Earlier, Charles had worried that leveling up too quickly might leave him overwhelmed—clumsy with unfamiliar abilities, unsure which to use in battle, and ultimately weakening his combat effectiveness.
After all, he hadn't fully mastered the spellbooks in his possession yet.
Moreover, his Purification Points had other uses—like constructing additional New Constructions—so he'd been inclined to save them for emergencies.
But today's encounter had been a wake-up call.
The memory of that blow to the back of his head still haunted him, now that he'd calmed down and reflected. A man who'd never seen real bloodshed, he couldn't shake the lingering fear.
Sure, he'd grown up in a rural Eurasian laborer family, but Charles had never even killed a chicken—at most, he'd thrown a basketball at one…
Ahem.
Point was, as a child of peacetime, the shock still rattled him.
Today's fight had ended quickly only because both Thunderwaves landed perfectly. Had it dragged on, who knew what chaos might've followed?
Even so, with his current spell slots, he could only cast two 1st-level spells. At Level 1, he had just four slots total—far too slim a margin for error.
Luckily, only two gangsters had landed hits, and even then, Blade Ward had shielded him.
True, these thugs were weak—untrained, most not even Level 1 warriors—but he was just a Level 1 warlock. No overwhelming advantage.
If the others hadn't frozen in fear, if their clubs and pipes had kept swinging, if they'd been smarter—like in-game enemies—pelting him with light crossbow from a distance…
Blade Ward blocked just one strike. Armor of Agathys wasn't impenetrable. Had they broken through, the outcome—his fate—would've been grim.
His first three attributes, especially Constitution, were outrageously low. Without spell protections, a single solid hit might've dropped him.
The more he analyzed the fight, the more his stomach twisted.
And when Twin Moons Night came, with its monster uprising? Who knew what fresh horrors awaited.
Boosting his combat strength wasn't just wise—it was urgent.
Besides, after purifying Ruth that night, he'd gain another windfall of Purification Points. He wouldn't be lacking in the future.
So—time to level up!
Resolved, he reached out and tapped the system panel.
Instantly, a dense purification white light enveloped his body. Boundless magic power, and something even greater, surged into his veins, weaving into new strength...
Moments later, the light faded. Charles, brimming with anticipation, checked his attributes panel—
And immediately deflated.
That's it?
With his warlock level now at 2, his Spell Slots increased to 6—on par with a standard mage.
He'd also gained a new class feature: Eldritch Invocations.
But...
Eyes of the Rune Keeper: You can read all writing.
That was the entire description. Nothing more.
Charles nearly wept.
A non-combat utility ability?
Three hundred Purification Points spent, and his combat strength...
Well, it wasn't zero improvement. But barely noticeable.
Sure, the two extra Spell Slots meant he could now cast three 1st-level spells per encounter instead of two—a modest boost.
But the real prize of leveling up was supposed to be Eldritch Invocations!
And this was what he got?
What he desperately needed were invocations like Agonizing Blast—drastically enhancing his Eldritch Blast cantrip's damage—or Fiendish Vigor, allowing him to infinitely cast False Life for constant self-protection.
Anything but this purely narrative, zero-combat-value ribbon ability!
Damn you, system!
Give me back my 300 Purification Points! I should've invested in attributes instead!
With a drawn-out sigh, Charles glared at his remaining 550 Purification Points, his expression twisting in frustration.
Leveling from 2 to 3 required exactly 600 points. He was fifty short...
Whatever. He'd have needed to reach level 2 eventually. Two extra Spell Slots were better than nothing.
Steeling himself, he massaged his temples, stood up to stretch, and prepared to resume studying.
But then—
The scriptorium door swung open violently.
Assuming it was Hattie, he turned toward the doorway—only to freeze.
There stood Sophia, the raven-haired, dark-eyed memory witch, pausing mid-step as her striking eyes locked onto him.
Charles' heart leapt to his throat, panic surging through him.
Why is she here?!
Damn it! Didn't they say witches barely visit the scriptorium? When I first came here, the place was covered in dust!
And now this witch barges in out of nowhere!
Fury and dread warred within him. The situation felt utterly unacceptable—like playing Resident Evil, safely organizing items in a safe room, only for Tyrant to kick down the door and charge at you.
How is this fair?!
A thousand curses burned in his mind, yet he remained oblivious to one critical fact:
Sophia had come specifically for him.
Something felt wrong to Sophia. Terribly wrong.
Though Charles and Hattie had tried maintaining distance that morning, their countless intimate encounters had forged an unbreakable bond.
Certain habits had become instinctual—the effortless closeness between them, Hattie's subtle deference to Charles...
Their act might fool most witches—like Ruth and the others—who cared only for souls, not human behavior.
But to a Memory Witch like Sophia, attuned to every nuance, their performance rang hollow.
She couldn't pinpoint the exact truth, but the dissonance screamed at her.
These two are hiding something.
And so, suspicion festering, Sophia had watched. And waited.