Charles, flying closer, paused in surprise at the beholder's words. "What did you just say?"
He watched Xanathar's eyes and tone carefully. He had, after all, just sliced off two of its eyestalks—there was no way a paranoid, grudge-holding beholder like this would just let that go and try to cooperate.
And sure enough, just as he expected, even while Xanathar tried to keep its tone calm, both its six intact and two severed eyestalks twitched with barely contained rage as it looked at Charles and the massive double-bladed polearm in his hands.
Pain still radiated from its lost eyestalks, a constant reminder of its humiliation, stoking the flames of fury in its heart.
No way I'd ever share my world with an outsider—much less the very enemy who laid me low!
Just you wait. Once you've helped me finish building my world, or once I've unraveled the essence of your power, you'll have outlived your usefulness.
When the time comes, I'll personally turn you into fertilizer for this world!
Such were the curses Xanathar spat silently in its thoughts. Out loud, though, it feigned temptation: "As you see, Priest Nigel Charles, I am constructing a new world. And to complete it quickly, I need your assistance."
"My plan is to make this world at least half the size of the material world—capable of housing up to a billion people. And because this realm is one we are building together, there will only be one object of faith for these people."
Its tone grew more passionate as it continued, "That's right. You're a priest, so you should understand exactly what this means more than anyone!"
"A billion people, all seeing you and me as their lords, their fathers, their creator gods! Utterly devoted, unwavering—billion true fanatics!"
"They could make us gods!"
By now, Xanathar sounded positively zealous. Its remaining eyestalks swept through the air like a preacher at a revival, arms wide, evangelizing its doctrine to an imaginary crowd.
It was all for show, of course. Inside, Xanathar had no intention of sharing faith with anyone.
One of its eyestalks furtively watched Charles's expression, ready to add sweeteners to the deal if he showed any sign of interest. Whatever it took, it was determined to lure Charles in!
That was the beholder's plan—but looking at the mutations on Xanathar's body, the product of so much meddling with Chaos Energy, Charles was lost in thought.
Is this thing even long for this world?
It was true—antimagic and demiplane creation were both 8th-level spells. If Xanathar could cast the former, it had the qualifications for the latter.
However, to create a demiplane from nothing but magic, using Chaos Energy to build a real, self-contained world—well, that was something else entirely.
Xanathar hadn't even reached demigod status—wasn't even legendary yet. To tap into world-forging Chaos Energy prematurely could only mean one thing: certain death.
Charles was sure of this. The game itself warned players countless times: If you meddle with Chaos Energy without the strength to back it up, you're just signing your own death warrant. He'd memorized all the lore.
Those pustules and tumors covering Xanathar's body were all the proof he needed. The plan was completely unworkable—the only rational response, no matter how sincere Xanathar might sound, was to refuse.
"Very eloquent, my lord Xanathar." Charles called it "my lord" with a note of mockery, but Xanathar didn't catch it. Its eyes lit up, thinking it had him—until Charles's next words doused it in searing rage: "But why shouldn't I just kill you and take this pocket world for myself?"
Xanathar's eyes bulged with fury, and it bellowed, "What did you say?!"
This insolent human—how dare he even think such treason!
Fine. If you refuse to submit, I'll use my Eye Ray to brainwash you until you're nothing but a docile slave!
"You're digging your own grave!" Xanathar screamed, attacking first. One eyestalk flashed—a pink ray lanced straight into Charles's forehead.
There was no dodging it. A moment later, Charles suddenly felt an odd surge of affection toward Xanathar, as if this monster really was a wise leader worth following for life. Blind loyalty flooded in.
But then—Eldritch Mind triggered, and that feeling ebbed away just as quickly, vanishing without a trace.
"Whew…"
He exhaled, regarding the thoroughly battered beholder with a faintly amused expression.
A few minutes ago, out there in the "real" world, he might've actually had a tough time in a ranged magic duel with this beholder.
But here, now—Xanathar was grievously wounded, missing two stalks, while his own Spell Slots were recovering fast…
So why should he fear this monster?
Feeling a smile tug at his lips, he dismissed Montport's twin-bladed polearm, right hand gripping his +3 staff, left hand flickering through a barrage of complex gestures as he chanted a rapid incantation: "Hex, Hexblade's Curse!"
Hex and Hexblade's Curse—layering both on Xanathar. Sinister, freezing curses gnawed into its flesh. Charles followed that up with another chant: "Eldritch Blast, Eldritch Blast!"
Buzz—
He didn't hold back, pouring the last of his Spell Slots out, triggering Quickened Spell through Metamagic Feats, burning Mana in chunks for a skyline full of wagon-wheel–sized Eldritch Blast rings!
Invisible arcs of raw power shot toward Xanathar. Beams of destructive light rained down; Xanathar was shocked, scrambling: "Gah!"
Luckily, unlike Montport that night, it wasn't rooted in place by Wrath of Nature's magic, or surrounded by high-level melee fighters. Floating as it was, Xanathar was at least more nimble than most.
It dodged frantically, skittering through the air to evade the barrage. Still, even the few beams that found their mark, combining the force of raw disintegration with the curses clinging to its skin, brought skin-crawling agony.
Crushed by these twin effects, it truly was at risk of being killed.
"Ruth, go!" Charles shouted. Though Xanathar's wounds tore wider, it still wasn't enough—he was burning through Spell Slots even faster than he was dealing damage.
Fortunately, he had backup. Whether to pin down Xanathar's evasive maneuvers or land a lethal blow, having Ruth at his side was critical.
Beside him, Ruth murmured a spell, surging forward with magic-augmented speed. Her purple-red nails gleamed like blades, and under the cover of Charles's Eldritch barrage, she dove at Xanathar's vulnerable body.
Charles watched every twitch the beholder made—despite their advantage, it all hinged on magic. If this monster fired off its Antimagic Field again, things would get dangerously tricky.
He had to stay ready: if that happened, he'd have to call Montport's polearm back and throw down in melee again.
To his surprise, Xanathar held off on the move. After all, this pocket world was its own creation, riddled with hidden escape hatches only it knew. As Ruth left Charles' side, surging toward the monster, Xanathar realized its moment had come.
Charles, now is your time to die!
It triggered its magic—and in the next instant, a spatial vortex yawned up, swallowing it whole in a blink.
Seeing this, Ruth paled. "Master, watch out!"
Charles didn't hesitate, chanting instantly: "Shield!"
A barrier wrapped him just in time—but moments later, right behind him, a vortex appeared. Xanathar's massive bulk materialized overhead, and a crushing force hammered down—this monster had anticipated every move, firing up Antimagic Field at the first opportunity!
Buzz—
The magic shield was instantly suppressed. Xanathar lunged, jaws gaping down at him from above!
"Shit!"
Charles swore—caught flatfooted, he had no time to respond, and couldn't summon the polearm out of thin air. Facing that gaping maw, he jammed his staff straight into the beholder's gullet, desperate to block its bite.
"Grrrk—!"
With that fat staff rammed down its throat, Xanathar gagged violently. Still, it refused to retreat, using its weight to bear down, determined to swallow both Charles and the staff if it had to!
"You bastard!"
With no other option, Charles braced his other hand on the monster's lips, straining to hold it back. Lucky for him, he'd already smashed a lot of Xanathar's teeth—the monster couldn't bite down with as much power, or he'd be minus a hand right now.
The stench rolling from its maw was sickening—like rotting carcasses in a sewer. Chaos Energy's corruption was everywhere: pustules and ulcers on its skin, and a stench that wouldn't quit.
This thing was seriously corrupted…
Wait!
The thought flashed through Charles's mind. If Xanathar was so far gone with Chaos Energy pollution, could he purify it too?
With that, he murmured, "Purified!"
Buzz—
Brilliant white light enveloped the beholder's monstrous form—
...
Outside the pocket world, back in the sewers—
After a tremendous struggle, the girls finally wiped out the last of the proto-demons that had burst from the gateway. The mouth of the pocket world itself had closed up.
"Hurry, Miss Hattie, Miss Theresa!" Adele was frantic, shouting desperately, no longer caring about decorum. "Isn't Priest Charles the core of your monastery? Can't you do something to save him?"
Beside her, Willo said nothing to scold her daughter; she was just as anxious, not even realizing she'd mirrored Adele's tone.
Up ahead, Theresa managed a wry smile. "Miss Adele, please calm down. Priest Charles is family to us, too—we're worried, trust me."
"But spatial magic isn't our specialty. There really isn't much we can do here."
Hattie nodded quietly. "At this point, we can only have faith in Priest Charles and Ruth."
Adele stomped her foot in frustration, loathing her helplessness. "So we're just standing here, waiting, doing nothing?"
Hattie and Theresa glanced at each other—though neither wanted to admit it, their resigned faces said it all.
Behind them, Sephera was about to snap at Adele with a biting retort—like, "You're not doing anything either!"—when she paused, noticing just how much Adele's attitude had changed.
She distinctly remembered, just a few days earlier, this same girl had acted wary, practically guarding her mother against Priest Charles…
Turning that over, Sephera exchanged a brief, knowing look with the others.
Just then, a sudden light flashed ahead. The group tensed, staring forward—only to see Charles emerge, hand in hand with Ruth, smiling, apparently unharmed.
Except his left hand was stained with grime, blood still dripping from his palm—a clear sign the recent battle had been anything but easy.
"Pri—Priest!" Hattie breathed, starting to call "Master" by force of habit, but caught herself just in time, switching back to the formal title.
Before anyone else could move, Adele rushed forward, latching onto his arm with concern, asking, "How do you feel? Are you hurt? Let me heal you."
As she spoke, she began chanting the Cure Wounds incantation, drawing nature's power to mend him.
Charles smiled, willingly accepting. During the earlier battle, he'd been blasted by more than one Eye Ray from Xanathar, not to mention the hard fall in the Antimagic Field, and the rough hand-to-maw struggle in the pocket world—which had left his hand cut and raw with beholder tooth chips embedded in the flesh.
Healing was definitely welcome.
The other witches hurried over, relieved to see him whole. While Adele gushed over him, Theresa's eyes landed on something else first. "Priest, what's that on your shoulder?"
The whole group looked—and saw, on Charles's left shoulder, a palm-sized mini-beholder, floating quietly.
When it realized so many faces were turned its way, the tiny beholder seemed shy, ducking behind Charles's neck to hide itself from view.
Charles raised his right hand, gently covering its main eye and patting it reassuringly, as one might a small pet. "This is Shana—er, Xanathar. She's lost most of her power and I've tamed her; she's my familiar now."
He shot the witches a meaningful wink—as expected, they instantly understood. It was obvious that, before long, the monastery would gain a new "sister."
And Charles was right. With the long-term exposure, Xanathar's body had been so utterly corrupted by Chaos Energy, she was now almost identical to the other witches—her only obvious difference being that she couldn't yet take on a human woman's appearance.
Since her body had been altered so profoundly, Charles's Purification could work—washing away the obsession, selfishness, and arrogance from her soul. Now, she was a docile little familiar.
Of course, this loyalty was reserved only for Charles. With outsiders, the beholder was still as stubborn as ever.
The price of this, though, was steep: all parts of her body and power corrupted and rotten by Chaos Energy had been completely vaporized by the purification.
Now, her body was small, her powers greatly weakened. It would take time—and perhaps a share of Charles's mana—to use Eye Rays again.
But it also meant she could grow anew, sprout new eyestalks—maybe even more, with richer, deeper powers than before.
As Adele finished the Cure Wounds spell, helping ease his pain, she gazed curiously at the beholder on his shoulder.
Tentatively, she reached out to poke the little creature's eye—only for Xanathar to bare her jagged, sharklike teeth, snapping warningly.
Adele squeaked and pulled back, unwilling to risk poking this fierce little beast.
Charles just laughed, turning to look around. "Where are Xanathar's old subordinates? Did they run?"
Hattie nodded. "They did. When Xanathar opened the black hole, a horde of proto-demons rushed out and split the field in two. We couldn't follow them—they took that chance to slip away."
Charles started to say something, then just let out a sigh.
Well, of course—the lore said all along that those guys were never really loyal to Xanathar. The moment things got hairy, they'd all scatter—unlike in the game, where the minions would die at their master's side out of fake loyalty.
Honestly, he wasn't surprised at all.
But then—remembering something else—he stomped his foot, turned, and bolted: "Quick, to Xanathar's treasury! Damn, I hope those guys haven't stolen the Stone of Grohl!"
~~~
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