On the Darklake.
A small boat sped alone over the water, swift and solitary. With no sail and no wind, and not even a paddle extended from its hull, it seemed like a conventional craft at first glance.
Yet, the water before its prow parted as if knowing the way, clearing a passage. Behind it, Darklake closed up and pressed together, generating a magical current that propelled the vessel ever forward.
Clearly, this boat's "engine" was anything but ordinary: it was driven entirely by magic, making it not only fast, but exceptionally stable.
This was the small boat carrying Charles and his companions.
After Shapiro finished his communication with Sulpharlo and the group had pinpointed the fallen angel's precise location, they mapped the route with Lotuen and wasted no more time—they launched straight toward their goal.
But the Underdark was nothing like the surface: most of it was solid rock, only a few sections passable. Even on Darklake, stretches of reef forced them to take many detours, so reaching their destination would still take days.
At the moment, alone in a cabin aboard the boat, Charles sat reading a Spellbook. The page before him held only a single spell—the one he sought to master: "Tasha's Otherworldly Guise."
Even without the help of a proper scriptorium, the "Eyes of the Rune Keeper" ability let him comprehend every magical notation, dramatically improving his study efficiency over ordinary mages.
He'd been studying this spell for more than a month already. Now, he felt he was only one insight—a final spark—away from truly mastering it.
"Whew…"
He exhaled long and slow, shutting his tired eyes and rubbing the bridge of his nose, easing the fatigue from intense focus.
He'd memorized every incantation, every gesture, every sequence of power you'd need for this spell.
Now, all that remained was opportunity: maybe an unexpected skirmish, a burst of clarity after a good night's sleep, or just another dozen repetitive drills...
Once the window was pierced, his power would take another leap forward!
His heart brimmed with ambition at the thought—when suddenly, in the sea of his consciousness, a soft "ding" from the system.
A new notification. Charles opened his eyes, summoned his system interface, and was startled to see a red countdown ticking down.
Night of the Witches: Seven days remaining!
Flashy red letters at the top of his system HUD now read: "Night of the Witches" arrives in six days, twenty-three hours, fifty-nine minutes.
In a week, the twin moons would simultaneously rise to their zenith. The magical barriers of the material plane would thin under their gravitational pull, letting in chaos energy from beyond the world and triggering endless, unpredictable anomalies and disasters.
At that time, new witches would be born across the world, most destined to vanish mere seconds after appearing, but a rare few would survive, carving out a hidden niche in human society...
Just like how Hattie and her sisters once did.
For Charles, though, the Night of the Witches was his ultimate home field: his power and all witches bound to him would draw infinite magic, able to burn through it without restraint.
Better yet, thanks to his force of purification, they would stay sane—no one would lose themselves to madness. Every witch would transcend her normal limit, capable of things previously unimaginable!
Seven days…
Charles inhaled deeply. Fatigue faded, replaced by fresh adrenaline.
This sudden twist hadn't upset his plans—in fact, it made him feel the urgent press of destiny.
If they could reach Sulpharlo's lair within those seven days and force a final confrontation on the Night itself, their odds of victory would skyrocket.
Setting the spellbook aside, he pulled out his map, retraced their plotted course, then frowned a bit.
Straight-line distance wasn't the actual route. On Darklake, they'd have to dodge dangers, and who knew what was in store after landfall? Realistically, it might be eight days to arrival.
That wouldn't do—they had to go faster!
Resolved, he rose and stepped out.
The smell of roasting meat hit him as soon as he opened the door—a savory aroma wafting from the foredeck, where Nymeria, Hanni, and Lotuen clustered around a little stove, grilling something called "ripple-flesh," a kind of Underdark fungus.
It looked like rotten meat, but with a little smoking, it released a mouthwatering, fatty barbecue fragrance. Properly cooked, it tasted rich and meltingly delicious—a rare natural delicacy of the Underdark.
Nymeria munched contentedly, showering it with praise. Spotting Charles, her eyes lit up and she waved. "Priest, come try this! It's amazing!"
Charles smiled. "You all eat first. I'll join you in a minute."
With that, he headed aft to the back deck.
There, Hattie sat alone in a chair, staring quietly out over the lake, serene and calm, apparently quite enjoying the mirror-still waters.
He approached, gently wrapped his arms around her, and held her close. "What do you think of the Darklake scenery?"
Hattie reached up and brushed her hair out of her eyes, smiling. "It's nice. Almost like being at sea. Though, the light's a little dim here—and there's no sea breeze."
She shut her eyes, leaning into Charles' embrace with a soft, contented sigh. "If only there was a breeze—then it'd be perfect."
He held her tight, sitting down beside her. "We'll have our chance. When this is over, we'll sail on the ocean a while. Just relax, you and me—isn't that nice?"
Hattie's lips curled in a sweet smile. She leaned in close, whispering in his ear, "Master, did something happen?"
Charles nodded. "It did. We have to speed things up. If we can shave off two days from the trip, our odds go up a lot."
"Seven days from now is Night of the Witches. If we fight then, we'll have a real advantage."
Hattie froze a second, calculating on her fingertips, then grew wistful. "I can't believe it's been a year since I met you, Master…"
Nostalgia hit Charles too—unbidden emotion softening his expression. He held her even closer, letting her snuggle tight against him. "Yeah, it's hard to believe. We've known each other for more than a year now."
Hattie shut her eyes, breathing his scent, letting the thin, soft cloth between their skin act as their only barrier. Even this indirect touch left her intoxicated.
Charles held her, a deep sense of awe burning in his heart. A year ago, when he'd first arrived in this world, he'd been a frail invalid—physically weaker than even the average adult.
Back then, just surviving the witches of the monastery required every trick he knew—stealth, guile, desperate gambles. Only when circumstances favored him could he wrench victory from the jaws of disaster.
Hattie was the first turning point. Then came the Night of the Witches. Every change in their lives since had branched from those two events.
It was incredible—one short year had upended his world, and the entire monastery. Now, he led a powerful faction, could call Blackstaff Madam for backup any time, and had, in a sense, cleared the Liberl Port "stage"—no worthy foe remained.
What would this next Night of the Witches bring?
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