Whatever the witches were discussing on their end, the only thing that mattered tonight was this: Charles held Anno in his arms and enjoyed one of the best, most peaceful nights of sleep he'd had in ages.
The next morning, after breakfast, Anno left the monastery in a hurry, carrying all the information Charles had given her. She needed to pull together a full investigation team right away—to get to the bottom of the lurking cultist powers in the city.
After she'd left, Charles quietly dropped by Sephera's room to offer some comfort and proper compensation; only once he'd thoroughly made it up to her did the Sephera finally forgive him and stop feeling so wronged.
After that, he wasn't in any rush. Instead, Charles waited patiently for news from Anno.
From the perspective of a gamer, the South Harbor District's slums were his backyard in the early to mid-game—the absolute bedrock of his monastery's future. No way was he about to let hostile powers run rampant here.
To secure that foundation, he needed to use overwhelming force to crush criminal elements and opportunistic lowlifes, reinforcing his own uncontested authority in the district.
Especially now, after the whole Illusionist's Bracers incident—it turned out Regolas was in cahoots with the beholder Xanathar. That meant both threats needed to be wiped out, utterly.
But before making any moves, Charles needed official sanction—a legitimate cover story, righteous justification, and a designated scapegoat.
Only then could he act with maximum ferocity—and zero blowback.
He had little doubt the higher-ups would act. From what he knew of the current Blackstaff, once Vajra received Anno's report, she'd put together a citywide mobilization in record time.
After all, she was a tiefling herself—she'd grown up under suspicion and exclusion, always fearing someone would accuse her of devilish ties.
So when something like this cropped up, of course she'd move heaven and earth to be sure she was above reproach.
Anticipating he wouldn't have long to wait, Charles put off heading back to the mountain branch and continued staying at headquarters in South Harbor District. He devoted his time to poring over manuals and training, preparing for his next power-up, while he quietly waited for the word from Anno.
Across Liberl Port, the undercurrents surged. The blue dragons' newspapers launched a media blitz, painting Charles as a hero—so much so that residents quickly came to know the name of the Seinite priest from South Harbor.
But in no time, rival backroom channels got their own rumors circulating: some claimed this was all a powerful noble fabricating a reputation for his future son-in-law. Others said he really was that capable, which was how he'd become a future son-in-law to someone so powerful. But no one could quite say just which "powerful noble" it was.
Gossip and half-baked theories spread through the city like wildfire. New situations developed every day.
Of course, all that talk filtered down to South Harbor, too. People gossiped constantly—but thanks to Charles's work rescuing people and building shelters, most residents still trusted him.
Still, as the old saying goes, "repeat a lie often enough and it starts to sound true"—the relentless rumor mill meant even his supporters couldn't hold out forever.
Things were turning chaotic, but Charles kept himself locked away, unmoved.
He kept waiting—waiting for Anno to bring back news of a citywide purge, waiting for the legal license to kill.
Just like that, several days slipped by.
One morning, in the monastery's training grounds—
"Whew…"
Even in the heart of winter, Charles wore nothing but a white short-sleeve gi and baggy practice pants. In his hand was his new Pact Weapon—Montport's twin-bladed polearm—which he spun and slashed through the air in a series of practiced moves.
He was following the manual he'd just bought from the Adventurer's Guild, determined to earn a new Feat.
The twin-bladed polearm was a unique weapon. Its individual hits didn't pack overwhelming power, but its speed was unmatched: in game terms, it meant each turn, after attacking with one end, you could make another attack with the other blade as a bonus.
Combined with his Eldritch Invocation "Thirsting Blade," Charles's attack speed now rivaled that of high-level warriors.
But while speed was solved, the damage issue remained. Montport's polearm was high-tier, its edges razor-sharp—able to slice through steel like butter.
That helped, but, from Charles's old-player perspective, there was still plenty of room for improvement.
Newbies only needed to scrape by, but veterans aimed for one-turn kills, even flawless victories.
To really maximize his fighting style, he needed a full suite of Feats:
Power Attack, Cleave, Great Weapon Master, Improved Critical, Weapon Specialization…
Every added Feat meant a substantial jump in his melee weapon's lethality. But the single most crucial one was Power Attack!
That's exactly what Charles was grinding right now.
Its effect, in game terms, traded hit accuracy for raw damage. It sounded risky, but for a player with decent level, stats, gear, and buffs, accuracy was usually overkill anyway.
So, using Power Attack, you could nearly double your output—absolutely wild.
Before getting a real weapon, his Pact of the Blade longsword was little more than a magic whiteboard: sure, it could bypass magical resistances, but otherwise did very little.
That meant Charles mostly played sword-and-board for defense, only bullying weaker monsters at close range. Against anything tough, he'd rely on Eldritch Blast from a distance, then move in with the sword to finish off anything left.
Now, with an artifact-level polearm plus Power Attack, his melee damage was about to shoot through the roof!
"Whew…"
He finished another set, towelled the sweat off his brow, and sat down on the edge of the training room sofa. Unscrewing his water bottle, he took a long drink.
That's when a sinister voice echoed in his mind: "Wow, you really work hard, Master! Just look at you, drenched in sweat—hardly the image of a great hero!"
It was Montport.
Whenever Charles summoned the weapon, the Abyssal Lord's soul bound within the polearm could watch everything around him, and reach out to converse.
Although still limited—nothing like his power outside—he had no trouble seeing and communicating as any sentient being would.
"With all those beauties at your side, all that gourmet food, all the adoration and worship… and you haven't even started to enjoy it. Instead, you're locked away here, grinding through endless training," Montport remarked, almost as if pitying Charles. "Meanwhile those wealthy merchants and nobles in Liberl Port don't lift a finger, and they get to enjoy all the things that should really belong to you…"
He was hinting. His voice turned bitter: "Master, there's no need to waste your life away protecting their property! You're still so young—now's the time to indulge, to enjoy everything life has to offer. Don't feel any guilt! You earned all this yourself…"
"If another crisis hits, then what?" Charles smiled, suddenly speaking aloud.
"You still have me!" Montport replied. "As your most loyal servant, I can provide you with endless power. I know things—secrets—that could make you stronger without all this exertion."
"For example, certain… techniques that would let you become more powerful just from enjoying the company of young women…"
He was clearly trying to tempt Charles, offering what he thought was true power.
Truth is, as an Abyssal Lord—even before Montport got so strong—he'd dealt with humans countless times, even been bound or enslaved by mages.
He knew all too well the boundless hunger of human desire: the rich want more wealth, the strong crave even more power, and no one is ever satisfied—they always want to ascend further.
At his weakest, he'd exploited those desires time and again—turning the tables, escaping imprisonment, and laughing last.
That's what he was hoping for now. But Charles nearly burst out laughing: "Seriously, you think you can make me stronger?"
Montport puffed himself up. "Of course! I know so many shortcuts to power. Maybe I can't use them myself, but for you? I could help you become the greatest in this material world. Absolutely—no question."
"Montport," Charles suddenly cut him off, "do you know what level adventuring party it takes to one-round kill you?"
Montport didn't get it. "What?"
"The answer is level ten. Four-person party," Charles said, ignoring his confusion. "By level ten, a bard gets the spell Swift Quiver, which normally only a level seventeen ranger would know—and that spell lets him go full machine-gun."
"A wolf totem barbarian raging on the front line, a multiclass level-four wood elf fighter split with Gloom Stalker ranger as the main DPS. The ranger picks fiends as favored enemy, grabs Sharpshooter and Elven Accuracy, wields an awakened grade amethyst dragon longbow, plus the cleric slaps a fifth-level Holy Weapon spell on it…"
"Open with an activated volley, and this archer fires eight arrows in one turn—all lethal. Montport, with your hit points? Not even one round, buddy. You'd get pincushioned on the spot!"
He laughed, heartlessly mocking the Demon Lord's little schemes. "Giving me 'power'? Teaching me how to 'grow stronger'? Please, in this world, who understands min-maxing better than I do?"
"You don't even need sixth-level spells. Just a decent party of low-level classes coordinating well—you go down in two rounds, tops."
Montport was utterly flummoxed—his powerful mind knocked sideways by all the unfamiliar jargon, but he could still sense Charles's scorn.
This human… he was mocking him!
He actually dared to treat Montport like some ignorant, pathetic nobody!
Montport's heart filled with raging fire—but he was patient. After all, he'd always been able to hide his true feelings to achieve his ends.
He'd survived in the mountains on sheer self-restraint, bottling up his bloodlust for six long months.
Not until the Chthonian destroyed the Alliance's headquarters, and Shudde M'ell wiped out Liberl Port's top-tier fighters, did Montport finally come down to gorge on souls.
If he hadn't made one mistake with Charles, he'd have had the last laugh.
"We'll see," Charles said lightly—and gave a short, scornful laugh. "Besides, if I ever pledged myself to a demon lord, it'd be one the multiverse actually respects. One who can stand against the true gods."
"You? You're not even in the running."
That finally set the Abyssal Lord off. "What did you say?!"
Those words cut deep.
Montport was strong enough to crush many adventurers single-handedly—he'd wiped out entire tribes on his own. And yet, among Abyssal Lords? He wasn't even top tier.
The strongest was the legendary Demon Queen of Spiders—once a primeval goddess of the multiverse, now the true-god of fiends, Lolth.
She was real divine power: absolute terror on the Infinite Layers of the Abyss, her fallen dark elf followers still ruling the Underdark beneath the world, constantly raiding the surface for slaves—hated by every power of justice, yet impossible to eliminate.
Below her, the true top "Demon Princes" were Demogorgon—the twin-baboon-headed lord of chaos and corrosion—and Orcus, Prince of Undeath, who carried the Abyss's most powerful artifact staff and could raise an army of the deathless at a whim.
Those two could legitimately go toe-to-toe with true gods.
Next came the second tier: infamous lords of the abyss with centuries of fame and fear—Yeenoghu the Gnoll Lord, Baphomet the Minotaur King, Fraz-Urb'luu the Lord of Deception, Graz'zt the Dark Prince, and Malcanthet, Queen of the Succubi.
It was only beneath these that you found minor lords like Montport. Sure, he was powerful—even legends might struggle to bring him down—but with his "Abyssal Lord" badge, Charles couldn't help but look down his nose at him.
As for those truly powerful demon lords? Charles would take them all down one by one someday. Montport wasn't even worth a footnote.
That was the honest truth—the arrogance and pride that came with being a player, a higher-dimensional being.
Montport's "temptations" didn't interest him in the slightest.
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