In the sewers, the members of the Radiant Society, cloaked in their signature robes, moved carefully through the filth as they searched for any lurking sources of pollution. They fully cleansed trouble spots when possible—otherwise, they would mark the locations to call in Priest Charles later for purification.
Suddenly, the Mind Flayer leading the group looked up, his brow furrowed with concern. Through psychic magic, he sensed in the distance a mass of oversized rats scurrying past, tail to nose.
These creatures, warped by demonic pollution, seemed to be developing a disturbing level of intelligence. They cackled wickedly as they darted through the darkness below the city—just how dangerous they could become was anyone's guess.
North Harbor District, aboard a massive cruise ship dedicated to nightlife and entertainment—a white-haired shipmaster stood stern-faced before an approaching figure caked in heavy makeup, silently chanting the words to a spell.
Gradually, the cold pallor faded from his skin, revealing his true form: onyx-dark and lustrous, a true Dark Elf. "Yes, it's me. So, what do you want?" he demanded.
The visitor gave a chilling, snakelike smile. "Quite simple, sir. I don't ask for much—just your help with a little plan. It'll benefit us both…"
Rubble District, in a hidden back alley, Shapiro had a goblin pinned hard to the ground, his knee jammed into the creature's neck. His voice was all bark and blade: "So, where's that woman Malena, and her daughter?"
The goblin mewled for mercy. "I swear, my lord, I don't know! After the citywide purge, all my contacts in South Harbor were wiped out by those bloody bastards!"
Shapiro snorted and, without another word, drove his knife straight through the goblin's back, then rose and gazed off into the distance. "South Harbor District…"
Mithral District, House Cassalanter's castle: The corpulent Ammalia Cassalanter stared at the cambion Regolas—his face thick with makeup—in open suspicion. "Are you sure this will work? Won't this offend most of my noble colleagues?"
"And the White Swans Ballet Company, it's already been bought out by the blue dragon… You mean to say you didn't know that, Mr. Regolas?"
Regolas's heart skipped a beat. Clearly, the damage to his intelligence network was already showing. But outwardly, he shrugged, feigning indifference. "Oh, I just need a flock of pure girls. Who they are is really none of my concern."
"If those are no longer available, then get someone else. Go handle it—I don't care."
Ammalia nodded her consent, but her narrowed eyes glittered with calculation—she was plotting her own moves now as well.
...
The New Year, monastery.
Charles slowly opened his eyes, glancing down at the limp mini-beholder cradled in his arms, thoughtful.
Just now, with Xanathar's cooperation, he'd projected his consciousness into the pocket world it created, poking around to see what kind of state it was currently in.
After all, it was a complete plane—a whole new world. Rudimentary, but still full of infinite potential. Used properly, it could easily push Charles's power to new heights.
But reality fell short of his dreams. No matter what he tried—scanning, experimenting, probing—he was left with one conclusion: the world held promise, but only that. It was indeed a finished plane, already purified by Charles, but it simply couldn't support any living thing—not yet.
Like a newly built house with no finishing inside, there was no way anyone could live in it for now; for the moment, it was useless for any function Charles wanted.
To keep growing and reshaping it would mean pouring in even more chaos energy—something he could only try once he reached legendary mage.
So…
Well, at least it's still a pocket world, and that's no small thing! The future is bright.
For now, though, it was just going to be an oversized extradimensional storage space.
With a sigh, Charles let go of any shortcuts, set the mini-beholder aside, and glanced at his system panel, a wave of anxiety crossing his face.
To level from nine to ten, he needed 16,000 Purification Points—he already had over 20,000. Not only was it more than enough, but the leftover points would easily handle whatever emergencies came next.
But then what?
Ten to eleven—from five to six rings—that was the great divide for spellcasters.
Fifth-circle spells and below, you could toss out as long as you had spell slots to burn; power-wise, even a Lightning Bolt only zapped a straight line a hundred meters long at most.
But sixth-circle and higher? You're conjuring ice walls hundreds of meters wide, triggering earthquakes that could shatter mountains or summon tidal waves, hell—even Meteor Swarm, enough to flatten a city in seconds.
And on top of that, there was a hard limit: until legendary, you could only unleash one 6th, 7th, 8th, or even 9th-level spell per day—use it, and you have to meditate all day before you get your shot again.
That was the Goddess of Magic's rule to prevent mages from blowing up the world. Try a second time, and you feel resistance—a backlash that makes the spell fizzle, costing you mana and time for nothing.
It hadn't always been this way. In ancient ages, mages could hurl high-circle magic all they liked, even tinkering with the domain of beyond-ninth-level spells, some trying Thirteenth-circle magic to seize the divine powers of deities by force.
So many apocalyptic disasters followed, the Goddess of Magic finally had to lay down the law—ban everything above ninth, then gradually throttle back what mortals could do. No more reshaping the world on a whim.
Now, only legendary spellcasters can shake off the shackles and wield high magic freely, even dip into the forbidden circles—but only if they're not afraid of pissing off the Goddess herself.
Bottom line: eleventh level, sixth-circle spells, is a turning point. Charles's spellcasting abilities were almost entirely borrowed from Theresa, but even she only mastered up to seventh-level spells. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't push him any higher.
That meant, through Theresa, ten was the hard cap for his current strategy.
If he wanted to go further, he had two paths: switch to Mage and give up twenty hard-won points of Charisma, relying on his system-boosted fifteen Intelligence for spellcasting—painful, slow, but technically possible.
Or, find a stronger patron who could cast higher-circle spells—not to dump power into him, but just to share their ability so his warlock level cap would rise.
But… where to find someone like that?
Charles's mind conjured up two faces. One: Vajra Safahr, current Blackstaff, legendary spellcaster, artifact wielder, and absolutely reliable—no problem at all as a patron.
Two: Laeral Silverhand, true-blood daughter of the Goddess of Magic, demigod-level mage, former Witch-Queen of the North, now Open Lord of Liberl Port. If Vajra ever handed over Blackstaff, Laeral might be the strongest arcane caster in the mortal world.
Granted, the Goddess's absence had left her powers much diminished, but she could still guarantee Charles a straight shot to level twenty as his patron.
There was just one problem…
Neither of them was nearly fond enough of him yet.
Handing over the Stone of Grohl had probably earned him a nice chunk of favor from both, but nowhere near enough to get them to share top-tier spellcasting.
With a sigh, Charles shook his head—it looked like the path to greater power was still long and winding.
Well. No sense worrying about the distant future. Best to seize every bit of strength I can, right now.
With that thought, he cast away his doubts and tapped "Level Up" on the system panel.
~~~
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