In the sewers beneath Liberl Port, deep inside the Xanathar's Guild secret lair.
"That… bastard!"
The beholder Xanathar kept all its eyes clenched shut, communicating with its subordinates through magic. But soon, its huge central eye snapped open, pulsing with unrestrained rage.
Just recently, it had struck a new deal with Ammalia Cassalanter—to smear the name of the notorious hero who destroyed Montport, the so-called follower of the Goddess of Life, Nigel Charles.
Afterward, it had shipped a new batch of its minions into South Harbor District, planning to reclaim its territory there.
True, that area was dirt poor and barely profitable. But, as long as it stayed chaotic, it would always breed desperate bottom-feeders—exactly the sort of henchmen Xanathar needed to keep stirring up trouble throughout the city.
Plus, South Harbor's slums were isolated, where news didn't travel fast. Sure, launching a smear campaign from there meant more effort for less payoff, but the sluggish rumor-mill was also a blessing—it could manipulate public opinion at will, out of sight from those nosy, sharp-nosed reporters from other districts.
By the time the year-end knighting ceremony rolled around and all the tabloid journalists showed up to interview folks in South Harbor, what they'd find would be an atmosphere already thoroughly poisoned against Charles.
And such "explosives from Charles's hometown" would naturally seem even more credible to people in other districts—merchants, officials, nobles—who knew nothing of him, landing a truly fatal blow to his reputation.
This was Xanathar's long game—a trick it knew all too well from its years wallowing in the underworld. It was determined to utterly destroy Charles's foundation.
But it could never have imagined Blackstaff Tower would go off the rails and, together with Mithral Hall, launch a brutal crackdown. Not only did this annihilate most of Xanathar's men in South Harbor, it even devastated its arrangements in the other districts!
Now, not only would the deal with Ammalia Cassalanter fall through, but even its own status was hanging by a thread!
"Who was it—who the hell did this?!"
It roared, the fury burning in its paranoid mind, vowing to make the perpetrator pay a hundred times over!
Sure, it didn't dare pick a fight with the Blackstaff archmages—but as for whoever had acted so ruthlessly in South Harbor? They would pay, no matter what!
"It can't be Chauvin—he's a greedy coward, no way he'd have the guts. Even if he lost his mind and started decapitating people to suck up to his superiors, he doesn't remotely have the strength!"
Even blinded by revenge, the beholder's mind was sharp as ever. "Someone else must be pulling the strings. Find out who had the balls to pull this off!"
"We are going to make them pay!"
It snarled, grinding its teeth, fury shaping its next plans on the spot.
Just then, a sinister voice slipped into its mind: "Great Xanathar, looks like you've run into quite a bit of trouble."
"So, have you reconsidered our proposal? Would you consider using your Dreams for a grand experiment?"
Xanathar immediately composed itself, though its tone was still full of venom: "Mind flayer, cut the psychic link—now!"
Beholders were among the strangest of aberrations. Their Dreams could literally rewrite reality. For instance, a beholder dreaming of its own death would instantly transform itself into an undead Death Tyrant upon waking.
Or, if a beholder dreamed of meeting a stranger of its own kind, it would awaken to find a newborn beholder—its offspring—suddenly at its side.
But with all beholders being so extremely stubborn and arrogant, new spawns usually led to bloody conflict, with only one survivor.
Of course, no beholder could choose not to dream, or control the specific content of its Dreams.
So beholders both feared and were fascinated by their own dreams.
Recently, a coven of Mind Flayers had approached Xanathar, seeking to use their psionic powers to meddle in its Dreams—dangerous experiments to see what would happen if a beholder's reality-altering talent clashed with mindflayer psychic magic.
They were obsessed with this idea—longed to see what would happen if these powers collided.
Naturally, Xanathar had refused them. Its own Dream meant everything—life, destiny, and future. How could it trust something that crucial to a pack of evil Mind Flayers?
Even now, enraged as it was, the beholder snapped back, only for the Mind Flayer's voice to calmly resume: "Don't be so quick to refuse, dear beholder. Our experiment could help you master the power of Chaos Energy."
"For example… imagine you dream of a future where you control Chaos Energy—"
Suddenly the Mind Flayer's voice trailed off in suspense.
Chaos Energy—primeval stuff, the raw material the gods used to forge the material world and the endless power supply of Abyssal Demons.
That kind of power tempted even the beholder—but it was incredibly risky, beyond dangerous.
And yet… it was so tempting that it might just be worth the risk.
Xanathar's mind raced, then its voice turned low and menacing: "Then you'll accept observation by my subordinates, Mind Flayer?"
"If you show the faintest sign of treachery, they'll kill you instantly."
The Mind Flayer replied smoothly, "No problem, honored beholder."
In the eternal darkness below the city, a perilous experiment—one that could upend everything above—was quietly taking shape.
Meanwhile, as all this unfolded, in a private dining room at the seafood hall in South Harbor District, Charles lounged in a soft leather chair, looking across at Chauvin, who seemed to have swallowed a hundred flies, utterly miserable.
So Charles smiled and asked, "So, Captain—you're just afraid that all this killing is going to bring down blame from the higher-ups?"
Chauvin let out a sigh and nodded. "Of course! I mean, over five hundred dead… Our mission was to hunt cultists, but there's no way all those people were cultists, right?"
"We can't just use the same excuse every time. Sooner or later, that story stops working."
Charles shook his head, amused, "No, Captain, that excuse will work just fine!"
He took out his Bag of Holding, pulled out a slim notebook, and slid it across the table. "Look—this is that list you gave me. I've also done some investigating myself."
"Let's just say, Chief, we got the evidence first, we made sure all these guys were guilty as sin before we made a move. See all these transaction records? And the rest, it's all evidence. If this went to court, they'd all be found guilty, no question."
Then, carefully, he produced more physical evidence: "Look—homemade potions. I gotta say, the crap these people were brewing? If only they'd put that genius to better use."
Truthfully, Charles was patting himself on the back here.
He'd decided to wipe out every single gang named on the Chauvin list after listening to the nuns denounce their crimes. Only afterward had he sifted through their lairs, dug up their goods, documents, and transaction logs, and confirmed that every single one was as guilty as charged.
In short: They executed first, then investigated. Fortunately, everyone killed actually deserved it—no real injustice was done.
Chauvin flipped through the little notebook, growing more appalled with every crime listed. Judged by any normal conscience, every name on that list deserved to die.
But…
At length, Chauvin nodded grimly, face full of complicated emotions. "Good job. It was the right call! Even if the higher-ups come looking for answers, now we've got everything covered… ha…"
He forced a laugh, but couldn't shake his unease inside.
Those five hundred dead weren't just individuals. They each had families—old parents, siblings, a swarm of children…
All told, probably five thousand people. In short, they'd just made bitter enemies of a tenth of South Harbor's population.
How were they supposed to live here now—with five thousand people out for blood?
The vengeance sure to come could destroy him utterly.
But Chauvin couldn't quite bring himself to say any of that aloud.
Charles, for his part, could see right through him. Honestly, he shared those same worries. In South Harbor, poverty and crime went hand-in-hand. Most who turned to crime had simply run out of options. The truth was messier than any list could show.
Yes, this move had protected countless innocent, law-abiding residents—but it also made bitter enemies out of those who, while not criminals themselves, still profited in big ways from those gangs.
Charles still needed to recruit here, and didn't want his own reputation turning too fearsome to be useful.
But, he'd already devised a plan before meeting Chauvin today.
"How about this, captain Chauvin?" he suggested. "You're the district's Guard chief—the top authority on security here. So when something this big happens, most of the credit belongs to you…"
Chauvin gave him a baleful look—So you kill all these people, then make me take the blame, play the scapegoat, clean up your mess?
He was pissed—but then Charles continued, and Chauvin's eyes lit up: "With such an achievement to your name—showing your resolve against evil—I could put in a good word and get you transferred to a more important district."
"Say, Mithral District. Or the Central District. What do you think?"
In other words: You bear the bad reputation, I arrange a plum job for you.
This wasn't just empty promises. Charles might not have been officially knighted or sure of his future influence, but getting Chauvin transferred to Central District was already in the realm of possibility.
He'd only need to inform Rahman, then Rahman to the Central Guard, and between them and Mithral District, Chauvin could be reassigned in a flash.
Even a deputy position would be a quiet promotion—very promising.
Hearing this, Chauvin's face practically beamed, unable to hide his excitement.
Those were the power hubs—the administrative center, the economic center, all of Liberl Port's finest posts.
Positions there oozed money; even a touch of authority could fill your coffers beyond anything possible in South Harbor.
Every slot was coveted by thousands; normally a nobody like Chauvin would have no chance. If he could really get transferred, this "blame" was well worth it.
With Charles's guarantee, Chauvin's gloom vanished. Instantly, he was all smiles, face wrinkling into a flower. "Oh, Priest! You're too kind. Tackling crime is my job—credit or not, I'm just doing my duty!"
Landing a job in one of those two districts was his real goal in currying favor with Charles, handing over names, even selling out his old friends and partners.
With the chance right in front of him, how could he say no?
Of course he agreed!
Seeing him so change his tune, Charles smiled faintly. "That's exactly what I thought. Then I'll leave this honor to you, Chief Chauvin—thank you for your hard work!"
...
Leaving the seafood restaurant, both Charles and Chauvin wore satisfied expressions. Whatever the true process, both had gotten what they wanted.
Chauvin headed back to his Guard office; Charles, on the other hand, made for the monastery. No more masks, no more deals—now it was time to focus on his own people.
His nuns.
He pushed open the monastery gates; inside, silence reigned—like not a soul was present. Charles didn't find it odd; he skipped his own break (lunch with Chauvin had dragged on), and headed straight for the third scriptorium.
This was the special study room he'd set aside for the nuns—to learn their letters, absorb doctrine, and practice magic. Just a single level for now, but it did its job.
And now, it was packed.
Opening the door, a wave of recitation hit him like a physical force, nearly pushing him back out.
Inside, his squad of fourteen battle nuns sat in two neat rows, each with a simple desk, copying out the first chapter of the goddess's doctrine, reading aloud in unison.
Most of these girls were sixteen or seventeen, at most eighteen or nineteen. Clad in matching habits, sitting tall and proper, their voices filled the air.
For a second, Charles felt as if he'd never left his old world—as if he'd walked back into a high school classroom.
At the head of the room sat Sophia, reading her spellbooks and keeping an eye on the nuns' studies. When she saw Charles appear, she looked up and smiled warmly.
Charles nodded in return.
Just then, the wall clock chimed twice—break time.
The chorus slowly faded; a few restless nuns turned to see him in the doorway, then lit up with joy: "Priest, you're back!"
"Priest, did everything go smoothly?"
"Priest, when's our confinement going to end?"
...
Their voices tumbled out one after another, the last girl especially pitiful—she was hoping to sway Charles's heart.
After obliterating South Harbor's underworld, Charles had issued a strict lockdown—no one in or out. Every nun was to stay indoors, studying scripture until further notice.
No one really complained. Staying inside was standard for monasteries, and they'd braced themselves for it before joining.
Still, as time went on, a few girls were bound to get stir-crazy.
But, instead of his usual gentle tone, Charles wore a very stern face, replying: "It'll end only when everyone's finished the lessons for chapter one and learned every word inside."
That first chapter was the Church of the Goddess of Life's essential primer—the core of her doctrine in plain language, with nothing obscure. So Sophia was using it as a literacy text to teach the nuns to read, and to deepen their faith.
But it was plenty to chew on. Several girls immediately pouted, obviously upset by the task.
Sensing their mood, Charles stayed serious: "Anyone dissatisfied with this can give up the powers bestowed by the goddess and leave the monastery."
"We follow the goddess as a group. Of course, I want us to grow—but even more, I care about the purity of our faith."
Several nuns blanched, then looked down, silent. After tasting such power—after crushing their enemies with ease—there was no way they'd ever go back to being weak.
With those words, not one uttered a peep of protest.
Seeing this, Charles sighed inwardly. He knew changing things would take time.
But he didn't rush. His face softened as he addressed them again: "We're followers of the goddess. Lockdown is only temporary, but the last few days were heavy—everyone's shaken up."
He meant the purge earlier—a wave of death that shook not just the district but the monastery itself.
Over five hundred lives lost… No one could face that without feeling something.
Even Charles himself couldn't shake the blood off his hands without trembling—wondering if he'd gone too far.
Only after seeing the evidence himself, confirming everyone slain had truly deserved it, did his mind finally settle.
If it was hard for him, it was even harder for these girls.
Some nuns saw that many of those executed had just been pawns dragged in by their bosses, innocents forced into crime. That guilt weighed heavy on them.
Some were intoxicated by their own power, coming to see themselves as above normal folk—arrogant, even callous.
Others figured that since things had gone this far, they might as well take the next step—claim the right to rule South Harbor, to make all the rules.
The death of hundreds of criminals, the fall of so many organizations—the repercussions had left each nun with her own twisted burden to bear.
Charles's job—the only thing that mattered now—was to steer all these hearts back onto the right path.
"Cowardice, confusion, arrogance, pride—none of these are what the goddess wishes for us." His voice was low and warm, seeping into every heart in the room. "But words alone are hollow. All I can do is have everyone study the scripture, and hold fast to the examples inside."
"Only by truly understanding reality, and the goddess's true teachings, can we cleanse away doubt and arrogance, and build a faith that's truly strong—truly unbreakable."