South Harbor District, outside the monastery.
Hand in hand with a Dark Angel, Nymeria strolled along the streets of the newly built annex neighborhood next to the monastery, her eyes gleaming with excitement as she admired the rows of food stalls.
Ever since Charles began buying up land in large quantities, a second residential community had gone up. Just like the first neighborhood—which had homes exclusively for Amazons—this second community was sold only to native residents of the South Harbor District.
That was his plan: to make sure the locals could also ride the wave of wealth, instead of letting all the gold go to the gold dragonborn.
Compared to the Amazons' quarter, the local neighborhood felt much more alive. Because of all the construction, City Hall had hired many locals as temporary workers, and lots of people had to stay in South Harbor District for the time being.
This brought local families some extra income. For example, outside the new neighborhood, vendors were everywhere, selling everything from kids' clothes to street food—a lively little market had sprung up almost overnight.
Nymeria was strolling there now with a Dark Angel girl. As they walked, she muttered to herself, "What should we eat today… Sally, do you want anything in particular?"
Sally—that was the name Charles had given this dark angel. She looked almost exactly like Malena, but her hairstyle was completely different.
Her dark red wavy hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she wore a white sundress, giving off a much younger, livelier vibe than Malena's mature elegance.
This had become her regular look. With over a hundred girls who looked nearly identical, it was hard for Charles and the others to tell them apart, so he'd had them all pick different clothes and hairstyles as makeshift IDs.
It didn't solve everything, but it helped.
"Um… that one," Sally said, raising her finger toward some cotton candy. This was her reward day—she'd aced her history tests with the highest score, so Nymeria had brought her out for a treat.
"Cotton candy? Yes! I want some too!"
Nymeria led her up to the old woman selling the cotton candy and asked for four sticks. After paying, they each took a piece—their cotton candy was almost as big as their heads—and stuck out their small tongues for a taste.
The sweet, melting flavor on their tongues made the experience almost too good for words.
"Wow, sneaking out today was so worth it!" Nymeria mused, thinking back to her bland homeland diet and feeling smug about her cleverness.
Sally, too, was savoring the flavor, grinning with delight.
She opened her eyes, taking in the faces around her: parents scolding children with varying degrees of severity, the laughter and squeals of little kids playing.
A girl bumped into her by accident and quickly apologized. Sally assured her it was fine and watched the little girl run off, growing a bit dazed.
She really liked this place. She wanted to come back often.
"You two out here too?"
Suddenly, a familiar voice called out. Nymeria's face changed as she turned—Charles and Hattie were walking side by side toward them.
An old man had suddenly asked to convert on his deathbed, to take refuge in the embrace of the Goddess of Life. Charles was on his way to bring comfort in this man's last days.
"Priest." Sally greeted him, reaching out her hand. Charles nodded in reply. "Yeah, Sally, right? Is the cotton candy good?"
Sally nodded quietly. "It's delicious. I really like it."
Charles smiled. "Glad you like it. When you're done, you two head home—don't make anyone worry."
He turned to Nymeria, about to speak—when he noticed the elf girl seemed strangely uneasy.
She lowered her head and wouldn't meet his eyes. Suddenly, she blurted, "Priest, goodbye," grabbed Sally's hand, and hurried away.
Watching her leave, Charles looked confused. "What's up with her?"
He'd felt Nymeria was acting strange these past few days—ever since they'd returned from the island, she'd seemed to avoid him. She hadn't dared meet his eyes or speak to him directly like before.
The sudden change baffled him, but since she kept dodging him, he'd had no chance to ask about it. He just made a mental note to follow up when he could.
He turned back and walked off with Hattie.
The baptism wasn't complicated, and by the time it finished, the sun was setting. After saying goodbye to the family, he and Hattie headed home. But passing by one house, Charles heard a familiar voice:
"Give it a rest! You're never gonna sell those stupid slippers!"
"What do you mean? Didn't I sell twenty pairs just yesterday?"
"Twenty-five pairs sold this whole month and you still brag!"
"Just wait—the orders will start rolling in soon enough…"
...
Charles stopped, curiosity piqued. He took Hattie's arm, detoured a few steps, and glanced toward the source of the argument.
He spotted a hefty woman, belly rounded with pregnancy, washing clothes and bickering with her husband. Her sturdy build, dark skin, and long wavy hair made it clear she was an Amazon.
She wasn't living in the Amazon district, but in this nameless little corner of the slums—a clear sign she'd turned her back on her own tribe's traditions.
Looking past her, Charles saw a chubby, bald, one-eyed man perched on a chair surrounded by rubber soles, making slippers.
His right pants leg was empty—he was a disabled man with little left for labor.
Something about him felt familiar.
Where had Charles seen him before?
As he was watching, the couple noticed him as well. The Amazon woman quickly shut her mouth, elbowed her husband, and smiled: "Buying laundry or slippers, sir—or… Priest Charles?"
She suddenly recognized him. Surprise, delight, and uncertainty flashed across her face. "Oh, wow, it's you!"
She grinned awkwardly, sweat beading on her brow.
Charles's mind whirred—he couldn't remember this woman from anywhere.
Weird. Why would she be so nervous? Had she offended him before?
He turned to the man, who looked just as startled and anxious. Looking closer, Charles noticed faded tattoos and scars across the man's head and face.
The ink was mostly gone, but enough was left to prove this guy wasn't always a law-abiding citizen.
Was he one of the South Harbor District's old black-market types?
Or maybe he'd been mixed up in the gang business once—but managed to survive the big purge at the start of the year because of his disability?
Noting their anxiety, Charles felt a twinge of sympathy. He spoke up, "It's fine. I'm just passing through."
The Amazon woman forced a smile. "If you've got time, Priest, why not come in and check out the slippers?"
"Not to brag, but my husband's slippers are super sturdy—and crazy comfortable, too…"
She went on, while Hattie smiled at her. The sudden presence of an unseen pressure seemed to make the woman's smile even more forced.
Charles looked at the bald, one-eyed man—who tried to look tough but now sat like a scolded schoolboy. Charles still couldn't recall where they'd met.
Ah, forget it. Whatever trouble he'd caused was in the past; this man was already a cripple.
And if he'd escaped the purge, his name can't have been on the list for any real crimes.
Lucky for him, fate had spared him.
Charles nodded and told the man, "Alright, I'll try a pair."
He stepped inside, walked to the man's side, with Hattie following closely.
The man swallowed nervously, beads of sweat forming. Still, he forced a fawning smile, "Priest, what size do you need?"
Charles gave their usual sizes, and the man quickly fetched two pairs. Charles kicked off his shoes, tried them on, and found them perfectly comfortable.
Hattie slipped off her sandals, slipped her white, plump feet into the slippers, and nodded at Charles in satisfaction.
Charles praised, "These are good shoes."
The one-eyed man seemed to relax, pride shining through. "It's the craft my father passed down. He used to be the best cobbler in South Harbor, everyone said so."
But right after, sorrow clouded his face. He shook his head. "Still, making shoes can't protect my family. Picking up a blade didn't work either—just a different way to get myself killed."
Charles stared at his empty pant leg, finally starting to piece together the man's story—and realized his honesty was a sort of plea. He wasn't a threat anymore; all he wanted was to rebuild his life with his wife, a baby on the way, and his father's trade in his hands again.
Charles replied gently, "That's all in the past now, shopkeeper."
He looked outside. "The future for South Harbor won't be so poor. As things get better, order will follow. And your business will surely get better too."
The bald man relaxed at last, bowing gratefully. "Thank you, thank you for your blessing. With you guiding South Harbor, honest business will survive."
The pregnant Amazon smiled at him, her own expression full of hope.
Charles slipped off the slippers and put his shoes back on. Glancing at the backlog on the shelves, he said, "Shopkeeper, I'll put in a big order for a thousand pairs—can you give me a discount?"
He wanted to help, but not make it too obvious. Bulk orders would do, and the nuns could always use new slippers.
The man's eyes lit up and he nodded enthusiastically, "Of course, I'll give you the best price. Uh, what sizes? I don't have them in stock, but I can rush production, have them done before the end of the year…"
Charles smiled. "No rush, just make sure every pair is comfortable."
He paused. "How much for the deposit?"
The man named a number. Charles paid, and amidst sincere thanks from the couple, left arm in arm with Hattie.
It was getting late—the sun hovered on the horizon, bathing the world in golden twilight.
Charles exhaled deeply.
This was good. Times had changed.
The old days turned a skilled cobbler's son into a gang enforcer; now, people down on their luck could get a second chance.
He was confident: he'd made the right choices.
With sunset at his back, he hurried toward the monastery.
But as soon as he stepped into the courtyard, Sephera came rushing over with a newspaper. "Master! Big news—Bharata's holy elephant army just repelled the undead, but now they've switched tactics and are raiding the coast and smaller villages. Bharata is calling for help from the whole world—they want the undead crisis ended as soon as possible!"
...
The Cavendish family, basement.
It was pitch-dark, with not a single ray of sunlight. Even with servants cleaning every day, the air was clogged with an inescapable, musty odor.
In the corner sat Morn Cavendish, tied tightly to a chair—thick ropes bound his chest and legs, leaving him unable to move.
If there were any light, you'd see his once-fair, delicate face now pale and bloodless; his eyes, bloodshot and red; and if he opened his mouth, needle-sharp canines that promised violence.
Worse was his state of mind. Where he'd once been confident and energetic, now he was wild-haired, eyes filled with madness—like a mental patient, or a crazed predator waiting to strike.
He was almost insane. What he'd witnessed in the parlor earlier had shattered his mental defenses, leaving him overwhelmed by betrayal and anger.
Especially now, after being turned into a vampire, he trusted no one. Whenever he regained consciousness, he'd fight and scream for death.
His family had been forced to bind him here in the basement, to give him time to calm down.
He'd been alone in the darkness for countless days—nobody knew what was happening inside his mind. Time became meaningless, save for the red sparks that burned ceaselessly in his eyes.
Finally, something changed.
Footsteps, and the basement door opened. An old man with white hair but vigorous energy, dressed in a sharp tailcoat—the recovered Grandpa Cavendish—walked in.
He strode up to Morn, looked down with a sigh. "Still so impatient, aren't you?"
Morn lowered his head in silence, resigned or perhaps lost in his own thoughts.
"That vampire was far too strong. We had no chance of fighting him." The old Cavendish continued, ignoring Morn's mood. "Now we've all been turned—so what's the good of screaming and raging?"
"We have to use other people's strength, and make sure nobody discovers us. Like now—Von Stein's dead, but now our family has real power!"
He held out his hands, gazing at them with nearly religious fervor. "Look at this—endless youth, boundless vitality, and a future of magic power that will only grow!"
A trace of a sneer curled at the corners of Morn's mouth, but Grandpa Cavendish didn't notice. He took a nail and deftly cut through the ropes, freeing Morn. "You still have a lot to learn. First, control yourself—and trust your grandfather's judgment."
With that, he turned and headed back up the stairs. "Have a think. Clean up and get ready—we're heading inland."
No matter how strong they were now, staying in a city full of powerhouses was suicidal.
But in the chaos of Sein's interior, vampires could surely build influence from the shadows.
At least, that's what the old man thought as he walked off.
Behind him, the young Morn Cavendish lifted his head, his crimson eyes flashing in the darkness—no one could guess what he was thinking…
~~~
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