet Theresa, equally ignorant of meta-strategies, found the Guild's metrics credible. She didn't press the argument as they arm-in-armed their way to the adjacent bathchamber.
While brushing her teeth, she suddenly mumbled around the toothbrush: "Master... you saved that Lisa girl, yes?"
Charles spat foam. "Aye. Why?"
Theresa's emerald-yellow eyes darkened. "That... may bring trouble. She was my promised payment."
He froze mid-scrub. "Explain."
"Hattie must've told you? The Abyssal Lord who taught me Chaos Energy demanded pure souls as remuneration. Lisa was to be his next offering." Her fingers whitened on the washbasin. "Now that you've taken her, he'll see it as betrayal. He will come."
Charles was stunned. He spat the foam from his mouth, set down his toothbrush, and scratched his scalp. "Uh… That's definitely trouble. But we can't possibly hand Lisa over…"
"That Abyssal Lord… Is his Strength very great? Wait, is he currently in the material world? Abyssal Lords shouldn't be able to enter so easily, right?"
Abyssal Lords: the term for those overwhelmingly powerful demons who rule vast territories in the bottomless Abyss. But their exact Strength is difficult to judge—the gap between the weakest and the strongest is enormous.
The weak ones might possess only a tiny realm, with a challenge rating of just eleven or twelve—a fifth-level Adventurer Squad could defeat them.
But the truly mighty could rule several layers of the Abyss at once, like the infamous Demon Prince, a legendary Abyssal Lord, Demogorgon of the twin baboon heads—whose challenge rating is as high as twenty-six, something only an eleventh-level Adventurer Squad could possibly challenge.
Of course, that's Charles's perspective. To the natives of this world, even the weakest Demon Lords would require at least an eleventh-level Adventurer Squad to take down; as for legends like Demogorgon, only legendary strong ones above level twenty could stand a chance.
Ahem.
Either way, all such lords are demons, and demons are supposed to fight amongst themselves in the bottomless Abyss; generally, they don't come to the material world. Even if cultists summon them, this is Liberl Port—if a mighty Abyssal Lord truly descended, the Blackstaff Tower absolutely would not sit idle.
To this question, however, Theresa's expression turned awkward. "He… is probably a bit stronger than I am."
"And he's currently in the material world—right in the Rubble District you visited some days ago, Master."
As she spoke, the girl's face looked all the more embarrassed. "Coincidentally, he's the very one who was summoned to the material plane during that last Night of the Witches, when Ruth went out of control—summoned by a demon-worshipping tribe in the Rubble District—and he's remained here ever since."
"I noticed his existence, understood what he desired, and so secretly struck a deal with him… Sigh, it was even my suggestion: because there are too many legendary strong ones in Liberl Port, his best option was to first send agents to scout things out, rather than expose his own trail before the city's denizens."
Charles was dumbfounded. "What?!"
Theresa nodded earnestly. "Yes, exactly because he's been hiding deep in those mountains, the Blackstaff Tower can barely intervene."
"Right now, he doesn't know our monastery's location. But if he doesn't receive the cargo I promised, he'll begin investigating—and sooner or later, he'll find us…"
Upon hearing this, Charles felt an intense headache.
"This…" he gritted his teeth inwardly, "trouble… And you definitely can't defeat him, right?"
Theresa nodded lightly, then added with difficulty, "Yes, although his body is cumbersome—if I fought only to escape, I'm confident. But to destroy him? Nearly impossible."
"And if he personally comes to attack the monastery, all I could say is that, with the power of my domain, I may fend him off—but killing him would be almost impossible."
"And with his destructive power, before that he could do us grievous harm…"
Hearing this, Charles felt a genuine sense of crisis. "This is just…"
He had thought that having purified Theresa, he'd finally enjoy a period of peace. He hadn't expected such monstrous foes to still be lurking on the horizon.
Shaking his head, forcing the anxieties from his mind, he took a deep breath. "Forget it, let's not worry about him for now. Since that Abyssal Lord consciously remains hidden in the mountains, it means he knows how dangerous Liberl Port is; he wouldn't dare approach lightly."
"We'll just keep to our own pace, build up our Strength, and wait for him to come knocking…"
Theresa nodded, but even so Charles still felt an urgent sense of unease. He wasted no time—after washing up he hurried to the kitchen for breakfast.
And during breakfast, a bold thought suddenly occurred to him.
Why had Nidalee been so desperate to obtain the Holy Sword Fragment—even chasing it into the monastery? Could she be connected to this demon lord lurking in the mountains?
After all, the Holy Sword Fragment's greatest value lies in its remaining sacred energy, able to inflict deadly wounds on all manner of unholy monsters.
Hiss…
It seems the value of this druid captive is even greater than he'd first imagined.
At this moment, Nidalee was being held in the dungeon beneath the bath chamber. Charles resolved at once: the training of this Leopard must begin without delay.
...
Nidalee, in her leopard form, was running swiftly across the wild hills. The autumn wind rippled through the grass, carrying the fresh scents of the season. She relished the taste of freedom—her heart and body overflowing with happiness.
Ahead, on a slope, stood a tall, slender boy, his back to her, white hair falling to his shoulders, radiating a powerful charisma. Nidalee felt a burning desire well up in her body, and in a flash she burst forward, pouncing—
"Ah—!"
He tumbled beneath her, turning in panic to reveal a familiar, handsome face. Nidalee felt a surge of satisfaction; she immediately reverted to her true form, quickly tugged open the boy's clothes, and uncovered that pale, athletic body—every inch of skin fascinated her.
Her hands kept moving. She removed his trousers, exposing that proud, masculine weapon. The boy's expression was faintly bashful; with a sly smile curving her lips, Nidalee teased it with her hands, then slowly sat down onto him.
"Oh…"
A moan of satisfaction escaped both their lips. They embraced, kissing, rolling together upon the hillside, and then—
Then what?
Then… in theory, it should have been—
Then Nidalee woke up, confusion clouding her gaze.
Ah, just another spring dream.
Though she didn't mind comforting herself, at her core, she was still a maiden—she had no idea what true union between man and woman felt like. So whenever her dreams reached the critical moment, her mind would run out of material, forcing her up from sleep.
There was nothing to be done—unless someone suddenly appeared to teach her in person.
She rose reluctantly from the bed, glancing around.
Still… a prisoner.
This place was a cell less than twenty square meters. Three walls were white as snow, the last one made of iron bars separating her from the outer corridor. There were no windows—just a few oil lamps in the passage, giving a meager light.
Inside, only a bed and a chamberpot; at least it was fairly clean, but for a druid who longed for nature and the open air, it was torment.
Her clothing now consisted not of two animal-hide garments, but a blue-and-white striped prison uniform. Her black hair, no longer tied in a ponytail, fell naturally to her shoulders, softening her wildness into vulnerability.
Her sandals had been taken, so she went everywhere barefoot—thankfully, the floor was spread with straw, making it bearable.
Nidalee did not arise immediately. As always, the first thing she did was to sit cross-legged on the bed, close her eyes, and try to perceive the great outdoors.
But soon her eyes opened again, full of disappointment.
She sensed nothing of nature's energy, as if this dungeon were half-separated from the material world. Thus, no hint or power came to her aid, and all her spellcasting abilities were empty and unrecoverable.
What should I do…?
Dim, narrow, oppressive, regret, confusion, loneliness, emptiness…
All these pressed in on her, nearly drawing tears.
It was then she heard footsteps on the stairs outside.
Someone was coming!
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