As the dragon cavalry appeared, little demons had already begun descending.
The fiery-red shadows drew ever closer, revealing hideous faces, maniacal laughter, and a foul stench within inches. The gleaming steel spears sent shivers down spines as the monsters swept triumphantly overhead, eliciting cries from children and the faint-hearted. Fortunately, most spears did not fall directly, and those that did lacked accuracy. Before they could inflict tragedy, the nearby army sprang into swift action, launching crossbow bolts skyward.
The volley from the heavy crossbows successfully drove off the lesser demons. Some monsters, unable to dodge in time, were pierced like hedgehogs and crashed down with a thud. As the fluttering lesser demons gained altitude once more, the ranks of dragon riders filled the sky. These disciplined aerial forces made their dazzling entrance amid the cheers of the crowd. The crimson dragon leading the formation possessed the most colossal frame and the most dazzling scales. Its neck arched upward, unleashing a torrent of golden flame into the sky ahead.
"It's Dragon Knight Douglas!" someone shouted, sending the crowd into a frenzy.
Among Tasmarin's many military units, the Dragon Riders were undoubtedly the most renowned. Year after year, dragons and their riders patrolled the skies, becoming aerial billboards like airships. Every resident had glimpsed dragon silhouettes on the horizon at some point. Unease quickly turned to wonder, and wonder blossomed into pride. Look! Our patrols fly in the heavens!
They embodied strength and represented the many outcasts of Tasmalin. Warriors riding dragons could fly freely in the skies, and thus, those with unusual appearances could walk in the sunlight. The Dragon Cavalry held significance beyond the military; this unique branch of Tasmalin's forces had become one of its symbols. The innate desire for flight and massive mounts meant the annual recruitment drives were always flooded with applicants. Dragon Knight Douglas's striking image and flamboyant personality once again thrust him into the spotlight. He graced every recruitment poster, becoming even more household-name famous than during his circus days—now, he was a true dragon rider!
A fan-shaped blast of dragonfire swept across half the sky, instantly reducing a swarm of lesser demons to ash—not even bones remained. The intense heat warped the air above, banishing the chill of fear from the crowd.
Monsters from the Abyss proved equally helpless before the colossal dragon!
The few imps that survived the flames scattered wildly, like chased flies. These creatures, so arrogant moments before, now emitted shrieks of terror, reminding the crowd of the lore about the Abyss—how imps were known to bully the weak yet cower before strength. The exhilarated crowd clenched their fists, and beneath this aerial battlefield, countless voices roared in support of the dragon cavalry.
Victory came faster than imagined.
The dragon ceased its breath attacks, not even returning to the fray—the dragon riders alone sufficed. The disorganized, undisciplined imps crumbled instantly under the dragon riders' diving charges, swept aside in waves and impaled one by one on crossbow bolts. Not a single imp managed any effective attack—or rather, their resistance dissolved before many could even notice it.
Rows of dragon riders crisscrossed the sky like erasers, wiping the sky clean of its scorched-red stains. The scales of flying dragons and giant dragons blazed like fire, their battle as visually stunning as their appearance. The atmosphere reached its peak during the dragons' second breath attack. As the last fleeing demons were pursued and vanquished, the spectators nearly shouted themselves hoarse, clapping until their hands ached.
Every playwright aspiring to the stage of Lake Rebe Grand Theatre should take note: the battle's tightly paced rhythm and its compelling narrative arc—building tension before a thrilling climax—were truly breathtaking. Every spectator was utterly engrossed, spellbound and fired up. As the dragon riders departed, countless hands waved frantically toward the sky.
"The demons' corpses vanished!" cried an observant voice. "They truly return to the Abyss!"
Discussions about the Abyss erupted uncontrollably. Everyone chattered excitedly about the great victory, the scene resembling the aftermath of an exhilarating blockbuster movie. For a moment, no one noticed that the appearance of the little demon itself was a colossal piece of bad news.
Within half an hour, the radio broadcast an urgent report: "The Dragon Knights have defeated the Abyssal monsters and returned in triumph!" the announcer declared triumphantly. Meanwhile, those who had "personally witnessed" the great victory excitedly shared the news with friends and family. Newspapers scrambled to cover the story, with writers burning the midnight oil, while the pre-prepared official communiqué was swiftly released the following day.
The vanguard of the Abyss had appeared in Erian, proving its likely return within years. This grim news surfaced alongside the Dragon Knights' triumphant report—the latter emphasized, the former glossed over. As further bad tidings emerged, people began to realize: the Abyss was not invincible.
Earthbound creatures had triumphed before, and we had just secured another small victory.
A new wave of Abyss hysteria flooded all media outlets. After announcing the potential return, the government intervened in the discourse: penalizing and warning media outlets spreading sensationalist rumors, approving Abyss researcher Webster's project proposal, and officially certifying the Abyss Watchers Publishing House.
Previously scattered "Abyss countermeasures" rumors were formally regulated. Rumors like "stand still" or "play dead" were solemnly debunked. Genuine disaster response protocols were printed in pamphlets for distribution and mandated as compulsory subjects in schools. On one hand, confronting the Abyss was crucial; on the other, it wasn't entirely terrifying. The Abyss's existence was being carefully de-mystified. People discussed it and learned to cope with it, much like studying earthquake and fire preparedness.
The repercussions of this event extended far beyond Tasmarin Province.
Ever since the forest noises incident, media outlets across the Erian Empire have been grinning from ear to ear. While the empire's speech restrictions remain far from lax—all publications dance with shackles on—reports from Tasmalin State, especially those offering a chance to laugh at its misfortune, have always been a safe and popular choice. Mechanical birds relayed diverse information and footage back here, while commercial windows circulated various publications. Tasmalin State's recent Abyss-related incident effectively monopolized the empire's major media outlets for over a month.
With such abundant material, there was little need to write original articles—reprinting with a few added comments sufficed. After all, the empire's readers couldn't climb the wall to access the originals, and those reprinted publications wouldn't cross the barrier to sue over copyright issues. Why not repost? Due to such considerations, information updates on the empire's side kept pace with Tasmalin State, lagging only a beat behind.
Of course, separated by the Great Wall, residents elsewhere in the Empire felt less personally invested in Tasmalin's Abyss events, viewing them somewhat as an external affair.
This was especially true of the Empire's high command—at least initially.
To the discerning observer, it wasn't hard to see that the series of events beginning with the "Forest Noises" had unfolded with meticulously interlocking progression. Amidst the chaos, they maintained a central thread, never straying from their course.
It was as if an invisible hand guided the unfolding events from behind the scenes.
An anomaly potentially linked to the Abyss was discovered somewhere. Unreliable rumors and timely debunking prevented panic from spreading. Potential unrest dissolved amidst various discussions, and the first wave of science popularization emerged; Debate began to diverge, sparking further skepticism about imperial historical records. The conversation spread to past scandals, heroes fell from grace, and just before the situation spiraled out of control, the authorities released conclusive evidence of the Abyss's presence. Once again, voices emerged to propose alternative explanations, reigniting Abyss-themed debates and amplifying the incident's influence for a second wave; At this juncture, undeniable Abyss artifacts emerged alongside a major victory, highlighting the latter. The second wave of science education took center stage.
This wave of momentum was exceptionally well-managed.
Following this strategic sequence, knowledge about the Abyss became comprehensively disseminated. News of the Abyss's impending arrival was released in phased disclosures. Previously, the populace found plausibility in conflicting reports, but after being repeatedly bombarded with starkly contradictory information, they developed immunity. They maintained a critical eye toward alarming news, preventing it from sparking unrest.
This sequence of events significantly reduced fear of the Abyss while broadening people's horizons. It encouraged vigilance without fostering complacency or excessive arrogance. The military gained valuable training, and the media honed its responsiveness. Meanwhile, the Tasmalin State authorities—who had remained behind the scenes until the very end to restore order—suffered no loss of credibility. Instead, they reinforced the notion that "official conclusions are the final word."
The Empire's high command began treating the matter as a joke, speculating on what the Tasmalin State governor might be scheming this time. Yet as events unfolded, even Imperial citizens began to believe the Abyss was approaching. Some in the Empire's leadership suspected the truth, while opposition forces deemed it all a conspiracy. Regardless of the conspiracy's purpose, they argued, it was best to debunk the rumors swiftly and eliminate their influence within the Empire.
"Even if the Abyss does not come, knowing how to prepare for it can't hurt," "Supporters pointed out, "According to our Grand Library's records, the demonic disaster precautions promoted by Tasmalin Province are not lies."
"How can you be certain they won't exploit these deceived people next? They firmly believe the Abyss is coming. Once the enemy declares the Abyss is within the Empire, it will be too late to react!" another countered.
" But the people of Tasmalin Province already believe the Abyss is coming. Their countermeasures target demons, not humans. Those tactics won't work on ordinary folk." Another questioned, "What good would learning such knowledge do them?"
"Who knows what that monster woman is scheming!" an opponent fumed.
"Mind your words," the leader cautioned. "We're still negotiating with them, after all."
Indeed, the bilateral political talks initiated last year were still ongoing, though progress crawled slower than a snail.
With no consensus reached among the higher-ups, factions began manipulating public opinion into a heated brawl. One side accused the other of failing to prepare for the future, of arrogance and self-importance, of taking bribes from some conservative faction. The other side accused the first of jumping to conclusions, even hurling the cutting remark, "You're just in the pocket of the other side's dwarves." These two factions would later be mockingly dubbed the Dwarf Money Party and the Imperial Coin Party—both accused of being paid to serve interests, their positions dictating their tongues, neither one to talk.
Ironically, the spectacle of such debates spreading across the Empire mirrored the scene in Tasmarin Province just half a month prior.
Then the Empire's mechanical birds captured live footage of the little demons.
And then, the representatives of Tasmarin Province solemnly conveyed the Archon's warning both at the negotiating table and behind closed doors: the passage to the Abyss had indeed reopened.