"Yes, that did happen," the Old Oak recalled slowly. "About three hundred years ago, the dwarves waged war against humanity. But I know little of the details—the druids did not take part in the conflict."
Druidry is both a profession and a faith. Though their worship of nature and sacred trees sets them apart from any deity-worshipping sect, they share certain traits with religious practitioners. Successful druids focus their attention on natural harmony and do not participate in wars involving their own race or nation. This diverse group of druids maintained neutrality for the most part. When dwarves and humans went to war, both dwarf and human druids chose to retreat into the Sacred Oak Forest for secluded study. The more zealous among them merely traveled to repair vegetation damaged by the conflict.
"Erian was never a peaceful world. Wars of all scales erupted constantly across its lands. Only during the fiercest conflicts with the Celestial and Abyssal realms did most creatures temporarily lay down their weapons," sighed the Old Oak. "When humans and dwarves went to war, we thought it merely another ordinary conflict. None of us imagined it would lead to such consequences."
The reasons remain unknown, as does the process. The Old Oak, secluded in the Sacred Oak Grove, knew only the outcome of that war.
The Erian Declaration failed to sustain eternal peace among the races, yet it strengthened unity within most of them. Dwarf clans united into a vast kingdom, while humanity's loose wartime alliance gradually formed a super empire. When war broke out between them, both sides committed their entire races. They fought their former allies with the same ruthlessness they'd shown demons, until both sides were devastated. Humans paid a terrible price, uprooting the Dwarven Kingdom entirely. The gnomes, having chosen the wrong side, vanished along with the dwarves.
"What about the dragons?" Tashar asked. "Why did they leave after the dwarves' defeat?"
"Had the Archdruid still walked among us, we might have had the honor to speak with the dragons," Oak Elder said regretfully. "We only heard that the Molten Gold Dragon made a prophecy—a prophecy so potent it was a spell in itself, one even mages versed in dragon speech magic could not repeat. Before the moon rose the next day, most dragons had vanished."
Through some turning point, the druids persuaded the dragons; the neutral wood elves chose to join the war; the dwarves halted their civil strife; orcs and other races united; even the chaotic merfolk recognized the crisis. In the west, the Abyssal cultists and the witches of the north conspired in secret to deceive the demons. Simultaneously, the heretical magic of the godless was quietly spreading among rogue clerics. Against this backdrop, the Erian Declaration was signed four hundred and fifty years ago, uniting the races.
Four hundred years ago, creatures of the Material Plane sealed off the Abyss and the Celestial Realms. Subsequently, a cataclysm occurred: Eryan's last elves and numerous high-ranking druids vanished, relinquishing the Heart of Nature to the youngest oak in the Sacred Oak Grove. The remaining druids continued living in Eryan.
Approximately three hundred years ago, dwarves and humans waged total war. Humans achieved a pyrrhic victory, and dwarves and their goblin allies were gradually exterminated and expelled. Subsequently, a mighty golden dragon issued a mysterious prophecy, and the dragons withdrew from the stage of Eryan.
Over two hundred years ago, humans and orcs engaged in a large-scale war. Samuel claimed that at this time, Saroth's clergy still held key positions within the human armies.
Over a century ago, Druids were scattered during human purges and lost contact with the Old Oak, severing the Druidic lineage.
Today, Tasha witnesses an Erian where non-human races face universal persecution, human priests must hide like Amazons, adventurers are scarce, and most humans seem utterly detached from this fantasy world.
Looking back at the trail where they vanished, it felt like sitting on a rocking ship, watching others fall overboard one by one. If they were all killing each other in internal strife, that would be one thing—at least the threat would be clear. But some of these races were jumping off the ship of their own accord.
"Some dragons stayed behind, didn't they?" asked Tashar. "I've heard dragons live incredibly long lives, growing stronger with age. Aside from gods and demons, only time itself can rival them."
"Not entirely accurate," mused the Oak Elder. "Most dragons are solitary creatures, indifferent to their own kin—including their offspring. Young dragons might be wiped out by overwhelming numbers, while elder dragons could fall to assaults by legendary adventurers—especially when legendary mages were involved. I recall a period when humans, for reasons unknown, launched a wave of dragon-slaying. Countless legendary adventurers, nearly all legendary mages, perished alongside dragons during that time. Gradually, I ceased hearing any news of dragons."
"There remains one ancient dragon, commonly known as Blue Night. Master of sorcery and colossal as a mountain, it stands unquestionably as the mightiest of the dragons that stayed behind." He added, "It has not yet reached the age to return to the Dragon's Rest, nor have I heard of its demise. Perhaps it still slumbers somewhere."
Could the prophecy mean dragons would be exterminated by waves of relentless adventurers? Yet if most dragons hadn't departed, no matter how indifferent they were to their kin, they wouldn't allow themselves to be wiped out—humans couldn't achieve that either.
This wasn't the only puzzle. Among the known details, too many things seemed off. What possible benefit could drive legendary adventurers to slaughter dragons in relentless waves? Sacrificing legendary berserkers might make sense, but why were legendary mages—renowned for wisdom and reason—suffering the heaviest losses? It defied logic.
To put it bluntly, Tasha recalled a nonsensical mystical concept from Eastern fantasy tales on Earth: "fate's calamity."
Reasons unknown, solutions unclear—she felt as if standing on the slope where mythical eras transitioned into the ordinary world. For an unnatural dungeon like this, utterly incongruous with humanity's current reality, the situation truly unsettled Tasha.
At this point, she could only take things as they came.
The northern border fell silent once more. A crude defensive line had been hastily erected, both sides maintaining a tacit agreement to ignore each other for now. After the great battle, spring arrived on this land still thick with the smell of gunpowder. With able-bodied men busy with spring plowing, conflict seemed unlikely for the time being.
The arrival of the druid transformed vast stretches of wasteland back into fertile soil.
After a winter of labor, the purifying agents created by the [Add a Dash of Sugar] skill had largely dispelled the nearby Wither Curse, leaving behind parched, barren land. Typically, it would take at least another year for these areas to regain vitality—just as a recovered patient couldn't regain their former strength overnight. Tasha had prepared enough provisions to last another year, but the druids drastically shortened the period of uncultivable land.
They fashioned walking sticks from oak branches, dried seeds from various plants, and sewed them into small balls suspended from the sticks. These balls rustled softly as they moved, like a string of tiny bells. All druids who successfully completed their transition possessed the ability to "harmonize with nature." As they walked through the wilderness with their staffs, an ethereal aura of nature enveloped the barren land. Tasha struggled to articulate the mechanics of their work, only vaguely sensing the flow of natural energy—like stirring a rice bowl with chopsticks, evenly distributing broth and meat chunks over the white rice.
Where the tree bells rang, the earth began to revive.
Tenacious weeds sprouted from the earth, while forests and fields required sowing. Fortunately, the druids brought abundant seeds, and the quarter-elf apothecaries possessed ample stockpiles. Medicinal varieties were planted in herb gardens, exploiting their cheat-like properties for rapid growth. Once matured, they were transplanted elsewhere to make room for the next batch.
Even uninitiated druid apprentices made excellent gardeners and herb farmers. They got along splendidly with Mavis—though "got along splendidly" was actually putting it mildly. Most druids jostled to see the descendant of the forest elves, as if awaiting a celebrity meet-and-greet. They considered it incredibly fortunate and auspicious to behold the legendary ally of the Great Druid.
"Can your fingers make dead trees sprout?" a young druid girl asked hopefully.
"No, dear," Mavis replied for the umpteenth time. "But they might make your tongue sprout—care for some snow pear jelly?"
Henceforth, Mavis wouldn't have to manage three places alone. The herb garden was taken over by druid apprentices, and druids also assisted in the apothecary. The combination of elves and druids proved highly advantageous in herb processing and potion-making. Both the herb garden and the apothecary advanced a level: the former saw accelerated herb growth, while the latter's potions gained enhanced potency.
Of course, among the newly advanced druids, alongside farmers, gardeners, and apothecaries, combat specialists also emerged.
Alfred, the son of the Pathfinder father-son duo, was the first to earn the recognition of the Heart of Nature. His pure heart and lifelong experience tending the Pathfinder Tree granted him profound plant affinity. He could understand the forest's whispers and rapidly catalyze and control vegetation. Shortly after his advancement, Alfred could make wild grasses surge from the ground to entangle a warrior's legs or cause thorn seeds to suddenly grow into impassable barricades.
The Amazon training with him was once again tripped by the wild grass. After struggling unsuccessfully to break free, she sat down on the ground. "These grasses just aren't strong enough," she said defiantly. "I'm only fifteen. In a few years, I'll break free from them easily."
"I'm only thirteen!" Alfred declared proudly. "In a few years, my 'Death Entangle' will be even more powerful than it is now!"
"Death Grip?" The Amazonian gave him a strange look, then glanced at the grass. "Are you sure that's what you want to call it?"
"What's wrong with Death Grip?" Alfred asked, folding his arms. "What's your name, anyway?"
"Atlantis." The brown-haired girl said, crouching down to untangle the wild grass. Soon, growing impatient, she resorted to using her dagger. "And you, grass-playing wizard?"
"Druid! Alfred the future Archdruid!"
"Fine, Archdruid." Atlantis said indifferently, finally freeing her foot. "Can you make trees grow fruit directly?"
"I could... but I shouldn't," Alfred hesitated.
"Can you or can't you?" Atlantis was confused.
"I can, but I won't," Alfred said. "It's bad for the trees."
Real-life druids were far more cautious than their game counterparts. While they could control trees, they had to consider the depleted soil and the plants' potential. Throwing thorns required pre-prepared seeds, and after catalyzing wild grasses, the rapidly grown vegetation had to be restored to its original state. While rapidly ripening crops wasn't impossible, it would damage this newly recovered land, so they wouldn't do it. Druids asked nature to fight alongside them, and in turn, they took on the responsibility of protecting it.
Similarly, a druid's "Beastmastery" skill couldn't be performed out of thin air. Animals bound by contract with them gain extended lifespans, enhanced strength, and heightened intelligence. Only these advanced spirit beasts can truly understand the druid's will and fight bravely alongside them. Druids command these spirit beasts while caring for them daily, remaining inseparable companions.
Currently, only one druid has advanced toward becoming a "Beastspeaker." Animals are scarce in these parts, and even fewer meet the criteria for a contract. The sole successful female druid had chosen a rather amusing partner.
"You just ditched me to run off with this lady?" Douglas yelped. "I know I've been neglecting you lately, old Joey, but you could've at least told me before deciding!"
His horse stamped its hooves and whinnied for a full minute. Douglas swiftly pulled his hat low, narrowly avoiding a spray of saliva. "Fine, I wish you well!" the rider dodged, struggling to maintain his composure. He managed a gallant smile toward the druid woman accompanying Joey. "Yes, I know you'll miss me..."
"'Finally rid of your heavy ass and your mother's endless nagging—thank God,'" Prima the Beastspeaker translated with a gentle smile. "He also said, 'Don't you dare try to fuck on my back again...'"
"Ha ha, ha ha ha! He sure has a sense of humor!" Douglas forced a stiff laugh, reaching for Joey's mouth to cover it but missing. "I suddenly remembered I have something to do. Enjoy your time together, and have a safe journey!"
With that, he slipped away as quickly as possible.
The dragon rider soared through the wilderness sky atop his dragon. He spent nearly all his free time with the dragon, like an addicted teenager, returning to the city only during work hours. Tasha had allowed druids and riders to teach classes in schools and barracks. With the Heart of Nature, flying dragons, and druid and dragon rider instructors present, she couldn't think of a reason not to mass-produce both professions.
Children earned dwarven coins through schooling. A semester's earnings weren't substantial, but for strapped families, sending idle youngsters who couldn't yet work to school meant extra income—an incredibly profitable deal. The fact that the teachers were outlaws wanted elsewhere in Erian was trivial—the black market wasn't exactly legal either, yet no one seemed to be up in arms about it.
The war at the end of winter and beginning of spring had an unexpected consequence: most residents of the southeast corner adopted a "what's the point" mentality. Since the north had already branded them as human traitors to be killed on sight, doing something that might be condemned as collaboration to survive wouldn't make things any worse.
Red Gum County and Antler Town weren't particularly significant places. Few had close connections to higher-ups, and civil servants continued their work with wooden expressions. The foreign powers showed no intention of parachuting in new officials to replace them, so working under anyone meant the same paycheck and meals. Merchants found a new equilibrium after months of turmoil, and as new supplies and sales channels stabilized, the markets settled too. Farmers felt a certain warmth toward the Druids. To them, the Druids were merely eccentric colleagues, far from being dangerous elements. Hunters, woodcutters, and others who depended on the forest for their livelihoods had found new roles. During breaks in their training, they glanced toward the woods where tender saplings were taking root.
It was unclear how long it would take for Angaso Forest to return to its former self. But it was recovering, and that was always a good thing.
The bodies placed in the graveyard yielded results after a month.
"A new undead race has emerged in your graveyard. Graveyard upgraded."
"Burying knights (professionals) with over 90% integrity allows the cemetery to generate Death Knights of varying quality per unit time by consuming magic. Higher skeletal and soul integrity yields greater conversion success rates."
"Due to the burial lacking a crucial component—the head—and the soul nearing disintegration, the conversion process resulted in mutation."
Just after burying the paladin's headless corpse, Tasha received a notification from the graveyard indicating the paladin's conversion success rate was under ten percent. Yet, as fate would have it, the paladin's conversion succeeded, while the rogue's corpse failed, transforming only into a slightly sturdier zombie.
A ghost hovered above the graveyard, watching as the soil formed a bulge. The tomb burst open with a thunderous crash. Rocks and earth tumbled down as a towering figure emerged from the earth, as imposing as in life.
Oh, not quite as imposing—it had no head.
Headless Knight: Possesses rare agility and adaptability among the undead, as the knight's training from life lingers within his fallen form. Noble virtues have faded with life, yet the fiery spirit remains unquenched, granting this knight the following talents: Summon Undead Steed (summons an undead warhorse with slightly superior base stats to a regular steed, once per day), Death's Herald (the Headless Knight may declare a name before battle begins, vowing to hunt down its owner to the ends of the earth)."
The Headless Horseman lacks the spellcasting abilities of a Death Knight, retaining only two combat talents. However, these talents are highly practical, significantly enhancing his individual combat effectiveness. The Death's Herald talent does not require knowledge of the target's true name (after all, a headless being cannot speak). The "naming" is merely a marking process. This skill aids in tracking, but once activated, it cannot be canceled and persists until the target dies or the Headless Horseman is destroyed. It is best not to use this when the enemy's strength vastly outmatches your own.
The Headless Knight inherently possesses the "Negate Head as Vulnerable Point" talent, repairing damage through Soulfire. This fire slowly heals non-combat injuries, but if damage exceeds 70% at once, the Soulfire collapses, completely and irreversibly destroying the Headless Knight.
The ghost stood before the headless knight, once a paladin, a scene that seemed to reverse the positions of their final confrontation. Now it was Alexander who lacked a head. An unseen force had clad him in heavy armor, and the once-golden battleaxe in his hand now glowed with a sinister, blue-black light. His exposed skin bore not a single wrinkle, yet it was marred by mold-like lividity. He was no longer the paladin he once was, merely a remnant of that knight.
Douglas, who had been flying recklessly on his dragon, encountered the headless knight that Tashan had taken out for strength testing. He leaned over the dragon's back and watched for a moment before suddenly asking, "Is that the old man?"
The dragon rider was currently mounted on a pseudo-dragon manufactured later by the dungeon. These pseudo-dragons, modeled after bipedal flying dragons, were much smaller and far more docile than the first true dragon. Douglas treated his dragon like a fanboy adoring his idol (though he couldn't even determine the creature's gender, simply calling it "my dragon"). With these low-intelligence pseudo-dragons, he could freely fly through the dungeon, honing his dragon-riding skills without worry if he fell.
Tasha nodded. Douglas hummed in acknowledgment, fingering his chin thoughtfully. The Headless Horseman summoned his undead warhorse before their eyes. The towering skeletal steed materialized from the void, its hooves glowing with ghostly fire, its eye sockets flickering crimson.
"The old man isn't much of a rider," Douglas chuckled. "He says riders rely on their mounts, while knights rely on themselves. He always tells me I'm wasting my time whenever I try something new. Didn't I tell you? Right after I ran away from home, he helped me out once. Tried to take me on as an apprentice, said I had the makings of a paladin. Hmph, no way. I was destined to be a dragon rider."
He seemed a bit wistful, but he didn't get indignant at Tasha, so she let him ramble on.
"The old man chased me around for ages, nagging me daily with his big speeches. He only cut it out after I joined the 'circus.' He's a good soul, just stubborn as hell..." Douglas pursed his lips. "He can't stand seeing others do wrong. Jacqueline? He rescued her from alien traffickers. They planned to raise her for sale to black-market brothels. When they realized she wouldn't grow, they tried peddling her to rich old farts obsessed with eternal youth. The old man couldn't stomach that filth, but he despised all aliens. So he sent Jacqueline to the Circus... See, he thought sending a little girl to be raised as an assassin in a den of thieves was the height of kindness. When I volunteered to join, he was so furious he nearly beat me to death and almost went after the circus—all because he thought I was human."
The Dragon Knight shrugged, a self-mocking smile playing on his lips.
"I hope he's still alive. I hope he gets to see my dragon. But I suspect if he knew I wasn't human either, he'd want nothing to do with me."
This situation was hopeless. The paladin's resolve was as unyielding as steel. He'd endured his solitary vigil this long; Tashar had no illusions that threats, bribes, or even a persuasive speech could sway his convictions. Even if Alexander survived the war, Tashar had no confidence he could convince him, let alone win him over.
A noble warrior could be an irredeemable racist, a hero to his own kind yet a demon to others. The gentlest soul might raise a blade against those deemed "not of our kind" in the fervor of collective zeal, all while basking in what they believed to be a glorious mission. Power and virtue knew no boundaries, yet those who wielded them stood on their own ground. Good and evil defy definition. Those who once fought bloody battles to defend human civilization now destroy alien homelands with equal fervor.
The path of reconciliation proves harder than the path to dominion.
Yet, Tasha mused, what joy lies in reaching the end of a road one never wished to walk?
As if narrating her resolve, a new prompt appeared.
"Your kin—the Artisan Dwarf—successfully dismantled an intermediate-tier magical artifact, increasing their understanding of arcane knowledge. New item—Doorbreaker Spider—unlocked in the workshop."
Remember? That peculiar object the thief had produced still lay intact within the dungeon. Tasha had entrusted it to the Artisan Dwarf, who had spent these days studying its construction.
While the Doorbreaker Spider proved effective, the deeper understanding of magical technology held greater value for Tasha. As she previewed the newly acquired knowledge, her brow furrowed.
The energy source required to power the Doorbreaker Spider—
was magic stones....
The Governor stroked his handlebar mustache, his other hand tapping the tabletop rhythmically.
The silence stretched on until the other man in the room could no longer bear it. He sprang to his feet. "Brother!" he exclaimed impatiently. "The intelligence is confirmed. Why are you still..."
Major Benson's voice softened under his brother's glare. Gritting his teeth, he pressed on with measured patience: "It's undoubtedly a dungeon. If we report this to the General..."
"He'll learn of your previous cover-up and disastrous defeat. You'll remain in your current position for the rest of your life—if your lieutenant colonel rank hasn't been stripped by then," the Governor of Tasmalin State replied coldly.
The lieutenant colonel fell silent. They locked eyes for a moment. The Governor sighed, rose, and patted Lieutenant Colonel Benson on the shoulder. "There's no need to report this upward." he said with tolerance. "This can be resolved within Tasmalin. The dungeon's existence needn't be broadcast. I'll provide you with assistance..."
His voice lowered as he whispered something into Major Benson's ear. The latter jerked his head up, asking in astonished delight, "Really? Good heavens, this is... Thank you!"
"Of course it's true," the governor nodded, his expression unreadable. "After all, we're brothers, aren't we?"
After all, we're brothers, he thought. Having a reckless younger brother stationed in the countryside sometimes brought unexpected delights like this. The resources there needn't be reported at all—they could be absorbed right here in Tasmaline Province.