Decades ago, the notoriously corrupt lord of Liberl Port embezzled a massive fortune for himself. When the scandal broke, part of his assets was transferred away in secret, while the rest was confiscated by City Hall.
Unbeknownst to most, the ex-lord also used his power to secretly construct a vast treasury to hoard his favorite treasures: rare jewelry and artwork, and over half a million "silver dragon crowns"—currency issued by the long-gone silver dragons of the Sein Empire. As the empire faded, so too did their coins, making them rare collector's items with unimaginable value.
All information about this secret vault was stored in the Stone of Grohl. But when scandal erupted, the ex-lord had to flee in a rush and never took the stone with him.
During the raid on his mansion, a hapless soldier picked up the Stone of Grohl. The instant he touched it, he formed a psychic link with the Aboleth inside—and the flood of its memories drove him instantly mad. He tossed the stone aside into the sewers.
Over the years, the stone changed hands several times until it ended up with Xanathar. But while Xanathar could wield an Antimagic Field, that was a natural ability; its magical knowledge was actually quite limited. It never found a safe way to access the Aboleth's memories.
On top of that, suspecting this stone was tied to one of the great secrets of Liberl Port, it dared not risk exposure by letting anyone else investigate. Unable to unravel the artifact itself, Xanathar let it gather dust along with the wealth it guarded, its secrets untouched.
Now, both belonged to Charles.
After Charles safely stowed away the Stone of Grohl, Sephera and the other witches finished packing up most of the valuable treasures from the vault.
Not wanting to linger a second longer in the stinking, foul sewers, Charles waved his hand and declared, "Let's go. Time to head back to the monastery and rest!"
No one objected. Their expedition had been a thorough success.
But just as Charles took the lead, almost through the treasury's exit—a tall, robed figure swathed in blue appeared suddenly outside the iron vault door.
Charles stopped. Casting Light to illuminate the gap he'd blown in the gate, he saw the intruder's skin: a blue-green hue, with several tentacles drooping from its chin, swaying gently.
He recognized it at once.
A Mind Flayer—one of those fearsome beings that controlled psychic energies and fed on the brains of the intelligent.
Charles grew instantly serious. Mind Flayers were far too dangerous to underestimate.
Back in the ancient ages—before even the earliest elven empires—Mind Flayers sailed their spiral nautiloid dreadnaughts across the Astral Sea, ravaging planes far and wide.
Using their psychic magic, they enslaved untold races and forged an empire that spanned the entire Multiverse. They ruled unchallenged for an age.
But wherever there is oppression, there is resistance. The enslaved races bided their time—and when the reckoning came, it was swift and total. Overnight, the Mind Flayer empire crumbled into nothingness, vanishing from history. Only scattered remnants crawled into the Underdark beneath the mortal world, eking out a desperate survival.
The freed races built new lives. But many clues hinted at darker secrets behind the empire's fall: no historian could explain how such a massive empire collapsed so fast, and none of the Mind Flayers' famed star-killing dreadnaughts ever appeared, as if the empire's own defenders had simply abandoned them.
Stranger still, entire Mind Flayer star-cities and demiplanes also vanished after the war; to this day, not one has been found.
The mysteries were tantalizing—but Charles, having been isekai'd before getting the game's later updates, never learned what became of the plot threads the writers left hanging.
Regardless, Mind Flayers were dangerous foes, all capable of powerful psychic magic—he could not afford to let down his guard.
Behind him, the witches understood the gravity of facing a Mind Flayer. The group immediately fell into a defensive formation, gripping staves and weapons, ready for a new fight.
But just as Charles was weighing whether to strike first, the Mind Flayer lifted one long, spidery hand—and a calm, male voice sounded directly in their minds: "Everyone, please don't be alarmed. I mean you no harm."
"My name is Nithilro. I'm a scholar. I've come to the surface only to pursue my magical studies."
Charles let out a cold little snort, clearly not buying it. "Researching which human brains taste best, is that it?"
At this, the Mind Flayer called Nithilro replied with a hint of exasperation: "I get the feeling you're prejudiced, Mr. Nigel Charles."
Charles blinked in surprise. "You know my name?"
Nithilro nodded. "Indeed. And I also know you are the key hero responsible for slaying the Abyssal Lord Montport. The slander spread by Xanathar and its cronies was grossly unfair to you."
Charles arched an eyebrow, surprised. Nithilro continued, using telepathy: "When your group defeated the Abyssal Lord, I was observing the battle, cloaked in magic. But I'm only a psychomancer, lacking the martial power you possess, so I watched from the shadows—hoping to learn how to banish such fiends myself."
"I witnessed your Eldritch Blasts annihilate the Abyssal Lord. I was deeply impressed by your prowess and made a note of your name. You are, without doubt, a true hero."
Nithilro was laying it on thick—too much honey even for someone with a cold heart to keep up their guard forever.
Charles's posture softened slightly. Given the tangled power games of the Underdark, maybe this Mind Flayer really was a possible ally.
But if he was looking for a way to banish Abyssal Lords...
Charles's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "You're a member of the Radiant Society?"
Nithilro's tone was one of genuine surprise: "You know about us?"
Charles nodded. "I've heard a little, here and there."
It was true—he'd barely skimmed the game's miles of backstory, so he didn't know much more than that the Radiant Society was a group of Underdark mages engaged in counter-demon research and experiments.
Of course, their magical "experiments" seemed to cause as many disasters as they solved. Arcanists' reckless studies were the world's most reliable source of trouble!
But his deliberately modest reply only made Nithilro more respectful: "You truly are a scholar beyond compare, sir. I feel quite unworthy by comparison."
Charles smiled to himself, though he kept his face grave. "So then, Mr. Nithilro, scholar of the Radiant Society—what brings you to me right now?"
Nithilro's mental voice grew more formal: "I came to the surface hoping to study the beholder's racial traits and conduct Chaos Energy research—hoping to find a way to eradicate demon pollution."
"Unfortunately, thanks to Xanathar's arrogance, the plan fell apart—possibly even causing a minor disaster. For that, I truly apologize!"
Charles almost blurted out, "So those proto-demons were your doing!"
That would explain why Xanathar, who'd been content ruling the sewers, suddenly made a deal with demons!
He nearly chewed the Mind Flayer out for his reckless experiments bringing untold pollution and harm to the material world. But a moment's thought convinced him: what's done is done, no sense in scolding him now.
Better to make Nithilro realize just how much trouble he'd caused, and get the Radiant Society to send people to Liberl Port to fix it.
As Charles considered this, Nithilro continued: "Now that you've tamed the beholder, it should be far more stable and manageable."
"So, Mr. Nigel Charles,"—he chose his words carefully—"might we consider forming an alliance?"
"I believe my research may aid your cause in the future."
Charles's eyes glittered. That much was true: for all the trouble they caused, the Radiant Society's breakthroughs were often genuinely useful.
Risk and reward always went hand in hand.
Charles hadn't planned to get entangled with Underdark politics or the Radiant Society this early. But now that Liberl Port was in such chaos, more Underdark factions would surely make their way to the city anyway. He'd even run into a group of dark elves on the way there.
Plans fall apart, the future is fluid. Better to have more options than less—a new ally was another lifeline, especially since someone would have to deal with the demon pollution, and he wasn't about to clean up after their mess for free!
With that, catching Nithilro's hopeful stare, Charles nodded. "All right. Let's exchange Sending Stone codes, shall we?"
...
Escaping the stench of the sewers and breathing Liberl Port's fresh air again, Charles felt a near-overwhelming urge to cry.
God, the air above ground was wonderful—salty and cold though it was, winter's sea breeze felt like paradise.
How those thugs in Xanathar's Guild ever survived down there, he'd never know. The criminal mind truly was a mystery.
By then, dusk had fallen, the sun hanging low in the west. Filthy and exhausted, the party wasted no time before booking it back to the monastery.
They took turns in the baths, washing away the grime; then ate dinner, and finally gathered with the witches in the scriptorium to tally up the day's gains.
First, the Purification Point payout: Each proto-demon didn't give much—three to eight hundred points at best—but there were a lot of them. Altogether, Charles earned nearly ten thousand points, plus a fat bonus for purifying the beholder, bringing his total savings to twenty thousand.
As for Xanathar's treasures—there was plenty. The vault held about thirty thousand gold in pure trade bars—the most reliable wealth in any city.
On top of that, a haul of superb gems, which Sophia estimated at over ten thousand gold total.
Also—fine art: a silver goblet studded with moonstones, a figurine of the Goddess of Wealth cast in pure gold, golden war masks from a bygone age... Together, they'd fetch another ten thousand gold. If he could sell it all, this one trip underground was worth over fifty thousand in hard coin.
Enough for a down payment on a townhouse in the central district!
Of course, that was just Xanathar's personal stash. Most of the guild's wealth was split among various warehouses and lieutenants. Those supplies—now surely looted by his faithless underbosses—were likely long gone.
He wasn't losing sleep over it; this haul was easily more than enough.
The work was almost festive. Fifty thousand gold was nothing compared to the true fortune the Stone of Grohl pointed toward, but for now, it felt like a king's ransom.
Of course, the Stone of Grohl's secret vault was worth millions, but Charles wasn't about to risk his neck for it now. The place was full of deadly traps—he'd have to wait until he was far stronger.
And besides, beyond a certain point, money became less crucial in the game's later stages. Better to leverage all that gold for favors and connections he couldn't buy any other way.
He already had plans for it.
The full inventory kept them busy well into the night. Eventually, they extinguished the scriptorium's lamps and made ready for bed.
But just outside, Charles had only gone a few steps when, in the moonlit courtyard full of flowers and grass, he saw a lone figure standing beneath the trees: a woman in a robe the color of autumn leaves—solitary, her face etched by loneliness, as if waiting for someone.
He recognized her: Willo.
The nuns exchanged private glances and quietly slipped away. Charles approached, voice soft. "Matriarch? Still awake?"
He almost thought he saw her shiver at the sound of his voice—a quick, startled little tremor.
She turned, mustering a smile. "Ah… just having trouble sleeping, I suppose."
Charles stood beside her, shoulder to shoulder. "Is something on your mind? Want to talk about it?"
Willo hesitated. Before she could answer, Charles opened his arms and hugged her softly from behind.
The Satyr Matriarch gasped, startled, squirming in protest, "Don't... Priest, we can't do this, we can't just keep making the same mistake..."
Charles leaned close, breath hot against her ear, and whispered, "Then tell me, Matriarch... what are we, right now?"
Heard in her ear, the gentle teasing left her weak. Her struggles faded, and she dropped her head, leaning against Charles's chest, voice full of longing and confusion. "I… I don't know, Priest. I..."
She shook her head, silent shivers running through her, the memory of that night's forbidden pleasure haunting her thoughts.
She couldn't deny it, not really; standing out here in the midnight hour, she'd been hoping Charles would finish up and find her.
That desperate longing burned in her chest—not just for the sweet memories of the other night, but for an anchor, a man she could trust.
Someone who'd plunge into hell and face monsters for the sake of her and her daughter—even if Charles himself never thought of it that way, she couldn't help seeing him as her one true refuge...
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