Tasha was wrapping up her work in Red Gum County, relaying messages between the Old Oak and the Druid, soaking in a pool of warm water, observing everything within the dungeon.
Splitting into multiple consciousnesses for simultaneous operations, he failed to notice the subtle sense of fragmentation until his focus relaxed afterward. Though each body's consciousness was Tashar, it was like pouring water into different vessels—before reintegration, each split consciousness took on its own distinct hue. The duplicates were both Tashan and yet distinct entities. Information received by each carried a time lag imperceptible to outsiders but starkly evident to Tashan's hyper-efficient processing core.
The core entity, fused with the dungeon's heart, surveyed its own corpse before the magic pool.
The wolf skull rolled several meters away, its eye sockets extinguished, appearing like a long-forgotten skeletal specimen. The female corpse before the steps was a gruesome sight—headless, left arm missing, skin a terrifying indigo-purple. It was the first time Tashan had witnessed the "body collapse" side effect of the [Full Moon] skill manifest on a flesh-and-blood entity. The spirit had dissipated cleanly, yet the human-like form seemed afflicted by some toxin that dissolved flesh.
It felt strange—watching a body that had been as responsive as an extension of her arm transform into something rotten beyond recognition. It wasn't quite grief, yet... perhaps akin to the feeling when a beloved garment tears beyond repair? Staring at the decaying arm, Tasha found herself almost relieved to be headless—no one would want to see her rotting face.
"When the body is reshaped," Tasha asked, "will the elements be extracted anew? Or will it inherit the previous one?"
The fragment of consciousness within the wolf-headed body did not return to the dungeon's core after its collapse.
Tasha felt a part of herself soaking in warm water. She couldn't see, couldn't hear, couldn't sense her body—yet she felt no discomfort at being imprisoned. Perhaps this was what it felt like to remain conscious within the womb. She felt safe, relaxed, and growing.
"Nice try," Victor said listlessly.
Acquired talents couldn't be retained. The quality of the next body would still depend on luck.
This thought made it even more regrettable. Next time, there likely wouldn't be the perk of surviving decapitation, and each body swap required retraining to adapt. The death penalty was severe. Yet it made perfect sense. If controlling a specter was like playing a keyboard-based online game, using the Wolf's Head form was like advancing to a full-fledged holographic online game. Even if she started over in a new body, the knowledge gained while using this one wouldn't be forgotten. Such a cultivable vessel naturally isn't a disposable item like the ghost form. Setting aside the time required to create it, the sheer amount of mana needed speaks volumes.
After the lull following a major battle, Tasha's remaining mana wasn't even enough to reshape a single physical form.
But that wasn't all.
The Wolf Head form had taken less than ten minutes to create. After scanning the dungeon's interior and extracting its elements, the body had materialized instantly. But this time, Tasha could distinctly feel it: not only was the mana cost dozens of times greater than before, but even with ample mana, the time required to shape the body was definitely more than a few minutes. Was last time a beginner's bonus? Or does each time this physical form is discarded, the time and mana required for the next reshaping double?
Whichever it was, it blocked the path of "constantly restarting to extract the best talents."
"Be grateful to the Abyss if you get rid of a critical talent once in a hundred tries!" Victor muttered at Tashan's regret. "Thank the Abyss we won against such a weak dungeon."
"Just thank me," Tashan said. "Thank my good luck, quick reflexes, wit, courage, and bloody battle. Thank the remarkable me."
"Ha! You should thank me instead!" Victor retorted.
"Thanks."
"...Are you okay?" Victor asked cautiously, flipping pages nervously.
Victor's Abyss-related catchphrases were no different from ordinary people saying "Thank God." Tasha knew this, of course—he was just being sarcastic. She was perfectly fine, just a bit tired.
The dungeon was busy fending off enemies and protecting her charges during this great battle, striving to fulfill her promise. Every man, every troop strength comparison, every supply expenditure was etched into Tasha's mind. Soldiers could rotate shifts, medics could rest briefly, but Tasha had to hold every position every single moment. She was an indispensable part of this war, the one link in her own plan that absolutely could not fail—and one she had never imagined could go wrong.
In life, Tasha had always held herself to the highest standards. She wasn't a workaholic, nor did she have a masochistic streak; she simply trusted herself more. Delegating tasks meant worrying about others' mistakes, navigating social obligations, and preparing contingency plans for unforeseen complications—a hassle better avoided by handling things herself. No one understood her capabilities better than Tasha. The capable bear more responsibility; it had always been so.
But that didn't mean she didn't tire.
The abilities granted by the dungeon allowed Tasha to accomplish feats beyond ordinary humans, yet she was no machine. This victory had drained vast reserves of magic, energy, and willpower. Even now, with the dust settled, she could honestly say she had given her absolute all at every stage. Whether coordinating the battlefield or personally engaging the paladin in combat, each role carried immense peril. Victory had been hard-won. But such truths could never be shared with anyone.
Could she tell her warriors that the medicinal gardens were nearly depleted, potions running low, that the seemingly endless dungeon supplies were actually exhausted? Could she tell the alien races clinging to life within the dungeon that the conjured food relied entirely on magic conversion, and once that magic ran dry, famine would follow? Don't be ridiculous! Tashar must make everyone believe her victories come effortlessly. They needn't see her wounds—only the corpses of her enemies at her feet.
Tasha must appear unbreakable before everyone—enemies, citizens, and even close contract-holders like Marion. She was the alpha of the pack, the pillar and hope of all followers, the sword hanging over enemies and traitors. She had to be mysterious, powerful, omnipotent.
In a place like this, a leader who seemed cold yet all-powerful was better than a benevolent but incompetent ruler.
Thus, no confidant suited Tarza better than Victor. Bound by contract, Victor could never betray her; he knew her inside out, with little to hide and no reason to conceal; he never placed heavy hopes upon her, so she needn't fear disappointing him; They weren't friends, and Victor was a demon of the evil faction. Tasha didn't worry for a second that anything she said might wound his tender heart/beautiful soul—Victor didn't have such things.
Talking to Victor felt like coming home from a long meeting with important people, kicking off your heels, unhooking your bra, letting your hair down, and collapsing onto a big bed.
Tasha's unusual hesitation lasted only seconds before Victor perked up again.
"But we got lucky this time," he said cheerfully. "A nearly intact professional's corpse—a knight, no less! Throw him in the graveyard, and the odds of turning him into a death knight are terrifyingly high. Quick, while it's fresh!"
Victor's tone was like urging her to eat while it was hot. The rustling of pages rubbing together made Tashar imagine a pair of gleefully rubbing hands.
Tashar had already called for help. Just then, Marion walked in, cradling the paladin's severed head.
"Did she forget something?" Victor cried. "The body! Where's the body? Wait—where is she going?"
"The graveyard," Tasha replied.
"That's the Amazon graveyard!" Victor exclaimed.
"Indeed. The Amazons would surely be delighted to bury a valiant knight fallen in battle among their own," Tasha said.
The Amazons honored fallen warriors, friend or foe. The Amazon Queen knew the origin of the undead soldiers. She turned a blind eye to Tashar's graveyard armory, and Tashar respected their boundaries. All Amazon corpses were buried in their cemetery—an ordinary graveyard incapable of producing undead soldiers.
"Why?" Victor exclaimed incredulously. "You went to all that trouble to defeat him, only to bury him in the ground as scrap? You lost a body and all those buildings—a Death Knight is just interest!"
"I'll place the other parts in my graveyard," Tashar replied.
"Crafting a Death Knight requires a complete knight's body." Victor explained patiently, as if soothing a suddenly unhinged superior. "A severed head is manageable, but you must bury them together. The graveyard will mend his neck, but how will it grow a new head?"
"Then I won't create a death knight," Tasha declared.
"Not create one?" Victor drew a sharp breath, his voice rising involuntarily. "A death knight! It possesses the same formidable strength and all the skills of its corrupted version as in life. In my era, countless necromancers strained every muscle to capture intact knights. And now, in this age where practitioners are scarce as hen's teeth, you finally obtain a complete knight's corpse untouched by corrupting magic, yet insist on burying him in pieces? Why?! What utter waste!"
"Probably because," Tasha gazed at the corpse still clutching its battleaxe, "he was a worthy opponent."
The battle against the paladin had been grueling, yet undeniably exhilarating. Tasha harbored no hatred toward him—in fact, she rather liked him. The old knight's valor, self-sacrifice, and respect for his adversary commanded admiration. If anything, the dungeon's victory had exploited his noble character. It wasn't a matter of right or wrong, merely differing stances. It was simply a pity—a hero past his prime, a knight out of time, one she wished she could have harnessed.
Such a paladin would never willingly become a death knight—still bearing his own face after death, fighting for the enemy.
Victor paused for a long moment before asking, "But you still plan to toss his body into the graveyard?"
"Yes," Tashu admitted frankly. "After all, with so many losses, I ought to collect some interest."
The mightier the individual, the more formidable the undead they become. Such rare professionals couldn't be overlooked. Paladins regarded their heads as the resting place of their souls—a belief Victor recalled reading in Tasha's memories. Women madly in love with paladins would plead for their lovers' heads, while heroic paladins earned the honor of having their skulls enshrined within temples. The limited goodwill and respect Tasha could offer only extended this far.
"What's the point?" Victor sneered. "Beheading him as a sign of respect? I thought that was only done to prisoners."
Tasha suddenly halted.
The Dungeon Book sensed Tasha's gaze and felt slightly uncomfortable under it. "What is it?" he asked.
"Paladins have a tradition of specially enshrining heroes' heads," Tashar stated.
"Well, I don't quite remember," Victor muttered, resorting to his timeless excuse. "It's been centuries, and I was badly injured..."
"You told me this," Tashar said. "Right before the battle began, I saw it in your memories."
"..."
The memories of the Paladin were vivid as if fresh.
Victor fell silent, but Tashan wasn't about to let him off the hook. Under her command, Ah Huang seized the Book of the Dungeon and flung it open.
Victor struggled futilely but couldn't escape Ah Huang's grasp. He was flipped open, held down, and examined page by page. The Dungeon Book was blank. All the previously exchanged text patterns appeared only on the two central pages, while the rest of the thick volume seemed merely decorative. Today, it remained entirely blank, yet Tasha detected a flaw.
One page was missing, its edge torn unevenly, as if ripped out violently.
"What happened here?" Tasha demanded.
"Didn't you see?" Victor replied reluctantly.
"Who did it? You? Why?" Tasha fired off questions. "Because of the memories?"
That kind of inheritance, like a one-click paste, couldn't come without a price.
Since Tasha had paid nothing, the bill fell to the other party.
Victor admitted vaguely that he had given Tasha a portion of his memories—literally "given," not shown or lent, but transferred. Once Tasha possessed those memories, their original owner could no longer recall them.
"The pages served as a medium," he stammered under pressure. "I am this book now, so the pages are my memories... Fine, my soul! Got it? This is irreversible damage! You can't touch me until I break the contract!"
By the end, Victor's warning rang hollow, his yellow eyes in the book nervously watching Tasha as the pages trembled slightly. Tasha realized: Why was he being so vague? He was afraid.
Yes, just as Victor suspected, Tasha wasn't entirely without ideas for exploiting loopholes in the contract to acquire more pages. For a fleeting moment, Tasha had even considered it. Compared to the tedious process of querying the catalog, possessing those memories outright would be far more convenient.
But despite knowing Victor sacrificed a fragment of his soul purely because they were bound together, Tasha still owed him a debt of gratitude.
"Glad I'm not on the evil side, huh?" Tasha said, reaching out to touch the torn edge of the page.
Tasha felt a surge of curiosity.
How had the being from his memories—the one who could hum a tune while slaughtering a group of paladins barehanded, the great demon who toyed with and killed high-level adventurers—ended up in this state? It was impossible to believe this was the same being as Victor. His disguise blended seamlessly into crowds, his combat skills terrifyingly refined—swift, brutal, lethal. After experiencing his fighting firsthand, Tasha felt her own body unbearably sluggish.
Pressing him was futile. Victor knew only that he'd suffered severe wounds, yet could scarcely recall the specifics of what had happened.
This wasn't an excuse. A great demon could survive soul damage, but the consequences of his soul's fragmentation exceeded Tasha's expectations. He'd lost not only power, but memory, and even his intelligence and emotional intelligence were rapidly deteriorating. Victor had fallen from being a terrifying presence to becoming the current Dungeon Book—that unreliable appearance made it impossible to take him seriously. Tasha felt a peculiar pity for him, much like one might feel for an aging paladin or an endangered species.
Come to think of it, the dungeon seemed to be becoming a sanctuary for endangered creatures of a different sort.
Thanks to prompt medical attention and miraculous potions, casualties from this battle weren't particularly high, though the wounded were too numerous to manage alone. Fortunately, the newly arrived druids lent a hand. This group of druids—perhaps the last remaining druids on the continent of Erian—signed a contract with Tasha the very next day after their arrival.
"We're not druids yet," said the middle-aged man leading them, offering an awkward smile. "We set out the day we discovered the Sacred Tree—last year—searching for people, taking detours, earning money along the way. We're only just arriving now. We're terribly sorry."
Quarter-elf Mavis possessed fairy boots that enabled her to leap, yet these druid apprentices—barely more skilled than ordinary folk—had to trudge along step by step. Unable to interpret the whispers of birds and trees, they owed their arrival here entirely to that potted plant.
Over a century ago, Druids scattered during a purge while protecting the Heart of Nature, severing their lineage. Some gathered acorns from oak trees and cultivated them into plants capable of sensing the aura of sacred trees. Those who tended these plants became known as "Tree Seekers." The father and son holding the potted plant earlier belonged to this generation of Tree Seekers. The plant cultivated from the acorn proved far weaker than they had hoped. Had Tashan not launched a "Nature's Breath Firework" into the sky, it might have taken centuries to locate the sacred tree.
Scattered druid apprentices were summoned by the Seekers. They were farmers, woodcutters, hunters, merchants—people who had learned druidic knowledge from kin or mentors but couldn't make a branch sprout a bud. Many had never even seen a true druid, yet when the Seekers knocked on their doors, they answered the call.
For the forest they had never laid eyes upon.
" Druid Apprentices: They select good seeds, identify crops suited to local soil and water, and predict tomorrow's weather from the sky—Druids unrecognized by the Heart of Nature are essentially experienced farmers."
[Rain-Summoning Music Box]: When both Withered Curse and Natural Essence are present in significant quantities within a region, this skill stirs the surrounding natural elements, causing the two properties to collide. At their interface, warm, moist, lighter air rises above cold, dry, heavier air. Water vapor cools and condenses during this ascent, forming precipitation—the latter part is pure nonsense, but your logic-and-science-driven mind seems compelled to force-fit high school geography knowledge to comprehend this scientifically inexplicable rain-invoking skill.
That explanation of the latter skill was the principle by which druid apprentices summoned wind and rain.
After the rain fell, they were utterly thrilled. Everyone was astonished that they could actually alter the weather—they did this entirely based on the guidance of the Old Oak. The "writing" on oak leaves was the only form of tree language the apprentices could understand. The Wither Curse and the lingering essence of nature created a unique environment where a sufficient number of druid apprentices could summon wind and rain.
The heavy rain persisted for many days afterward, causing considerable distress among the druid apprentices who were primarily farmers by trade. Upon learning that no farmland existed nearby due to the Wither Curse, all the druid apprentices grew anxious. They debated topics like soil erosion and landslides while continuing their efforts to become full-fledged druids.
Besides the druid apprentices, new members arrived.
After the battlefield, which had consumed most of the forces and resources, concluded, the "circus members" who had been causing trouble in the town were all executed. Frank, the circus ringmaster, was indeed a non-combatant. He attempted to slip away secretly but met his end at the hands of the people whose homes had been burned.
"He was just a decoy," Douglas said. "Like a magician's assistant, his job was to distract the audience while we did the work." Upon learning of the thieves' demise, Douglas spilled everything.
"Loyalty? Ha! Most just boarded the wrong ship," the rider shrugged. "Our boss was that thief. We signed contracts to work for him. Traitors die—you know, standard assassin procedure. But isn't he dead?"
"Assassins!" Victor exclaimed with delight, his eyes lighting up like someone who'd finally recalled the title of a song. "I remember now! Groups like this are either Assassin Guilds or Thieves' Guilds—mercenaries taking contracts. Aha, dirty work has always been a long-standing profession."
Your hindsight is equally long-standing, Tasha thought.
"We're just trying to scrape by. I swear to heaven I hold no prejudice or hostility toward the Others. Once bound by contract, we have no choice." Douglas said with a sheepish grin. "Jacqueline's situation is even worse. She's an Other, sold into the circus as a child with no say in her fate. She's never killed one of her own kind—only endured oppression and servitude. Capturing her alive is a rescue mission!"
"Are you begging for mercy?" Tasha asked.
"I'm merely stating facts. It would be a shame for an unfortunate woman to die before dawn," Douglas declared with utter shamelessness. "As for me... kill me, skin me, burn me, boil me—whatever suits you... Ouch! But I do beg you to spare me a quick death."
"Since death is what you crave," Tashar said, "why not tell us what you truly seek? No more excuses about being forced into this."
The rider's feigned lightness vanished. His grinning mask slipped for an instant, revealing an expression as blank as the ghosts before him.
After a pause that stretched into minutes, he said, "Dragons."
Douglas's "profession" wasn't thief, warrior, or knight.
Like the childish nickname he'd given himself, he was a dragon rider—a dragon knight.
"I know dragons vanished from Erian long ago," Douglas laughed. "True dragons departed before the war with the orcs began. And that war destroyed all the wyverns. I know. I'm just a madman fighting windmills with a pistol."
Douglas's second greatest misfortune in life stemmed from the notebook he found in an abandoned basement. The wealthy young heir had discovered his ancestor's precious legacy—that great dragon rider who had once commanded true dragons, whose skills could be passed down to descendants even across centuries.
Douglas's greatest misfortune lay in possessing a talent one in a million. This youth, who had only ever seen dragons in pictures, advanced to the "Dragon Rider" profession while riding a horse. On the night his vocation awakened, he dreamt of a dragon.
The youth became deeply, hopelessly captivated by the magnificent creature of his dream.
He abandoned the path his parents had laid out for him, left his homeland, and threw himself into the most perilous places, even joining the Assassins' Guild. Like a hound chasing danger, he plunged into the shadows time and again.
"I've heard of the dungeon. If Erian still has a dragon, it can only be here. I've searched everywhere else. But—nothing." Douglas spread his hands, slumping back into his chair. "Nothing left for me now."
The ghost stood silently, as if listening to some sound in the void. After a moment, she shook her head.
"Not necessarily," she said. "If you sign a contract with me, give me your soul, I might just conjure a dragon for you."
"Maybe? That's quite fair indeed." Douglas laughed heartily. "Come on, let's sign it!"
The moment the contract was sealed, Tasha received her definitive answer.
The profession of Dragon Rider, regardless of race, was invariably one of "half-bloods"—the haughty dragons would only fight alongside beings bearing true dragon blood.