The upgraded dungeon resembled a more robust body—stronger, with greater lung capacity and sharper vision. Though the ghosts' numbers remained capped, their accessible range expanded significantly. From the day its evolution concluded, Tasha directed the ghostly hordes toward the human settlements along the front lines. She witnessed her first human city, Lake Rebe, and was astonished by its bustling prosperity.
It wasn't that Tasha had never seen cities of this scale before. Viewed through modern eyes, Lake Rebe undoubtedly seemed backward and antiquated. Yet compared to the civilization of small towns and counties, it held a gap of roughly half a century, once again altering Tasha's assessment of the era in which Erian existed.
At night, streetlights illuminated every avenue, standardized lamps fueled by animal fat lighting up this city that never slept. Carriages traversed the broad, well-paved roads that crisscrossed the city. The Rebe River flowed through its heart. Its upper reaches, gentle and abundant, provided easy access for water extraction; the waterworks built here supplied the entire city. Several drops in elevation created swift currents in the middle and lower reaches, where other factories were situated, harnessing the water's power to drive massive machinery.
This was not an industrial city. It lacked coal mines, oil, and their derivative products. Hydropower utilization was low and unreliable. The few factories could not replace manual labor. Machinery manufacturing was inefficient and costly, irrelevant to the common people. Tasha simultaneously witnessed scenes from the 15th, 16th, 17th, and even 18th centuries. She realized that imposing Earth's human eras onto this world was meaningless.
Literacy rates were higher among Lake Rebe's residents. Schools catered not only to wealthy individuals aspiring to military or political careers but also trained literate workers for factories. Nationally standardized textbooks were used here, their pages saturated with praise for humanity, the military, and warfare. Nearly half the factories produced military goods. Rebe Lake's tallest structure wasn't a clock tower but a military facility, glowing especially bright at night like a city lighthouse—the lights of military institutions differed from those outside, brighter and steadier, devoid of the animal fat odor. Tubular fixtures connected beneath cylindrical lampshades, somewhat resembling eighteenth-century gas lamps on Earth. What fueled gas lamps in a world without coal mines? Perhaps the runes, barely discernible to the naked eye, offered a hint of an answer.
Erian's peculiar circumstances carried a familiar scent from Earth's modern history, as if the military owned the nation, rather than the nation owning the military.
Lake Rebe was merely a city. The military factories across all of Erian would be larger in scale, higher in production capacity, and brim with greater military might and fervor for war. The current Undercity, attempting to pit a few dragons against an entire human empire, was undoubtedly like an egg hitting a stone.
But was the Undercity doomed?
After observing the city, its inhabitants, the textbooks, and several key figures, Tasha could answer with certainty: Not at all.
Though terrifying, a war machine forged with a nation's full might cannot endure forever. Without enemies, where will the stirred fury be directed? Against whom will the sharpened blades fall? Where will the depleted strength find replenishment? The fervor of united resolve will inevitably tire. In the era Tasha had arrived in, people were already growing weary.
The people of Erian had driven out gods and demons, annihilated dwarves, and defeated orcs. Over the past century, they had fought virtually unopposed across the land, leaving scattered tribes of outsiders to eke out a miserable existence under constant pursuit. The textbooks vaguely mentioned recent "internal conflicts" in language embellished beyond recognition, offering a telling glimpse into how an invincible empire consumed its surplus combat power.
At its zenith, Erian now stood at a crossroads, its rulers unaware of the path ahead. Once the last vestiges of the previous age faded into history, perhaps all elements diverging from the historical course would gradually be corrected.
But Tarsan had arrived.
The specter patiently sifted through rooms and individuals, observing with meticulous care. Major Benson was a hardliner; the Governor, an elusive old fox. The generals above held divergent stances—the Governor's faction leaned hawkish. The superior of the double agent Osmond might not be dovish, yet he relished power struggles with the hawks. Colonel Robert harbored a smoldering rage within him, yet despite repeated concessions, he retained the ability to stabilize the situation—thanks to Erian's tradition of elevating the military's standing. The Governor's aide enjoyed deep trust, yet his lust for the Governor's political resources outweighed any gratitude for that favor.
An enemy's enemy isn't necessarily a friend, but anger and ambition were undoubtedly Tashar's allies.
Colonel Robert was the first to accept her olive branch. He felt no qualms about betraying others' interests and, like Tasha, needed time. This involved disputes among higher-ups, exchanges of favors, and personal grudges. After brief probing, they found common ground.
Osmond was a pivotal pawn—the capital's other probe bell planted within Tasmarin. Tasha needed him to maintain the illusion of normalcy. Even if Osmond hadn't personally struck the governor, the blame would inevitably fall on him. Such a slick operator was harder to bribe than to coerce. Major Benson vanished the very day he was imprisoned, leaving Osmond sleepless that night. This witness to "Osmond's murder of the Governor" would be preserved indefinitely—as proof of Osmond's treachery, a dagger forever poised over his head.
Once the deed was done, persuading the aide-de-camp proved remarkably easy. He possessed countless reasons to convince himself to endure humiliation, to play along with the detestable enemy, and—truly incidentally, out of necessity, with no choice but to—deceive superiors and subordinates alike while temporarily assuming the governor's duties. This was effortless; he had long served as the governor's ghostwriter. The mayor of Lake Rebe was a skilled domestic administrator, adept at shifting allegiances with the wind but lacking the courage or wit for heroic, desperate counterattacks. He would treat any superior with respect, regardless of who they were.
Were these people loyal to Tasha?
To speak of loyalty was laughable. Few harbored goodwill toward Tasha; resentment was far more common. They lacked the standing to sign contracts, unable to pledge their souls as collateral. Yet on Earth, where no contracts existed, countless coercive pacts were fulfilled just as successfully.
Each pursued their own ends. Even aboard the same ship of treachery, they held no common ground—and that suited her perfectly. They would check and monitor one another, creating a stalemate where none could move. Thus, Tasha could step outside the chessboard entirely. She needn't wield a whip behind them every moment; their own ambitions and fears confined them. When the cost of betrayal outweighed loyalty, when silence yielded more than speech, why choose the harder, riskier, less profitable path?
Seeking gain and avoiding harm was human nature. The individuals Tasha selected were no idealists.
That was enough.
Tasmalin Province differed from the Southeast Corner. For a faction with few members yet vast underground space, the Southeast Corner stronghold was sufficient. What purpose did conquering more land serve? Any minority group seizing large territories would be exhausted by endless rebellions, utterly incapable of digesting, managing, or developing new lands. Rather than exhausting themselves in conquest, scattering stretched-thin administrators, or constantly worrying about the loyalty of existing officials, it was wiser to maintain the status quo and take what was needed when the need arose.
Tasmalin wasn't greedy. She understood clearly that breaking through constraints and gaining time were the most essential things.
And she had successfully obtained them.
...
Lake Rebe was a bustling metropolis.
Numerous surrounding towns sustained this prosperous capital of southern Erian, where the governor's residence of Tasmalin Province stood. Each day saw a constant stream of carriages arriving and departing, laden with goods ordered by merchants, visitors, and returning travelers. Night brought even greater spectacle, as whale-oil lamps illuminated this city that never slept. While country folk in the smaller towns rose with the dawn and retired with the sunset, the lords and ladies dressed in their finest, roaming the many nightspots.
This was Tasmarin's most refined city for the gentry. The colonel stationed here kept to himself, never joining the ladies' and gentlemen's amusements, yet unlike some humorless, strict officers, he didn't spoil the fun. The governor was truly the master of this place. People only remembered the military when paying their military taxes, which made Lake Rebe's atmosphere far more relaxed than elsewhere. Salons of every kind welcomed revelers from across Erian—those seeking amusement and possessing considerable means. Half the proprietors of these establishments boasted of having hosted distinguished guests from the capital, and some of them might not have been lying.
Even commoners from the capital carried an air of superiority unmatched elsewhere. Yet anyone unable to penetrate that elite circle of privilege had to concede one truth: the closer one approached Erian's heartland, the more pleasure yielded to military necessity. Even the wealthiest had to keep a low profile. As the old saying goes, "Ten thousand taels of gold cannot compare to the emperor being far away"—though this is merely a figure of speech, for Erian has long since had no emperor.
The revelers returning home would paint a picture of Lake Rebe: the magnificent grand theater still ablaze with light in the deepest night, its gold-leafed reliefs vividly illuminated, opera singers weaving tales of love and loss upon the stage. Generous and refined hosts would throw lavish banquets, where silver candlesticks reflected the bounty spread across enormous tables. Bouquets of vibrant flowers, freshly picked that morning by gardeners and delivered by swift horses, adorned the tables. In the vast ballroom, elegantly dressed nobles glided across the floor. Masks veiled the courtesans' faces halfway, revealing only their alluring, pouting lips. Here, amidst the neon lights and intoxicating revelry, one could find anything one desired.
Yet even beneath the dazzling lights of this magnificent city, shadows lingered.
Like here.
Lame Street bore a thoroughly unsavory name, supposedly derived from a group of cripples who once lived here. Rumor had it this area was originally used to house veterans who'd lost legs in battle, with Erian generously donating the land to them. This legend holds little credibility, overshadowed by another more convincing tale: any well-heeled outsider (here meaning literally those with money in their pockets and insufficiently ragged attire) who wanders here unprepared may well limp away.
It lies in the shadow of the factory complex, surrounded by a cluster of dilapidated buildings whose origins are lost to time. These structures teeter on the brink of collapse, perpetually deprived of sunlight. The factories discharge their wastewater into this area, and many residents bathe and drink from this free water source without a second thought. This place is home to a large group of people known as the Lake Rebe scum: gamblers, vagrants, hoodlums, failed artists, cripples, prostitutes, criminals... many wearing multiple hats. They survive with the tenacity of cockroaches and fleas, born alongside Lake Rebe's glittering facade and likely destined to live there until the end of the world.
Toothless Larry emerged from his doghouse, scratching his itchy belly with a grating sound. He'd just had an ordinary day—half-full stomach, a few fights picked, a few beatings taken, no one killed him. Perfect day. He'd relieved himself at the corner and was about to head back when his steps halted abruptly.
He spotted an outsider.
The stranger wore decent clothes. Spike could tell at a glance the fabric was dirt-resistant and durable—either good for stripping off and wearing himself or selling for a decent profit. The man sported a flashy wide-brimmed hat and a pair of riding boots, the metal spurs clattering loudly on the ground like dinner bells. He clearly had no intention of slipping quietly through Lame Leg Street. Larry observed him for a few seconds, finding no weapons on his person. Since that was the case, why hold back?
A lamb delivered to your doorstep is too good to pass up. Delaying would only benefit someone else. Larry picked up a wooden stick, crouched low, and crept up behind the foolish stranger. Holding his breath, he quickened his pace, raised the stick high behind the man, and swung down with all his might.
Thud! The sound of wood.
Snap! The sound of bone.
Toothless Larry let out a howl as the stick he'd swung with all his might shattered against the wall. What just happened? The peacock-dressed lamb dodged with the agility of a sparrow. A deft flick of his riding boot sent the stick flying, striking the wall instead and leaving Larry with a twisted back.
"Oh my, friend!" Fat Sheep chuckled behind Larry. "We've only just met—why such a grand gesture?"
Cursing, Larry scrambled to his feet, clutching his aching waist as he swung a punch at the intruder. Being a street thug had its perks. When injuries became routine, pain turned into habit—something you could endure. The accumulated wounds might shorten their lives, but that was another matter. They weren't going to live that long anyway. Larry desperately wanted to smash that provoking face. His brass knuckles-clad fist slammed viciously toward the stranger's face, only to be dodged again.
"How's that old dog Spike doing?" he managed to ask casually while dodging. "He hasn't shown up yet. Hope he's not dead."
Larry couldn't care less about what he was saying. Spike—Headless Spike—was a figure in these parts. Many thugs wanted to be his lackeys, while others dreamed of taking his place. He'd been one of the leaders on Lame Street for so long that even the lowest-ranking thugs knew his name. Larry had seen plenty of fools bluff their way through, using Spike's name like a talisman, waving a flag they didn't deserve, pretending they actually knew the man. Those fools never ended well. Larry swung, and swung again, until he couldn't swing anymore.
Fat Lamb flung the rope from his waist, the lasso snapping tight around Larry—not his arm, but his throat. The live knot tightened the instant it closed, yanking him forward. A boot slammed into his knee as he lost his balance, sending Larry to his knees, dragged along the ground—damn, this guy was strong as hell! —Fat Sheep's arm pressed down on his shoulder, a broad grin spreading as he tightened the noose.
"Calm down, friend. You're being unfriendly," the stranger said with feigned distress. "Don't you recognize me? My wanted posters plastered Lake Rebe years ago. I bet you saw one or two, Dragon Rider..."
"Douglas," an aged voice chimed in. "What brings you here?"
This was certainly not Toothless Larry's voice. His face was purple from the noose, unable to utter a word, let alone breathe. A figure emerged from the alley's shadows—short black hair, a long, thin face scarred in countless places. His voice sounded twenty years older than his face (the massive decapitation scar on his throat hinted at something), while his face itself looked perhaps ten years older than his actual age. Beneath his short sleeves, his muscles remained lean and powerful, like an experienced, not-yet-fully-aged hyena.
The alley had filled with onlookers, the old hyena's pack scrutinizing the outsider.
Larry was released. Gasping for air, he collapsed to the ground, unable to rise. The stranger, called Douglas, helped him up, patting his back kindly as if he'd just helped Larry up after an accidental fall, not nearly strangled him to death.
"Good evening, Spike!" Douglas said warmly. "So glad to see you're still as lively as ever!"
By the time Larry had calmed his cough and could lift his head to focus on the fight again, Douglas had already started walking toward Spike. He reeled in his rope and strolled over, even opening his arms wide as if to embrace the sullen-faced gang leader. What an idiot! Larry cursed inwardly, ready to watch Spike teach this arrogant outsider a lesson.
He watched expectantly as the distance between them closed to zero. Douglas embraced Spike, who flashed a vicious grin...
...and returned the hug.
Both men laughed, slapping each other's backs with a resounding thud. Larry stood dumbfounded, horrified to realize Spike's men didn't seem surprised at all—some were even smiling.
"You're still alive? Lucky bastard," Spike croaked with a laugh. "Where's your horse?"
"Ran off with the girl!" Douglas spread his hands helplessly. "My new ride was a bit too flashy—scared the birds and flowers. Had to walk back on foot."
Spike snorted, clearly skeptical. As the important figure from Lame Street and the outsider walked off together, one of Spike's men impatiently nudged Larry and demanded his name. Larry unexpectedly struck gold, transforming from a wandering low-level thug into a low-level thug under Spike's command.
He learned from others that the outsider was a circus star with some impressive tricks. "But he's not one of us—just some rich guy from out of town," Larry grumbled resentfully. The elder he was talking to laughed and said, "He could be on either side. That guy's got connections everywhere."
In the days that followed, Larry came to understand this truth.
Douglas wore fine fabrics yet didn't mind sharing a bench with the filthiest, most terrifying souls. He recounted tales from distant lands while understanding local slang and jokes. He slipped into Lame Street's only saloon, chatting animatedly at the greasy bar, effortlessly drawing crowds. He downed countless shots of cheap booze without staggering. He crushed everyone in arm-wrestling matches. "Wow, new record! Never thought I'd be this strong!" " he'd exclaim with feigned surprise, using it as an excuse to buy everyone a round.
Douglas practiced measured generosity, carefully navigating the line between "warm and welcoming" and "an easy mark." He was popular among the dregs of Lame Street, respected by the influential figures, and even Headless Spike could almost be called his friend. He seemed born to mingle with all sorts, and even Larry—who'd nearly been choked to death—soon stopped resenting him. He wasn't the only one who'd come close to killing Larry, but Douglas was undoubtedly the most entertaining entry on that list.
After about a week of wandering, Douglas leapt onto a table during the tavern's busiest hour, snatched a glass the owner was polishing, and tapped it. The patrons turned at the sound, and under their gaze, he spoke.
"Ladies and gentlemen, and all you scum in between!" he drawled, tipping his hat with a bow amid laughter. "Over these glorious days, I've forged deep bonds with everyone here. To thank you for your kindness, I'll share a surefire path to riches!"
His half-serious, half-joking exaggeration whipped the alcohol-fueled crowd into a roar. Someone shouted in response, "Spill it, Dragon Rider Douglas!"
"Smuggling," Douglas declared, covering his mouth in mock fear. "I mean, moving a few harmless items through channels the authorities might not notice, earning a commission the bigwigs wouldn't bother with. No big deal, right? They don't need to know everything."
"You're right!" the crowd roared in agreement.
"But where do we get the goods?" asked the one actually thinking. "We don't have carts. There's nothing profitable around here. Are we supposed to walk north with our own two legs?"
"With our own two legs, yes. But it's close," Douglas said over the boos. "I didn't say north. I said south. Southeast."
The tavern quieted slightly as people whispered and exchanged glances. Lame Street housed Rebe Lake's dregs, yet they knew more gossip than the city's ordinary citizens—many overlooked the vagrants rummaging through street bins, while the trade of information peddlers thrived in Rebe Lake's shadows. These men had heard whispers of the conflict in the southeast corner months ago. Some claimed a plague was there, others spoke of alien species. Either way, Erian's forces hadn't fared well.
"No, no, no." As they voiced their skepticism, Douglas waved his finger mysteriously. "There... there's gold there."
The crowd murmured disbelief.
"True, though not literally." Douglas tapped his heel on the tabletop. "It's been sealed off for over half a year now. Most know by now, right? The army found aliens. Aliens fought the army back and forth. Lately, neither side can win. They've learned to pretend they don't see each other. The old order in the southeast's been turned into a bloody mess. The blockade has made some common goods here scarce as hen's teeth, while alien-made novelties are everywhere—like blood-stopping potions, seeds that yield a sackful per plant... Ha! You might even find some magic elixir that keeps your gun firing forever!"
Several men chuckled lewdly, while others looked half-convinced.
"How do we know you're telling the truth?"
"What guarantees do you offer?"
"Why are you telling us this?"
A barrage of questions hit Douglas, but he remained unruffled, clapping his hands to quiet the crowd. "I have access to the passage, but I can't do it alone," he said. "As for guarantees? I can't promise anything."
The clamor grew louder than before. Douglas smiled silently, saying nothing. Only when the wave of skepticism subsided did he raise his voice again.
"I can't guarantee it," he said, "but I can take those willing to come with me. There might be plague, there might be man-eating monsters, but there could also be gold mines waiting to be dug, virgin lands waiting to be claimed! I won't make any promises. Why should I go to the trouble of handing out riches? Fortune and wealth favor the bold and scorn the cowardly! Why am I here telling you this? You people of Lame Street! If you won't throw your lives into a gamble that could change your fate, where else do you think you'll rot away?"
His voice was harsh, ruthless, and yet strangely passionate—and surprisingly, it hit the spot with the residents of Lame Street.