Haunted by the psychological shadow from getting screwed over in the game, Charles was dead convinced that Regolas was the one pulling strings behind all this. Whatever the real story, he'd already decided to dump the blame squarely on that guy.
Except this time, Charles was actually blaming the cambion unfairly.
Because, right at that moment, even Regolas himself could barely keep his own head above water—let alone spare the effort to sabotage Charles!
Trying to assassinate someone at the very height of a cultist purge? Only an idiot would risk it!
At the same time, somewhere in another secret corner of Liberl Port, Regolas was staring at his stats and data, teeth grinding: "Bastard!"
Decades of painstaking work, building up his intelligence network and all those relationships—wiped out in under a week!
How could he not be raging?
He just couldn't figure it out. He'd ordered all his informants to lay low, living as normal as possible, keeping contact to a minimum, waiting to move only if absolutely necessary.
So how on earth did Blackstaff Tower still track everyone down and pull them all out by the roots?
It had to be: Blackstaff Tower must have gotten a detailed, trustworthy list, or they couldn't possibly have been so precise—like thunder striking from a clear sky.
But who?
Who could have given Blackstaff Tower a list like that?!
He truly had no clue. His informants all used one-way connections—none of them even knew each other existed!
And that kind of master-list, with every detail? Even Regolas himself didn't keep it. He'd never written anything down.
He'd simply memorized it all, keeping every detail in his head—no one, not even his higher-ups, had ever seen it laid out so completely.
So who could possibly have targeted him like this?
Who could have that kind of reach?
Regolas drew a complete blank, every pulse in his head pounding with rage and confusion. But there was no time for wallowing. Problems just kept piling up.
Suddenly, one of his Sending Stones began to glow with magical light. The cambion's expression shifted. He took a deep breath, channeled magic into the stone, and listened to the message.
His gaze flickered through a dozen emotions before he finally gritted his teeth, cast a spell, and vanished—appearing instantly in yet another hidden chamber.
There, a massive, muscle-bound figure in tight black leather armor, a huge scythe on his back, was waiting for him: Shapiro. The man gave Regolas a glacial stare, voice frosty as ever.
"Regolas." He didn't bother hiding his contempt. "Any news about my sister and my niece?"
Regolas was burning up inside. Once again, he was about to break a deal. "Don't rush me, dear Shapiro. Surely you've heard—Blackstaff Tower's gone nuts, starting up another big anti-cultist campaign."
"The heat's worse than ever these days. I can barely look after myself, let alone send my people looking for your family."
"Besides, last thing you want is your folks being found by my people—then getting executed as cultists by some loose-cannon Blackstaff goons, right?"
Half true, half bluff. Truth was, with his network gutted, Regolas really couldn't search the whole city anymore. But he'd be damned if he let this warlock see any sign of weakness.
Thankfully, the intense heat in the city bought him some time. Shapiro stared daggers for a long moment but finally backed off—for now. "You'd better move fast. My time's valuable. I don't have the patience to wait forever."
With a last icy snort, he turned and strode out. Regolas smiled politely until the hulking silhouette was gone—then his face turned thunderous.
His efforts in Liberl Port? Utterly sunk. With his entire intelligence network obliterated, there was no point sticking around.
Might as well bleed the city one last time, then cut his losses and vanish to start over somewhere else.
Maybe the increasingly volatile Empire of Sein… Could be a prime new hunting ground…
The thought left him coldly satisfied. Even before the dust settled on this round, a new current of trouble was already brewing.
Meanwhile, outside, Shapiro stopped after a few steps, hesitated, and then slapped himself—hard.
Idiot. After everything, you're still hoping Regolas will come through for you?
You need your own network!
Swearing at himself, he drew a deep breath, raised his head, and strode off in another direction.
Just days ago, a man representing the "Zhentarim" had quietly reached out to him…
...
The next morning, inside the monastery's clinic.
Adele slept, unconscious. At her bedside, Willo sat, drawn and haggard.
Suddenly, the door creaked open. Charles entered, dressed in his priest's robes. Seeing Willo in that state, he couldn't help but sigh gently. "You should rest, Matriarch Willo."
"Don't worry. Adele's long past any danger. She's going to be fine—she just needs time. At most a day or two, and she'll come around."
Willo managed a tired smile. "Thank you, Priest."
Charles walked over and, a little forcefully, helped her up from her chair. Behind him, a life-domain nun stepped softly into the room. "Matriarch, please go get some sleep. I can care for Miss Adele from here."
Charles added, "You need to look after yourself, too. Once Adele wakes and sees you all run-down, she's going to worry about you."
At last, Willo stopped resisting, nodding gently as he helped her out the door. The life-nun, eyes full of envy, watched until their figures disappeared—then sat down at Adele's bedside and quietly monitored her condition.
Outside the clinic, as Willo finally allowed herself to relax, exhaustion crashed over her. Her legs gave out, crumpling her right into Charles's arms.
She hadn't slept a wink all night. Worry for her daughter had kept her going, but now her limits had been reached—she could barely keep her eyes open.
Her delicate, curvaceous body, separated only by a thin druid's robe, ended up in Charles's grasp, sending a bolt of fire through every fiber of his being. He bit down hard, reined in the urge swelling inside him, and spoke softly. "You're exhausted. Let me help you to your room so you can rest."
He gently led her away.
But just then, to his surprise, Willo suddenly gripped his arm, her steps halting.
"Priest." Her tone actually turned serious, even as her eyes stayed shut, like a woman half-drunk. "How much longer before I can qualify as a part-time life-domain nun?"
Charles hesitated. Had she figured something out? He weighed his answer. "Well… honestly, Matriarch, you're already a practiced spellcaster. Channeling divine power would be no challenge for you."
"But the thing is, to become a life-domain Pastor, you have to undergo a special baptism. You've never been in a religious order before, so I was worried you might resist that kind of process…"
"I won't," Willo declared firmly. "Please, Priest, I want that power. I want to be able to care for my own daughter myself…"
Charles sighed, feeling a well of tenderness rise up—an urge to protect her.
He kept it short: "Alright. Rest first, and after you wake…"
Willo forced her eyes open and looked up, almost pleading: "Please, Priest. Now. I don't want to wait."
Charles's heart softened. He sighed again. "Alright. Now it is."
He put an arm around her and led her to the little chapel reserved for nun initiations.
At this time of day, the place was completely empty. When he opened the door, the benches on either side were vacant, but the hot spring in the center was still steaming.
Charles explained, "The ritual is called the 'Baptism of Immersion.' It's straightforward: you take off all your clothes, strip completely, and submerge yourself in the hot spring to receive the blessing."
Willo's fatigue vanished—her eyes shot wide. "Wait, what…?"
Her cheeks instantly flushed scarlet.
That meant he'd see every single part of her body.
Oh gods.
She was a bundle of nerves, embarrassed to the core—unable to even meet his gaze. Charles just sighed. "See? I knew you'd have trouble with this."
"So maybe today's not the day. We can wait, let you really come to terms with the goddess's teachings…"
He was gentle, almost pleading. But Willo drew a deep, bracing breath.
"No. It's fine, Priest. I understand. I… I'm ready."
Whatever it took—even if it meant walking through fire—she would do it.
It's just nudity, right?
Fine—let's do it.
"I understand. This is part of the process," she declared, trembling but determined. "So let's start—now."
Charles studied her, but with her so insistent, he had no reason to object. "Alright."
"I'll begin the ritual directly. If it becomes too much, shout, stop, do whatever you need—no judgment from me."
He released her arm, made sure she could stand alone, and went to the pulpit, where he would officiate.
From his perch, he looked down at the hot spring below and the deeply anxious Willo. In a solemn voice, he intoned, "Believer Willo, please remove all coverings and enter the sacred spring, naked and honest, to receive your goddess's blessing!"
Willo steeled herself, forced down the burning shame, and placed a fingertip to the collar of her robe the color of autumn leaves, whispering a druidic incantation.
As she spoke, leaf-like patterns shimmered across the cloth. Then, almost magically, the garment's fabric began falling away, one piece at a time, floating down like real autumn leaves to form a pile around her feet.
And there she stood, utterly bare before Charles.
He found himself holding his breath. He'd always suspected that druidic robe was enchanted, and though it occasionally gave hints of her body beneath, it always shielded the most important places—never had he seen her entire form. Until now.
And never, ever, had he imagined Willo wore absolutely nothing underneath.
His heart hammered against his chest. Her beauty, even to battle-hardened Charles, was breathtaking.
Willo's figure was on the lush side, but with nature magic's balance she was plump without the slightest trace of fat, her skin creamy and soft as moonlit ivory, every inch like an exquisite sculpture.
Thanks to her satyr lineage, her chest was as grand as any woman Charles had ever seen—rivaling even Theresa and Malena.
Yet she stood only a little over five feet tall, much shorter than those other two, a contrast that made her even more alluring.
Her breasts, high and round, needed no help from gravity; nature magic kept them perfect. Pale pink nipples gave an innocent appeal, and made Charles want to suck and tease them with his tongue.
Down from her chest, her belly was perfectly flat, with a cute little navel. The white down between her thighs was neat and endearing, and her shapely legs pressed tight together, calves soft and round, her feet plump and tempting.
Even her toes looked like pearls—impossible not to want to play with, maybe even take entirely into one's mouth for a taste.
Feeling Charles's gaze intensify, Willo instinctively covered her chest with crossed arms, clamped her legs tight—trying, and largely failing, to hide herself.
She blushed deeply, but didn't resent Charles's openly heated look.
They'd been through so much together—by now, she already trusted and respected him deeply.
In fact, being seen by him, and seeing his response, gave her a secret thrill.
Trying her best not to giggle, she hurried to the edge of the hot spring, tested the water with her toes, then slowly slipped her whole leg in.
As she eased down further, her thighs had to part. When her feet reached the bottom, she stepped both legs in, and gradually sank down until the warm water covered her thighs, hips, waist, and chest—only her head remained above the surface.
"Ah…"
As the heat soaked her muscles, the stress ebbed away, her exhaustion melting off at last. She closed her eyes, unable to hold back a pleased sigh.
What she couldn't know was that, with every movement, the gap opening between her thighs revealed all her most secret, delicate beauty—and Charles's desire nearly spun out of control.
He swallowed hard, then did his best to sound composed: "Goddess, please grant your sincere believer her deserved blessing."
Of course, that was just for show. He secretly opened his system and spent ten Purification Points.
At once, a milky-white radiance poured from the domed chapel roof, flooding the baths and enveloping Willo's body.
"Mmmm…"
Warmth bathed her to the core, seeping into her soul, washing her spirit. But as a high-level druid born of the Feywild, there was little needing purification—so it was mostly ceremonial.
Afterward came the second phase: building the foundation within her to channel the divine power of the Goddess of Life.
That, too, went smoothly—and it felt… wonderful. With closed eyes, Willo felt as if she were floating in a warm sea; not the lonely matriarch bearing the world's weight, but a carefree child, once more cradled in her mother's loving arms, mind empty of worries.
At last, utterly relaxed, breathing deep and slow, Willo drifted off to sleep in the sacred pool.