Charles had noticed—ever since Ilarode showed up, the druid's mood had been downcast.
Well, that was her own father, after all…
Nidalee nodded, her expression tinged with guilt. "My father… he looks so much older now. He doesn't have the same calm as before."
"It's obvious—the events of these days have hit him pretty hard."
Charles thought to himself, serves him right. He built such a massive alliance, refused to unite with Blackstaff Tower to deal with the demon threat, and instead went after Rockseeker's Outpost for his own gain… and in the end, lost everything.
Thoughts like these crowded his head, so he didn't know how to comfort her. He hesitated for a while, then finally managed to get something out: "So… do you want to go back and help him?"
Nidalee's beautiful eyes widened in alarm, her voice tense. "Master, are you… sending me away?"
Charles hurriedly shook his head. "No, not that. I mean… how about you take over as leader of the Mountain Purifiers?"
"That way, your father's burden might lighten up, and he could go back to being himself."
Nidalee relaxed a bit, pressing a hand to her chest, but her tone was uncertain. "Could I really do it?"
"Even if my father steps down, shouldn't it go to Willo, or one of the other tribal chiefs? Not me…"
Charles grinned. "Why couldn't it be you? This is a time of crisis. It's not the moment for staying stuck in tradition. Look at the state of the tribes right now—"
As he spoke, he gestured at the rough, drafty tents all around them, totally unfit for winter. "This is what their leadership has brought them to. So if you can actually lead them to a better life, why shouldn't you be the one in charge?"
Nidalee blinked twice, her eyes lighting up with hope.
Then she turned to Charles and smiled. "Is that an order from you, Master?"
Charles froze, then let out a helpless laugh. "I'll support you, Nidalee."
With that, they split up. Charles made his way to Theresa, whispered something in her ear, and then everyone headed for their tents to rest.
But Charles's night wasn't over yet. Not long after he made it back to his tent, a flash of light appeared, and Theresa materialized at his bedside, slipping her arms around him with a charming smile. "Master, if you keep spoiling me like this, Ekta's going to get jealous."
Charles chuckled softly. "I actually had business with you tonight—don't get too excited yet. First, let's question this wraith."
As he spoke, he lifted his left hand, where a ring glimmered with faint violet light. Suddenly, a tiny, translucent version of Ines appeared, floating just above his palm.
It was her soul. At that moment, though, her expression was blank, like her mind had gone numb—she wasn't responding to the world at all.
Looking down at this succubus's remnant soul, Charles felt a pang of emotion. He'd always thought that purifying fiends, just like a typical paladin, simply destroyed their form in the material world—after which they'd just respawn back in the Infinite Layers of the Abyss.
That was, until moments ago, when Ines had reached out to him, pleading for mercy. Only then did he realize that true purification could destroy a demon's soul completely.
But since Ines had claimed she held many secrets that would interest him, Charles had held back a little, and used his Hexblade class feature to channel the powers of the Shadowfell, binding her soul within the ring—giving Agatha, the female ghost, a new neighbor.
She'd taken serious damage—enough to leave her soul nearly witless—but at least the soul was still intact.
And, so long as it was, there was still hope of extracting her secrets or even reviving her later to serve his own ends.
He turned to Theresa. "You see her condition, right? Her soul's pretty battered. I don't think she can answer any questions."
"Is there any way you can fix her soul?"
Theresa shook her head. "Nope. All I know is how to consume and digest souls, not heal them."
"If you ate her soul, would you get her memories?"
"That... That's more Sophia's area of expertise."
"Hmm… Any other way to dig the info out of her mind? Mind-reading, or something like that?"
Theresa hesitated. "Uhh… maybe we should send a message and ask Sophia to come over?"
Charles thought for a second. "I'll decide after tomorrow's negotiations. If things go well, I'll have her come—and bring the battle nuns with her."
Saying that, he sealed Ines's soul back into the ring, then turned to Theresa with a slightly wry smile. "Looks like I had you come for nothing tonight, huh?"
Theresa smiled sweetly, wrapping her arms around him and whispering in his ear, "I can always warm your bed, Master~"
...
In a secret, dark room in Liberl Port...
Regolas was studying the tall man in front of him with obvious amusement. The guy was almost two meters tall, broad-shouldered and heavily muscled, his black leather jacket traced with crimson stripes, stretched taut by the bulk beneath.
Even compared with orcs or minotaurs—races famous for brute strength—this guy was a giant. Just standing there, he radiated so much menace, most people wouldn't even dare speak.
But unlike ordinary humans, this man's skin had a distinctly purplish cast—giving him an uncanny, almost disturbing aspect.
His features were actually kind of handsome: thick eyebrows, large eyes, a square jaw—he could've passed for aristocracy. But with his jaw and cheeks covered in heavy stubble and a nasty scar crossing from nose over one cheek, the impression became much more that of a wandering outlaw.
Right now, this towering man was glaring at Regolas with utter loathing. "You damn cambion—you really had the guts to show your face here?"
Regolas just smiled faintly. His years of scheming and dealing with all sorts of powers had trained him to be utterly shameless. "Dear Shapiro, of course I have the guts to face you. In fact, I just got my hands on a piece of good news you've been waiting for."
"So? Wanna hear it before we strike up a new deal?"
Shapiro snorted. "Regolas, is there even a grain of truth in anything that comes out of your mouth? After all this, you think I'd trust one of your promises? Forget the old stuff—just tell me, where are my Illusionist's Bracers?"
The sarcasm stung, and even Regolas couldn't help but fume. He had swindled the man a few too many times—this time, he'd genuinely meant to return the bracers as a gesture of goodwill.
But somehow, things had gone wrong again, and trust between them was almost broken. Regolas now had to produce something real, just to get things rolling again.
So he reached into his Bag of Holding and pulled out a brown envelope. "Look at these. If what's inside is real, maybe it's enough to clear your family's name."
Shapiro's pupils shrank. Clearly, he hadn't expected Regolas to be so direct. After a moment of suspicion, he finally took the envelope, opened it, pulled out the documents, and started reading.
Just seconds later, his eyes flew wide open, excitement written all over his face, barely contained.
But right after, his hands clenched, nearly crushing the papers, and a fierce look of outrage appeared. "So what, I become a dog for my enemies? I'd rather rip the Cassalanter bastards limb from limb!"
Regolas had expected just this. He smiled, calm as ever. "Right now, the Cassalanter family is just as down on their luck as you are—and they're the only ones offering you a shot."
"So what'll it be? Burn up your last years waiting for a new shot at vengeance? Or take this chance and make a deal with the devil?"
He let the words hang, then added, "Of course, if you don't want to, I understand. The opponent this time is an Abyssal Lord—it's only natural to be afraid…"
Shapiro tossed the papers aside and sneered, "Afraid? Don't insult me."
"What's so bad about serving the enemy if that's what it takes? Fine, I'll take the evidence. I want to see who's left standing at the end."
Regolas grinned. "Nothing so dramatic. Just a bit of teamwork. The fact that you've got the guts—I respect that."
"When that day comes, I'll help you in my own way."
Shapiro shot him a frosty look. "Don't bother. Just don't get in my way ever again."
At first, when Regolas had always shown up with timely help, Shapiro had been grateful. But after seeing how most of his troubles were actually set up by this damn cambion, all he felt now was cold, bitter hatred.
He gave one last nod. "Now get out."
Regolas only smiled, unconcerned by the rudeness, and turned to leave, vanishing in a streak of light.
Shapiro got up too—he had work to do.
Starting, for instance, with a visit to his patron—his great ancestor, the origin of his bloodline.
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