At the very front walked a warrior clad in heavy plate armor, wielding sword and shield, his race indistinguishable.
Despite his gear totaling nearly a hundred pounds, this man moved with remarkable dexterity, skillfully leveraging shield and armor to protect himself and his comrades from harm, launching swift counterattacks with his blade.
He was a paragon of the Amethyst Dragon Knight—charged always with guarding and inspiring his companions, ever at the vanguard.
Such heroic prowess was not only due to his own practiced martial skill; naturally, the aid of stimulant potions played its part as well.
Directly behind this dragon knight, a tiny beastkin woman with wolf ears and round spectacles continually fished all manner of potions from her Bag of Holding, murmuring incantations under her breath. Her comrades didn't even need to drink—she could deliver the effects directly, granting them bursts of vigor and mystical enhancement.
She was a master alchemist, specializing in all manners of wondrous concoctions, providing the party with stalwart support.
Clang—
A hezrou demon raised a claw for a sneak attack, slashing at the dragon knight's helmet from behind. But upon contact, a burst of golden light flashed from the silver helm!
The demon's talon failed to scratch the armor—instead, the force rebounded, throwing the hezrou off balance and fracturing the claw itself!
At the rear of the adventurer squad strode a dwarf in plate armor, his bluish-gray skin exposed beneath his bare, unarmed head and neck, both inscribed with lines of scripture written in ink. Loudly, he chanted the words to a potent spell.
He was a forge domain cleric, specialized in empowering metal armor and weapons, making his comrades all but indestructible.
"Awooo—!"
Suddenly, several hezrou demons howling in pain collapsed at the feet of the amethyst dragon knight, as if crushed by a sudden, invisible weight of hundreds of pounds.
Yet the knight himself seemed the opposite—his body only lighter, as if gravity had left him, letting him race effortlessly across the battlefield.
Toward the back, a male gnome mage in black-rimmed glasses paged through a thick spellbook, reciting intricate formulae under his breath.
He specialized in gravity magic, able to manipulate weight to crush or lighten, or even pull meteors from the heavens to annihilate his enemies—a graviturgy wizard of no small power.
Swish, swish, swish—
Arrows darted forth, blowing apart several hezrou skulls. In the rear, a half-elven man nocked another arrow, drawing his bow and barking an order: "Zach, go!"
"Roar—!"
Behind him, a draconic beast covered in scales as radiant as gold—its massive body recalling a tyrannosaur, yet winged like a dragon—charged ahead, jaws opening to unleash a torrent of searing flame.
He was a Drakewarden ranger, able to command and fight alongside a drake, together becoming greater than the sum of their parts.
These five alone were enough to carve a bloody path through the demon tide, treating the battlefield as their own. Yet among them there was a sixth—perhaps the strongest of all.
"Montport!"
From behind the group stepped a towering male dragonborn, his scales glittering gold.
He wore a resplendent magical cloak and a gold-dragon-forged belt at his waist, his muscled torso bare, eyes aflame with pure rage. "Your doom is here!"
With these words he stepped forward, opening his arms wide as ki surged across his frame. Behind him, the phantom image of an ancient gold dragon began to materialize.
He was a divine dragon monk—sworn to the golden dragons, personally blessed by their kind, and nigh unmatched in martial prowess.
Each of these six was a famed adventurer, long sponsored by the gold dragon conglomerate. Each possessed signature techniques, class-defining abilities, and trump cards that left enemies in awe.
And now, their sole purpose in gathering: to take the head of the Abyssal Lord Montport.
Yet, Montport looked upon these formidable six without the slightest sign of fear or dread.
On the contrary, his colossal maw cracked wide in a monstrous, terrifying grin.
"Excellent!" he muttered in Abyssal, "Let the blood of you, all blessed by gold dragons, fuel my weapon's next evolution!"
...
Monastery, Hall of Thunder.
Crack—
A blinding bolt of lightning struck from the chapel dome, slamming down onto a naked girl standing in the central sanctified pool.
At once, she threw back her head, arms outstretched, brows knit with pain, a sound rising from her lips—somewhere between a cry of agony and a moan of bliss: "Well—!"
At the pulpit, Charles frowned and tried to keep his gaze on the girl's face—rather than on her heaving chest.
Beside him, Theresa smiled, while Sephera pursed her lips, shooting sidelong glances at Charles as he struggled in sheer awkwardness, digging his toes into the floor, not sure where to look.
Still, he was required to stand there, composed and upright, holding himself together until the ritual was done.
There was simply no way around it—he had to see this through. It wasn't that he wanted to look… at least not entirely. Mostly, he just had no choice!
He had tried to avoid such mortifying situations before—turning away, staring into space, even closing his eyes.
But for whatever reason, if he removed his gaze from the girl undergoing baptism, the entire class change process would halt. Not only would the girl have suffered for nothing, but the ten Purification Points he'd paid would vanish with nothing to show for it.
It was as if, without his watchful presence, the system could do nothing.
So he stood there, disciplined, never letting his gaze stray below the face—no matter how (difficult) that might be.
What a torment.
He sighed inwardly, unable to imagine how excruciating it would be if, as in late game, he had to perform this on an army of tens of thousands…
In the pool, the class change baptism continued. Lightning danced along the nun's naked body, reshaping her form, granting her new-found strength.
Her brown hair transformed as well, turning the gray-white of lightning and tempests.
Finally, as the last strand shifted color, the storm's electricity faded from view. The baptized girl snapped open her eyes, lightning flickering deep within her pupils.
And then she collapsed limp in the spring, gasping, utterly spent yet grateful she had survived the ordeal.
Beside her, Hattie and Theresa—waiting with towels—rushed to her aid: Hattie supported her up from the water, Theresa swathed her in terrycloth, drying her gently. "Congratulations, my sister. From today, you are a mighty Storm Domain Pastor."
The girl, resting in Theresa's arms, managed a weak but joyful smile. Charles nodded and motioned them off to the next room to rest.
There, equipment awaited: a fine steel shield, full chainmail, and a mace.
Storm Domain Pastors, like their Life Domain siblings, were armored frontliners; only heavy armor unleashed their full combat strength—so stated plainly in their Class Features.
Thus, the ten Purification Points spent on each class change was only a starting expense. Outfitting them afterward was the real cost.
A shield cost ten gold, chainmail forty-five gold, and that's not counting the Ion Beam Emitter—thank the blue dragons for sponsoring those; if Charles had to pay himself, it would run several thousand.
All told, not cheap!
Why not just buy plate armor for the girls, you ask?
Simple enough: chainmail costs only forty-five gold; proper plate armor starts at fifteen hundred, and even then is all but impossible to find right now.
So, he settled for equipping them as best as possible.
Still, a Storm Domain Pastor armed with chainmail, shield, and an Ion Beam Emitter was a walking fortress—a true heavy tank on the battlefield, to be feared by all.
He looked forward to seeing what these girls could achieve in the future.
His population of nuns grew daily, and with the upgraded altar now providing twenty Purification Points per day, he could afford to convert at least two into Storm Pastors every day if he wished…
With this in mind, he pulled up the system interface and frowned at his balance.
Why did each nun's class level up cost so few Purification Points, while his own always took so many?
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