Sulpharlo's body suddenly clenched up uncontrollably. A wave of emptiness rose from her lower body, making her want to clamp her thighs together, then squeeze them tighter and tighter.
"Mm… mm…"
That hollow, aching need to be filled tormented her nerves, dragging needy moans out of her throat again.
She lowered her head and looked at her lower abdomen, only to see the glow on that tattoo growing even brighter, as if it had a life of its own and was cheering excitedly.
"You bastard!" she spat—but then Charles' fingertip pressed down on the very center of her garden, right on that sensitive bud. "Oh…"
The jolt of pleasure cut her words off mid-sentence. His fingertip circled slowly over that place, rubbing and teasing the most sensitive point.
Amplified by the lewd sigil, the intense pleasure spread through Sulpharlo's entire body, wrapped around her mind, and forced loud, ringing cries from her lips. "Ah—ah—!"
She screamed as another hot gush spilled from her garden, trickling slowly down the curve beneath her hips.
Charles hadn't even really started using his full skill, yet she'd already climbed to a second peak.
"Pathetic…"
As her climax ebbed, Charles stared at Sulpharlo—her face and chest flushed scarlet, her heaving breasts still rising and falling with ragged gasps—and shook his head with a sigh.
Then he picked up the marker again, adding another stroke to the tally on her left thigh. "With self-control like this, how'd you ever qualify as a battle angel in the first place?"
Sulpharlo glared at him. Hearing him deny her former glory, she couldn't help snapping back, "I used to… oh…"
The instant she opened her mouth, Charles' middle finger slid slowly into the passage of her secret garden. His rounded fingertip deliberately brushed and teased along the inner walls, stoking and baiting her arousal. An even sharper itch of pleasure surged up, cutting her words short again.
Her body clenched reflexively. That tight, slick channel hugged his fingertip as if trying to block him from going deeper—yet the soft flesh within trembled and wriggled on its own, and a strange pull suddenly tugged at him, as if unwilling to let him leave.
That contradictory reaction made Charles chuckle. He glanced up and saw the woman's eyes already going glassy—she was clearly getting worked up again.
Heh. A level‑3 monastery Dungeon is tuned for high‑CR bosses with insane endurance. Using it on an inexperienced fallen angel like you is seriously overkill.
With that in mind, his middle finger began to move faster. The fingertip curled, constantly teasing and stroking to draw out every response—then, without warning, he shoved his ring finger in along with it.
"Well—!"
Two fingers twisted and churned inside her at once, sending wave after wave of pleasure crashing over her, battering her mind until she hit a third peak, screaming over and over. "Ah… ah—ahhhhhhh!"
Another hot stream flowed out, slowly coating Charles' fingers and pooling into droplets in his palm, a vivid testament to just how fragile this angel's supposed "endurance" really was.
"You…"
Realizing that her body had fallen apart for the third time, Sulpharlo bit down hard, but her voice had lost its earlier stubbornness and mockery, and picked up a hint of wounded grievance instead. There were even tears gathering at the corners of her eyes.
She couldn't bring herself to say anything mocking now. Every one of his methods had proven brutally effective; after failing to hold out three times, any more taunts would just make her look like a ridiculous clown.
She stared at him through gritted teeth, while Charles stayed perfectly calm. He drew the third stroke of the tally on her thigh, then said evenly, "Don't be in such a rush, Sulpharlo. This is only the beginning."
As he spoke, his fingers went back to work on her pink nipples, circling and grinding, sending powerful, intoxicating sparks of pleasure through her and pushing her toward another peak—
"Oh… oh—"
The clamps on her nipples were still wriggling and stimulating her, while the sigil on her lower abdomen had begun to glow again. Sulpharlo's chest rose and fell as she gulped for air. This time, she'd given up on resisting altogether, lips parted in breathy moans, her eyes unfocused as if she were finally starting to sink into the pleasure.
Charles kept up the stimulation, his fingertips circling without pause, layering wave after wave of bliss into her, wrapping her mind, ready to send her surging toward yet another climax—
Then he suddenly stopped.
The clamps on her nipples slackened in an instant. The glow on the sigil died away completely. His fingertip lifted from that bud.
The surging pleasure receded as fast as a retreating tide, leaving Sulpharlo with nothing but raw, gnawing emptiness.
"You—!"
Face flushed, her hazy eyes flew wide. She stared at Charles with equal parts anger and need. "What the hell are you doing?!"
Charles didn't so much as flinch. He reached up, removed the clamps from her nipples, then took a loose prison uniform from behind him and held it out. "Your punishment for today is over, Sulpharlo. Congratulations—you managed to derail the fourth teasing."
"I—!"
Sulpharlo's silver teeth chattered; her whole body trembled. "You… you despicable bastard!"
She had no idea how this man had timed it so perfectly—stopping right when she was about to let go completely and surrender to everything, cutting it off before she could react!
Charles only gave a light laugh. With a thought, he commanded the chains on her limbs to release her, then turned away.
He walked toward the bars. "Enjoy your prison life, Sulpharlo. There's plenty of time ahead. You've still got a lot more to face."
Clack—
The cell door slammed shut, and silence settled over Sulpharlo once again. The fallen angel drew in a deep breath, forcing herself to press down the restlessness clawing at her heart. Then she looked down at the clothes Charles had given her.
A second later, she couldn't hold back a bitter spit.
This bastard had only given her a prison shirt for her upper body—no underwear, nothing for below the waist at all.
The uniform looked baggy and loose at first glance, but once she pulled it on, the outlines of her figure and all sorts of details were still faintly visible. One look was enough to tell she wasn't wearing pants. If anything, it was even more suggestive.
Her anger flared, but she couldn't just stay naked forever. In the end, she ducked into the shirt, dressed herself, then sat cross‑legged and silently warned herself:
She must not be broken by mere fleshly desire. She still had a great work unfinished. Even if this evil priest reshaped her body into all sorts of obscene forms, she had to cling to her original ideals.
He couldn't stay untouchable forever. No one shines bright for all time. As long as she held to her core, the future would eventually bring a chance to overturn everything.
At the very least, he was human. His lifespan was a wall he could never cross. In a few decades, he'd no longer be as mighty as he was now, while for her, that span of time was nothing but a brief instant.
She believed that firmly. But the seed of desire had already been planted, and without something special, it would never be pulled out by the roots.
After all, right now, at this very moment, her body held no trace of sacred, supernatural energy. The cell still had air to breathe, but it cut her off from all otherworldly power.
Without divine power to cast with, Sulpharlo's body was, at best, just stronger, more flexible, and more agile than a mortal's—not much else special.
If anything, the thing that should've been an advantage—this healthier, stronger body—had become a disadvantage in this moment. The drive to reproduce goes hand in hand with a robust physique; a weak, fever-ridden patient couldn't muster desire if they tried.
Athletes, on the other hand, while pushing their bodies to the limit through training, also stoked their biological instincts—so their appetite runs much hotter than the average person's.
And Sulpharlo's body put even world‑class athletes to shame. With no supernatural power left to suppress anything, once the seed of desire had been sown, the hunger rising from her own flesh and blood would be far harder to subdue.
It was a battle she was almost destined to lose. All the worse that, outside the cell door—somewhere Sulpharlo couldn't see—a pink ring was still pulsing softly with magic.
Charles' little undead, Agatha, was waiting patiently, watching for the moment Sulpharlo's guard slipped. When it did, she'd slip into the fallen angel's mind and drag her into an irresistible dream…
Day by day, time slipped past. Before anyone knew it, summer was already at its tail end.
Charles' life seemed to have settled back into its old rhythm. Aside from carving out extra time each day to visit Malena's house and see his daughter Guinevere, the rest of his schedule hadn't changed much.
Mornings, he stayed in the scriptorium—reading, studying magic, or handling the pile of official business Sephera sent his way. Afternoons, he went to the Training Grounds to exercise and hone his combat techniques, while also grinding through practice for the "Eldritch Smite" invocation.
As for training Sulpharlo, that was reserved for the evenings. Even then, he didn't go every night. Instead, he rotated with the witches, taking turns heading down to the Dungeon to give her different flavors of "experiences" and "surprises."
They exhausted every trick they could think of to burn through her stamina, then, once she fell asleep, had Agatha slip into her dreams, steer her subconscious, and plant deeper and deeper seeds of desire. It wasn't easy work, but a delicate, finicky process—if Sulpharlo ever caught on to what was happening, there was a good chance all the progress so far would go up in smoke.
He also understood that a fallen angel with over a thousand years of experience—one who still dared defy the gods now—even with a level‑3 Dungeon backing him up, was never going to break that quickly.
So he was in no hurry. He treated it as a routine daily quest and invested most of his serious effort into training the Eldritch Smite invocation instead.
To be honest, the difficulty of mastering Eldritch Smite was higher than he'd first expected. It wasn't just about channeling magic power; it also required clever, precise use of his Pact Weapon. Landing a swing was one thing. Making it hit with the exact effect he wanted was something else entirely.
Fortunately, the level‑3 scriptorium and Training Grounds both offered absolutely top‑tier support. Even with all the complications, after grinding away for a few months, he still managed to get it firmly under his belt.
"Whew…"
One afternoon, Charles gripped his sturdy twin‑bladed polearm and brought it down hard on the training dummy before him. Magic power burst across the target with a thunderous crash. He exhaled, and a sudden insight flared in his heart.
He knew, then and there, that he'd finally mastered the Eldritch Invocation he'd wanted for so long.
He opened his system page—and sure enough, the new invocation sat there in gleaming text.
Eldritch Smite: Consume 2 spell slots to unleash a powerful cleaving strike on a foe, using a massive surge of magical energy to knock the target prone. The knockdown strength scales with your primary spellcasting attribute.
Both lines described incredibly useful effects. The first was self‑explanatory. As for the second—given his twenty points of Charisma, even an elephant‑sized creature would be knocked flat with zero chance to resist.
Looking at the power he'd earned through training, Charles felt deeply satisfied. Then ambition flickered in his eyes as a new plan surfaced in his mind.
It was time for the next step.
Time to wipe out the ancient undead slumbering beneath Garbage Island.
On that little island, the fallen prince wielding the Blade of the Damned had an official challenge rating of 21—roughly on par with Montport, by Charles' estimate.
But unlike Montport, who couldn't properly control his own demonic forces, lacked obedient balors, and had maybe one or two goristros at best with the rest being generic demons, this prince actually commanded a whole squad of powerful diehard followers.
Most famously, there were the four minibosses players called the "Four Heavenly Kings of the Undead"—a group you could take down one by one. Every last one of them was challenge rating 17 or higher, each stronger than the original Theresa.
Even now, after several rounds of upgrades, Theresa could only be considered roughly on par with one of them at best. She couldn't guarantee she'd stomp any of them outright.
First was the prince's former bodyguard—now transformed into another Death Knight. He didn't cast many spells, but his defensive prowess, outstanding battlefield instincts, and high mobility let him single‑handedly form an iron wall.
Put simply, the guy was ridiculously tanky, hit like a truck, and ran like the wind. Without focused debuffs and armor‑shredding spells, even the strongest DPS would find the fight an exercise in pure agony.
Next was his kingdom's former court archmage, now turned into a lich. This archmage could cast 9th‑level spells like Power Word Kill. His own body was admittedly fragile, but once he started casting, he was almost guaranteed to pick off at least one party member.
For low‑level players, there was only one way to beat him: win initiative, dump all their damage on him in one round, and delete him from the board. Anything less, and they were doomed.
The third miniboss was his former fiancée—a princess from a distant desert kingdom on the Blacksoil Continent, now a mummy. She could command sandstorms, dealing damage while blinding players and throwing them into a state of total darkness.
That wasn't even the worst of it. The real headache was her long‑term decay curse. Once it stuck, you weren't shaking it off without ten days or half a month of focused cleansing—and naturally, that meant your dungeon run was getting delayed.
The last of the four was the one who'd tempted the prince into his fall in the first place—his own younger brother. In the lore, he was a scheming, treacherous snake who'd long since made a deal with evil powers to gain the strength of a vampire.
On top of that, there was actually another miniboss—everyone knew the "Four Heavenly Kings" were basically five—that being the kingdom's former guardian silver dragon, now fallen and twisted into a dracolich.
But that dragon usually stuck to the prince as his mount and support, so you couldn't pick it off separately anyway.
Running through the details of each miniboss, Charles massaged his temples and started sketching out a plan to take them down one at a time, just like following the game guides.
In the game, the easiest to handle was the vampire, then the lich, then the Death Knight and mummy.
The vampire's "intelligence" really just meant his combat AI was a bit more complex. For players who'd mastered the guides, he wasn't much trouble.
The lich could be beaten with enough save‑scumming and a bit of luck, coming out without a scratch if you were stubborn enough.
The Death Knight had no fancy mechanics; he was pure numbers. Beating him meant a straight DPS check—nothing but a grueling slugfest.
The mummy's curse was just disgusting. Once it landed, you had to halt progression; otherwise, there was no way to clear the later fights.
But now, with his real‑world circumstances, that difficulty order needed a little adjustment.
With artifacts in hand and a force of purification on his side, the Death Knight actually dropped to the bottom of the list.
Next easiest would be the vampire. For all his cunning, the guy's raw stats weren't that impressive. With Charles' current strength, he could charge straight through him without any flashy tricks and still win.
Third would be the mummy. Nasty to fight, and her curse was a pain—but not unavoidable. As long as he brought Anno along and popped her protective aura, there was a decent chance of blocking it.
And even if they did get tagged, Charles wasn't so strapped for time that he couldn't afford a few days to deal with it.
Last and toughest would be the lich.
Charles might be level 13 now—more than enough in theory to win initiative and one‑round the guy before he could cast anything—but the real world didn't let you respec like in a game. He couldn't just dump all his stats into offense, stack a mountain of buffs, and blow out insane numbers.
Life only comes with one save slot. You don't get reloads in reality.
So…
After sorting through everything in his head, he settled on a rough plan. He took a deep breath, turned to look out the window, and firmed up the outline in his mind.
Yep. Next step was to sit down with Anno and pick a time when they were both free.
If you're going to raid undead, leaving the local paladins at home would just be a crime against efficiency.
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