Against a sky as clear as washed jade, several tiny dots pierced the distant clouds, trailing long white streaks behind them. A child gazing upward waved his arms excitedly, running alongside the dark shapes in the sky. His mother swiftly grabbed his collar, pulling him away from the busy roadway.
"Mommy, dragons!" the child exclaimed, pointing excitedly at the sky.
"Yes, dragons and dragon riders," his mother replied with a smile. She lifted the eager child, who waved vigorously at the sky.
Residents in the southeast corner had grown accustomed to dragon swarms passing overhead; panic had given way to calm acceptance. Dragon silhouettes swept across the town and suburbs. Most of the time, they appeared as tiny black dots indistinguishable from birds. Occasionally, one could make out the enormous wings, long necks, and tails. The fire-breathing beasts of legend, said to incinerate cities, were actually no larger than oxen. They carried soldiers on their backs and had never attacked humans or livestock.
They were merely flying horses, some began to think. Later still, most people grew remarkably calm. The daily training of the dragon riders became a fixed part of the landscape. Outside the city walls, an old farmer watched rows of dragons pass overhead, tapping his pipe and muttering, "It's seven o'clock now."
Only the children continued to be utterly amazed. They added the role of dragon rider to their horseback battle games and argued fiercely over who would play it. "I'll be a real dragon rider someday!" declared the child who'd lost the rock-paper-scissors game for the role, still sulking. Since classes for archers, craftsmen, druids—professions never seen before—were now enrolling, dragon riders would surely be added to the list of future careers.
But this time, the tiny dots in the sky weren't just dragons.
Tasha flapped her wings, the air currents lifting her body higher into the sky. She adjusted her balance and charged toward the dragon following behind her.
Her massive wings folded tightly against her back, minimizing the surface area exposed to air resistance. Tasha dove like a bullet, her metal-studded boots striking the dragon's neck and sending the creature—several times her size—flying backward. Their size disparity was stark, yet their raw strength was nearly equal. Another dragon swiftly took its place. As Tasha's fist slammed into its chest, a barbed tail lashed out, snapping against her back. Her leather armor tore easily, revealing pale skin that the sharp tail hook only grazed.
Tasha seized the tail, flapped her wings, and hurled the dragon into the clouds.
The biting wind at altitude tore ruthlessly at everything within its reach, yet left not a mark on her seemingly delicate, soft skin. The dragon's contract shielded the dragon rider, armor and goblin-crafted goggles protected the dragon cavalry, and Tasha protected herself. Her dragon-enhanced bones withstood high-speed flight, her skin grew resilient, and a nictitating membrane formed beneath her eyelids. This transparent layer allowed her to see through the gale, keeping her eyes moist and safe without obstructing her vision. Tasha could keep her eyes open without blinking.
The dragon did not carry the dragon rider, nor did Tasha carry weapons. Their combat resembled the aerial tangles of falcons in midair. Battling in the sky was somewhat like fighting underwater—attacks could come from all directions, as could retreats. The combat of flying creatures was endlessly varied, the battlefield stretching hundreds of meters above the ground. Air offered far less buoyancy than water; folding wings meant plummeting at terrifying speeds. Yet air lacked water's viscosity, making exchanges so rapid they blurred the vision. Sometimes reaction time was too short for visual judgment—evasion and attack relied purely on instinct.
This "instinct" isn't illogical guesswork, but rather an unthinking assessment of the battle situation. As if the brain lacks time to analyze, the images reflected on the retina, the sounds heard in the ears, the wind pressure felt on the skin... all information converges directly within the body, transmitted to every part of the frame, compelling you to punch, kick, or dodge. At this moment, Tasha thought nothing. Combat forged her body; unlocked memories and learned tactics were digested in this high-speed operation, becoming her own fighting skills and instincts.
She was completely immersed in the fight.
"You can't truly learn combat because you can't fully commit," her Amazon teacher had said. This problem dissolved during her battle with the paladin. The pressure the old knight imposed was unprecedented. When both mental and physical strength were squeezed to their limits, "commitment" became instinctive. The dungeon entity was adept at multitasking, but in this moment, within this single body, this fragment of soul, she was utterly focused, giving her all. All calculations and considerations were set aside; her thoughts were solely on the fight.
The sensation was exhilarating, utterly effortless.
Tasha found herself growing fond of combat. She relished the effortless harvest after prolonged preparation, and cherished these moments of total immersion. In battle, she could feel her own transformation, as if witnessing visible experience points. The mere numerical increases in games couldn't compare to this tangible experience; she truly savored the joy of growing stronger.
The last wyvern was kicked aside. The dragon pack had lost its formation, unable to mount an effective attack. Tasha released her command over them, allowing them to return.
Tasha's dragon attributes came directly from the true dragon, and she possessed the capacity to learn and grow. The pseudo-dragons, however, were not intelligent beings. Given these circumstances, her dominance was hardly surprising. In truth, had the Dungeon Master not forcibly commanded them to attack, these pseudo-dragons would never have dared assault a being of superior bloodline—much like dogs afraid to challenge a tiger.
As for sparring with the true dragon... After fusing with the dragon soul, that gentleman essentially became an independent sentient being, so arrogant he still ignored everyone except Tasha and Douglas. You could practice speaking a language eight hundred times on a computer, but you wouldn't harass your foreign language teacher at every opportunity, right?
The flying dragon group dispersed, spiraling downward to rest in the dungeon. Tasha remained here, flapping her wings to rise above the clouds.
"Aren't you getting sunburned standing there?" Victor asked idly.
"It's fine," Tasha replied casually.
There was no necessity to linger here, but not every action required justification. Except for those with acrophobia, flight was likely a dream deep within every human heart.
Tasha's bones were both strong and light. She didn't know if her skeleton was hollow like a bird's. After countless practice sessions, she flew with the ease of a creature born with wings. She could sense the direction of the wind currents, letting herself glide with them to minimize the effort required. She flew as well as any bird, yet it still felt insufficient.
Tasha recalled that dream of being a dragon. Just as then, a faint unease stirred within her—like sensing a summer evening's impending storm from a heavy chest.
Where did the storm come from? Did this sky have a transparent ceiling? Tasha didn't know. Flying this high was her limit; any higher and the cold would force her down.
Look down.
From this vantage point, Tasha understood the dragon's arrogance—at least part of it: when you belong to the sky and own it, when you soar above the blue clouds with all mortals beneath your feet, it's easy to develop the ambitions of a ruler.
It was a clear day. Thin clouds drifted with the wind beneath Tasha, like cotton batting being endlessly pulled apart. Through gaps in the clouds, she surveyed the land below, where countless events unfolded simultaneously.
The road connecting Lake Rebe to the southeast corner grew busier by the day. The occasional stagecoach that once appeared every few weeks had been replaced by several small carts making daily trips. As the carts' arrival time neared, people would gather here with bundles and packages, waiting like passengers for a long-distance bus. Lower-tier merchants opened channels in Lake Rebe with their high-quality goods. Some products were durable and well-regarded, while others were exquisite yet fragile, requiring constant renewal. Business opportunities flourished amid frequent transactions. Middle-tier merchants, drawn by profit, had already arrived, making the position of agent highly coveted.
Goods from the Southeast Corner flooded Rebe Lake's market, their brand names becoming household names. While progress at the Magic-Guided Factory remained slow, the original human assembly lines operated smoothly in the Southeast Corner. Lathes and other machinery were dismantled, brought back, dissected for study, and applied to new contexts. The Southeast Corner factory expanded steadily, perfectly absorbing the local unemployed labor force.
Those unemployed by the Wither Curse and blockade completed the forest restoration task and then entered the factories. Ironically, with the enemy's aid, Tarsand successfully transformed the Southeast Corner's industrial structure. Occupations like farmers, woodcutters, and hunters were forced out of fields and forests, becoming workers and soldiers instead. Their transformation outpaced the land's recovery, with only a fraction of residents returning to their former trades once the soil was restored. Druids selected the finest seeds, cultivating higher-yielding grain varieties. Soon, a far smaller agricultural population would produce enough food to sustain the entire Southeast Corner.
The blockade of the Southeast Corner existed in name only; its borders resembled customs checkpoints more than military outposts. The initial campaign had been conducted without fanfare. To monopolize the profits, the governor had concealed the news effectively, leaving the public with only scattered fragments of information. They heard rumors of battles fought in the Southeast Corner, of strange creatures dwelling there. But with so many goods flowing in from that region, such tales were likely just rumors.
Most people were quick to forget matters that didn't concern them. Indifference to distant lands was a rather shrewd bourgeois wisdom—seize favorable conditions first, ask questions later. Along the road between Lake Rebe and the Southeast Corner, small shops proliferated. Industries like food service, lodging, and vehicle repair flourished. Human administrators turned a blind eye, while the dungeons issued permits.
It began as mere commercial exchange. Then, a restless soldier from the north stowed away in a wagon. He'd stolen a pass, but hadn't counted on the special anti-theft measures built into the craftsman dwarves' passes. He was caught the moment he arrived. This sentry, named Dennis, wore a mournful expression, claiming he'd only come to see if his distant relatives were doing well.
"My cousin lives here," he said. "I didn't know what was going on. No one told me anything. I just saw all these people coming and going... I figured it was safe, so I came to visit."
Dennis reunited with his cousin, his cousin's wife, and a niece he'd never met. The sentry clutched his babbling niece, weeping and laughing, confessing he'd endured a year of nightmares where his cousin's family perished because of his involvement in the blockade. His sister-in-law tapped his head, scolding him for being a jinx. The niece clapped her hands and giggled, understanding nothing but cheering her mother on.
His cousin hastily covered the fines and bail money. Given the vague regulations in the north, the sums were largely symbolic gestures. Dennis returned to the North bearing his newly issued pass and the official notice detailing its application process. Following his safe return, increasing numbers of soldiers and civilians with ties to the Southeast Corner began visiting their families here.
Mid-tier merchants acted as agents, and the grassroots contacts Douglas had connected with did not lose their jobs again. Roughly half of them began working for the Southeast Corner—as commercial liaisons, advertising placements, spies, and so forth. Tasha didn't expect these commercially inexperienced individuals to become primary merchants (though a few genuinely business-savvy ones were a pleasant surprise). They served as stepping stones to the North, and their performance in this role became a prolonged screening process.
The deceitful and dishonest were disqualified; the pragmatic and opportunistic secured employment. The clever had their uses, and even the brute-force fools had their place. Not a single worthless waste existed—wastes wouldn't risk coming here, and if they did, they wouldn't last. For the dungeon, recruiting usable talent with goods was a sound investment. Those disqualified for various misdeeds would soon realize the magnitude of their loss.
Turning their gaze toward the forest, both Angaso Forest and the Druids thrived.
In the third year since the Druids' arrival, the forest slowly revived under the guardians' care. They planned the most suitable tree species, uncovered the river's course, and Angaso Forest gradually regained its vitality on the former ruins. That third spring, the father who had transitioned from a Tree Seeker to a Forest Ranger spotted a migrating wolf pack. His excited shout startled the pack's sentinel. The beasts eyed him warily for a few moments before ultimately sparing this two-legged creature carrying the scent of the forest.
"First the forest, then the herbivores," he explained happily. "When the wolves arrive, the forest will be nearly healed."
Angarsor Forest grew green with trees and teemed with diverse creatures. The druids, evolving into beast-speakers, finally found their purpose. They conversed with birds, journeyed with deer, and danced with wolves. Tasha, however, doubted the usefulness of these druids binding contracts with spirit beasts. Their care for their animal companions resembled Douglas's treatment of dragons. Come battle, they might just roll up their sleeves and fight themselves rather than risk injury to their spirit beast partners.
"Tree-speakers" were the most numerous druids, followed by "Beast-speakers," while "Shapeshifters" numbered only in the single digits. These druids who could transform into animals didn't need seeds to cast spells, nor did they need to find spirit beasts to sign contracts with. But what they had to do was far more difficult than the other two. They spent long periods observing birds and beasts, living alongside them, sharing their meals and drinking from the same sources, until they could finally transform into animals. This meant they looked a bit strange even when not transformed. Some liked to rub against tree trunks, others preferred lying on the ground eating grass.
"That isn't the hardest part," the Old Oak once said. "You must understand the creature you seek to become, grasp its heart while holding fast to your own soul. Many shapeshifters never return, believing themselves to be the animal they became. They retreat into the forest, wildness alone, reason lost."
When the forest began its recovery, the Old Oak was relocated back into the woods. Now taller than any other oak, his immense crown towered above the entire forest. He grew so swiftly, yet began to fall into sporadic slumbers—not from injury, but because "the time is near." Preserving the Heart of Nature for centuries had stretched beyond the capabilities of an ordinary oak guardian. The Druid's arrival slowed his decay, but could not halt the march of time.
It wouldn't be long before he returned to the earth.
Tasha gazed into the distance, her eyes now sharper than a falcon's. She saw small fruits hanging from the oak—strings of lilac-colored berries clustered together, translucent and thumb-sized, shaped like water droplets. They swayed gently in the breeze, seeming to shimmer with a crystalline glow.
What are those?
At first, Tasha thought they might be related to the bamboo flowering phenomenon, but she soon realized the fruits came from vines growing on the oak. Through the eyes of other Contracters, she spotted these fruits hidden in every corner of the forest—secretive and beautiful, quietly resting on some branch.
"Fairy lanterns?" Victor exclaimed in surprise.
"What?" Tasha asked.
"A useless magical plant," Victor explained. "They appear where fairies dwell, growing and dying quickly. They used to be everywhere."
Once they were everywhere, but now they're long gone.
The fairy lanterns vanished over the past centuries, along with Erian's many races and countless plants and animals. It wasn't the earliest nor the latest to disappear, offering no particular benefit nor harm, so no one paid it much mind. Was it water that brought it forth? Or earth? Or something else entirely? Neither the druids nor Victor could say for certain.
Later, after ruling out every verifiable possibility, Tasha and Victor agreed: since it neither helped nor harmed, they'd let it be.
"I don't sense any magical creatures here," Tasha remarked.
"Who knows," Victor replied. "Maybe it's unrelated to the fairies—just something that grows where they roam."
A faint trace of nostalgia tinged his voice—a rare emotion for Victor to display.
"What's your connection to fairy lanterns?" Tasha inquired.
"What? None!" Victor protested immediately, his denial so absolute that the contract's effect kicked in. He hastily added, "Alright, just a minor thing. Nothing useful to you anyway." The more he denied it, the more curious Tasha became. She tapped the book page. "Come on, tell me."
"There was a wandering band of musicians," Victor said dryly, "unlucky enough to get caught up in court intrigue. The only survivor, their leader, was accused of 'seeking fame by deceiving the king' and had his eyes gouged out." " Victor said dryly. "Ten years later, the wandering musician returned to the palace demanding a contest with his betrayer. A decade of relentless practice had honed his skill beyond his former self. But by then, the man who framed him had become the king's favored courtier. The king wouldn't even hear the musician's plea, ordering his hands chopped off instead."
"And then?" Tasha was hooked.
"A month later, he returned with a pentatonic zither—an instrument requiring five musicians to play. He shed his cloak and played it with ten hands. The melody was so moving it drew even music-loving fairies." Victor concluded. "My tale ends here."
"What role did you play in this?" Tasha asked. "Did you give him the five hands?"
"Indeed, I gave him five hands, and he gave me his soul." Victor chuckled maliciously. "What a pitiful fool. I expected him to demand the man's death, but he only asked for a final performance. After that last note, I took his soul. The taste..."
The lie-detecting contract halted him once more.
"Alright, I didn't consume it," Victor admitted. "Some demons snack on souls, but that's wasteful. We sacrifice souls of Planeswalkers to the Abyss to earn its favor—that's how demons use souls."
"Did you sacrifice his soul to the Abyss?" Tashar pressed.
"...No." Victor relented reluctantly, quickly adding, "The Abyss favors ambitious souls. What reward could I possibly gain from sacrificing the soul of some weakling wandering minstrel?"
The Archfiend placed the wandering minstrel's soul within his earthly treasury.
It was a magnificent city adorned with runes, every corner filled with exquisite treasures. Thieves could not steal a single gold coin from it, nor could Death claim any soul within. The deceased minstrel regained two hands and a pair of bright eyes. When he discovered a harp within the vault that even a ghost could play, he rejoiced, performing odes to the demon for years on end—for here, he possessed infinite time.
"You even prepared a harp for him," Tasha observed Victor, as if seeing him for the first time.
"I didn't! There's more than one ghost in there!" Victor protested, horrified.
"You've helped other musicians without compensation?" Tasha exclaimed.
Victor's entire book trembled at her choice of words. He fought back, "What do you mean 'without compensation'? What do you mean 'help'? This is an equal exchange!"
A blinded, limbless street musician traded his soul for one final song to redeem his band; a mermaid princess exchanged hers for thirty years with her lover above water, her voice sweet and enchanting; an unappreciated composer sold his soul for a decade of lavish wealth—unsociable yet brilliant... The devil's possessions roamed freely throughout the castle. Artists born centuries apart recognized each other instantly, lamenting they hadn't met sooner. Passionate hymns startled the devil into fleeing in panic ("He turned tail and ran in disgust!!"). Melodies drifted beyond the castle walls, drawing fairies and sprites. They lingered outside the castle for a long time, and so tiny violet lamps grew freely here.
"Shut up," Victor said stiffly.
"I haven't said anything yet," Tasha said objectively.
"Then keep it that way," Victor said rigidly. "...What's that expression on your face?"
"I'm just smiling," Tasha widened the smile on her face.
How to put it? The demon's persona seemed subtly altered from previous impressions. Tasha couldn't suppress her affectionate expression, feeling like she was watching a cheetah meowing in defiance.
"No! Don't look at me like that!" The pages of the Dungeon Book puffed up. "This is a grave insult to a demon!"
"So you're the type who blushes when complimented?" Tasha remarked.
Victor looked like he might pass out from anger.
"Alright, no more jokes." Tasha stroked the pages. "I just realized we might actually agree on some things. Even though you're still a piece of work, I kind of like you now."
The Book of Dungeons lay flat for about three seconds. Then its spine snapped upright as Victor declared in a affected tone, "No, thank you."
Tasha pondered for a moment before recalling they'd had a similar exchange before—just with different speakers. She chuckled helplessly. "You really do hold grudges."
"Of course I am," Victor declared smugly, already back to his usual self. "I'm a mighty demon lord, not some little puppy like you."
"Stop picking on her," Tasha said, patting his head.
"I pick on all fools," Victor retorted.
Tasha smiled. "You won't be calling her that when Marion returns."
...
The following week, news shocked everyone connected to the slave trade.
A rebellion erupted at the gladiator school. After a massive fire, all the gladiators vanished without a trace.