Tasha was flung out once more, her back slamming into the soft wall of the training ground before bouncing back and crashing to the floor.
The walls and floor of the training ground were coated with a rubber-like substance. It reminded Tasha of athletic tracks—preventing slips while offering enough bounce that even heavy impacts wouldn't cause serious injury. Perhaps because of this, the Amazons slammed her into the walls and floor without mercy.
Tasha had requested the Amazons' training herself. With such skilled instructors, perfect facilities, and a resilient body, failing to seize this opportunity would be a waste. The Amazon Queen maintained her steely composure, showing no curiosity about a strange wolf-skulled woman seeking instruction. She merely set down her bow, beckoned to another figure practicing archery on the range, and said, "Dora! You teach her."
The surviving scout had nearly recovered from her severe injuries—her resilience alone was remarkable. Dora was reputed to be among the Amazon warriors' finest, though this remained unverified. One thing the Queen had stated, however, was undeniably true: she was exceptionally strict with her apprentices.
"Stand up!" Dora barked softly. "Again! Your eyes aren't decorations!"
Tasha's "eyes" were two red flames, similar in form to those in the skeleton soldiers' eyes, differing only in color. Marion had mentioned it was a wolf's skull. Fortunately, the eyes functioned much like human ones—not color-blind—and their field of vision was slightly wider than that of a ghost. From an observer's perspective (the dungeon could indeed provide this), watching the Amazon scold her without batting an eye was somewhat comical.
Being in the thick of it was another matter entirely.
Tasha's breath came in short gasps, sweat trickling down her arms. She'd nearly forgotten this kind of exhaustion. Even back when she was human, the last time she'd been this worn out was probably during a high school 800-meter race. Below her skull, her body remained unchanged—still feeling cold or hot, pain or fatigue. Intense exertion left her muscles aching, sweat plastering her clothes to her skin, heavy enough to make standing feel impossible. Her skin had lightened several shades—not merely "un-tanned," but a shift in ethnicity entirely. The bruises from bumps and scrapes stood out starkly. Through the fluttering hem of her shirt, she could see her back already mottled with purple and blue.
She had been wrong before—her former body couldn't compare to this one now. If it were that old, out-of-shape frame, Tasha would never have gotten back up.
This body, forged from extracted elemental components, was undeniably superior. She ran faster, jumped higher, punched harder—as if inhabiting an athlete's physique. The Amazonian-granted [Elite Warrior Reserve] ability manifested perfectly in this body. Tasha wielded weapons she'd never touched before—drawing her bow without shooting herself in the foot, wielding a sword with fierce, fluid grace. Sometimes she even blocked attacks by sheer luck. This strange, effortless flow felt as exhilarating as a novice playing a game with a pro's account.
But that was all. Tasha could easily outmatch five past versions of herself. Yet this ten-year-old Amazonian's skill level, when facing seasoned Amazon warriors... The time she spent standing to fight was less than the time spent "getting knocked down—then scrambling back up."
At first, Tasha mentally complained: "Why does sweat form on a skull?" "I don't even have an upper respiratory tract—why am I panting?" Soon, she lost the luxury of such thoughts. Her combat instructor forbade any weapons. The current training consisted solely of running, dodging, and unarmed combat—essentially lessons in fleeing and taking beatings for the present-day Tasha.
This time, Tasha dodged for three seconds before being sent flying on the fourth.
"You truly have no talent," Victor's voice chimed in.
"Thanks for the enthusiastic encouragement." "Tasha said, shifting her arm as she suspected her shoulder might be dislocated.
"Press inward clockwise," Victor instructed.
Tasha complied, hearing a soft click as her shoulder popped back into place, the sharp pain vanishing. "Thanks," she remarked, slightly surprised. "I thought you'd say I was wasting time again."
"Increasing your chances of survival is never a waste of time," Victor replied, unexpectedly gentle—though his next words revealed his true colors. "By the way, your combat skills are truly pitiful. Back home, you wouldn't have lived to see adulthood."
"Survival pressure in the library is intense, huh?" Tasha remarked.
"It's the Abyss! The Abyss! I'm a great demon!" Victor snapped, then fell silent.
Tasha crashed to the floor again, bumping her head on the weapon rack. She couldn't get up for a moment. What frustrated her wasn't the constant failures, but the feeling of being stuck, unable to see any progress. Tasha suspected her only improvement was in taking hits. She rubbed the back of her head, thinking that if her skull contained a brain (that sounded so wrong), she'd definitely have a concussion.
"Use your eyes, don't just rush in to get hit!" Dora said. "Watch my shoulders—you'll see when I'm about to strike. Watch my hips—you'll know which way I'm moving next." "
She hadn't been wearing armor to begin with, and now, with a look of exasperation, she stripped off her short-sleeved shirt too. The warrior in her vest was strong and lean. Tasha watched her biceps flex before she was sent flying again.
"No," Dora frowned. "You're not committed."
"I am committed!" Tashar retorted for the first time. If she weren't fully intent on learning something, why would she keep getting beaten here? She wasn't a masochist.
"You're not," Dora said. "You're not committed to the fight, or even to each individual movement. You move as if you're wearing your body."
Tasha couldn't argue.
Dora had hit the nail on the head. This body had been handed to her out of thin air. She'd gained a physically gifted form, skipping the long grind of training, but that meant no time to truly adapt. A subtle disconnect lingered between flesh and mind, like driving a high-performance car that had barely been used.
"Ever considered switching to a magic class?" Victor asked.
"You plan to teach me magic?"
"Abyssal magic flows through bloodlines. You'll have to find a mage willing to take you on, or a grimoire."
Tasha possessed neither mage nor grimoire, so Victor's words were merely idle talk.
This training session ended with Tasha utterly exhausted. She flopped her aching body into her room, too drained to move. Her hand dangled over the bedside. Ah Huang crawled out from beneath the bed and nudged her hand, but Tasha lacked even the strength to pet him. Soon after, Marion thoughtfully brought her a large basin of hot water. Thinking of the hassle of fetching and boiling water, Tasha resolved to build a bathroom immediately.
Getting the dungeon to build a bathroom proved far easier than learning to fight. The dungeon obeyed her commands more readily than this body. Dora had been right—she couldn't fully commit. Compared to the energy the dungeon demanded, this newly acquired body was little more than a puppet she manipulated.
The tunnels kept expanding, and the goblin workforce grew significantly. Their round-the-clock labor spread the dungeon throughout the entire Angaroth Forest. This subterranean network was vast and interconnected, sturdy enough yet flexible enough to accommodate new chambers, ready to transform from drainage tunnels into a true underground city at any moment. Alongside this expansion came watchtowers, firmly securing Angaroth Forest within their grasp, ensuring they would never be caught off guard again.
Thus, when strange figures appeared at the forest's edge, the watchtowers spotted them immediately.
It was no army, merely a convoy with guards at best. They traveled under cover of night, torches lit, wheels and hooves cushioned with soft padding, traveling light and moving as silently as possible to sneak in. The ghost immediately surfaced. Thankfully, she sensed no other magic cannon among the vehicles.
They halted outside Angaroth Forest, turned around, and positioned the convoy facing outward. Several people emerged from one wagon, assembling strange contraptions onto the rear of other vehicles. Tasha tried to discern what the wagons contained, but they were covered by large tarps, completely sealed with no openings, appearing solid as if hollowed out. The frames and rows of long poles assembled and attached to the rear compartments made their purpose utterly baffling.
Whatever it was, it couldn't be good.
As soon as Tasha spotted them, she alerted the Amazons. The warriors immediately donned their armor and mobilized. This time, the human soldiers had come in such small numbers that they could move swiftly and hide easily. Unfortunately for them, they'd miscalculated. Once discovered, they were as good as delivered to the Amazon warriors. As for their purpose, they could find the answers after killing or capturing them.
As if sensing their discovery, the soldiers halted their hasty assembly. Most reboarded the wagons or horses and rode off.
Only four unmanned wagons, several horses, and an equal number of oddly dressed individuals remained. They wore leather gloves and heavy cloaks of matching material, hooded robes enveloping their entire bodies. Beneath the hoods sat peculiar masks—not flat, but with circular lenses set into the eye sections. The nose sections jutted sharply, occupying two-thirds of the face, their tips curving downward slightly, resembling enormous bird beaks. At first glance, they appeared to be dressed in crow costumes.
Tashai vaguely recalled seeing such figures somewhere before, yet couldn't place them. Could they be fragments of some dungeon legacy? She asked Victor if these were necromancers or something similar. Victor replied no, they were merely living beings—perhaps some sort of raven-worshipping mages. "Mages are hard to kill," he warned. "Don't spare your arrows."
Living men could be killed.
The Amazonian arrows claimed half their lives in an instant, piercing through leather jackets with ease. Their defense couldn't match chainmail, and no colorful magical arrays rose to protect them. They fell like ordinary men. The remaining three looked panicked. The Amazonian archers shot through their feet, then charged toward them, intending to take prisoners.
"For Erian!" one suddenly shouted.
He was closest to the cart. He lunged forward and yanked the pole behind it. The other two, limping, tried to follow suit, though one was quickly shot through the hand and failed to reach the third cart. A furious gust of wind erupted from the crossbar behind the cart, stinging their eyes shut. The Amazonians instinctively dropped to the ground, crawling forward to avoid the onslaught. The fastest among them seized one of the living men, tearing off his mask in the struggle.
The man let out a shriek, drew his dagger, and struggled toward the carriage behind him.
In that instant, Tasha recalled where she had seen such crow masks before.
Illustrations in historical texts depicted medieval plague doctors wearing these rudimentary gas masks.
Without hesitation, she caused the ground to split open and close again. The Amazons who hadn't yet reached the carriage were swallowed into the underground chamber, staring blankly as the ceiling sealed shut. Above ground, the unmasked man hacked madly at the carriage. After several blows, the rear compartment burst open like a punctured balloon.
It had contained nothing but gas all along.