Chapter 23: Chapter 23: Ruth’s Hideout

A group of addicts.

The sight stirred something in him, followed by a wave of quiet reflection.

Thank the gods the original owner hadn’t wandered alone for long. In a place like this, he’d have surely fallen into addiction too.

Hiss… Now that he thought about it, even before Hattie snatched him, the body had been sick—burning with fever, wracked by coughs, everything tasting like ash. No wonder it refused food.

Probably why this secondary body’s attributes were so abysmal.

Luckily, that changed when the merciful Nun Theresa healed him at the monastery doorway while handing out porridge.

Small mercy his transmigration spared him that suffering.

Oh, right. That incident had sparked kneeling reverence from the poor, boosting both her and the monastery’s prestige.

Hiss… Come to think of it, that was probably when Nigel Charles first caught the witches’ attention.

He shook his head, dispelling the original owner’s grim past, and strode forward with purpose.

Business first.

…

Three hours later.

A dilapidated house—unlike most slum dwellings, this one was built of stone, its walls slathered in straw-choked mud for insulation.

Time, however, had eroded the yellow plaster, exposing the jagged rocks beneath. At a glance, it looked more precarious than the wooden shacks around it.

But looks deceived. Anyone with basic construction knowledge could tell it was far sturdier than its neighbors.

Yet no one lived here now. Its windows were shuttered, its door chained with a rusted lock. Longtime slum residents knew: no one had entered or left this place for years.

As for the truth? Rumors swirled.

Some claimed it was a dark intelligence organization’s hideout, with a secret tunnel leading straight to Mithral District. Others whispered of ghosts—a family of six dying within, cursing the place forever. A few insisted it was some noble’s room for clandestine trysts in South Harbor District.

The slums thrived on tales, but none held proof.

In these sprawling slums, disappearances and violent deaths were as common as rats. Empty houses stood everywhere—one more wouldn’t be noticed, one less wouldn’t be missed. No one truly cared about the state of this crumbling little stone hut.

But Charles knew better.

This unremarkable shack was Witch Ruth’s hiding place.

Before the Night of the Witches arrived, she would slip inside, taking refuge in her true form to endure her most vulnerable time.

“Tch. Looks different from the game…”

Charles couldn’t help but sigh as he studied the stone house. The real world’s map was far larger than in-game, and without street signs in these tangled alleys, it had taken him forever to find this exact match.

He approached the window, forcing open a narrow gap. Sunlight spilled in, revealing the interior:

The floor was littered with rusted, broken metal—kitchen knives, scissors, scythes, axes, harpoons—all piled together like some scrap dealer’s dumping ground.

But Charles understood. These discarded tools were the perfect camouflage for the “Blade Witch” Ruth’s true body.

This was definitely the place.

Ugh, exhausted.

Carrying five heavy spellbooks for protection, combined with today’s unrelenting sun, had left his back slick with sweat. He shut the window, wiping his brow with the back of his hand, already planning a proper bath with Hattie later.

“Well, at least the scouting’s done.”

He felt a surge of relief—coming today had been the right call. Trying to find this place during the Night of the Witches, with only moonlight to guide him through the darkness? That would’ve been a nightmare.

Time to head back.

He took one last look, searing every detail of the route into his mind before retracing his steps toward the Foggy Fisherman Tavern.

Just as he turned, two figures rounded the corner—tall, gaunt men in black leather coats and wide-brimmed hats. Despite the sweltering heat, they showed no discomfort.

Their hushed conversation cut off as Charles passed.

He paid them little mind. Strange attire was common here—some genuinely dangerous, some putting on airs, others dressed out of necessity. No reason to dwell on it.

But as he walked away, one man suddenly froze.

Turning, the stranger stared after Charles with unmistakable shock. His companion paused too, silent but watchful.

By then, Charles had already turned left, vanishing into the slums’ maze of alleys.

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