On the second day after sprouting, the Druid Sacred Tree grew to the height of a building. By its first October, clusters of acorns hung from its branches. The green fruits ripened day by day under the golden autumn breeze, maturing into a warm reddish-brown.
It was not the only oak in Angasor Forest; those planted years earlier now bore fruit as well. Seeds sprouted where sown, branches flourished under the Druids' nurturing care. These nature-worshippers meticulously balanced soil fertility with plant growth. Late-maturing oaks should have taken a decade to bear fruit, yet now, after merely three or four years, they bore acorns.
Oaks towering over ten meters were commonplace, though at this height, the trees were still quite young. Even excluding sacred trees and the incarnations of the Archdruid, ordinary oaks are exceptionally long-lived. They reach heights of over twenty meters in their prime and remain at that height for centuries. These trees are tall, sturdy, and beautiful, serene and enduring. When they form dense forests, they possess a Zen-like beauty, beloved by all races.
Tasha also cherishes oak trees; they are remarkably practical.
Twist off the "cap" of an acorn, pry open the shell, grind the extracted seed, and cook it for a wholesome staple. Prolonged cooking removes the acorn's bitterness, and Mavis has experimented with numerous acorn-based delicacies. Acorn flour mixed with boiling water forms dough, and kneaded acorn sweets taste like candied chestnuts. Another cooking method yields acorn pudding—a translucent, adorable dessert resembling jadeite, with a sweet, smooth texture.
Druids revere oak trees, regarding the sacred tree's fruit as holy, yet they do not oppose its use. In their view, moderate harvesting from the forest is part of nature's cycle—human logging is fundamentally no different from deer grazing.
Some oak varieties yield wood that is hard and heavy, featuring beautiful wavy grain patterns. When properly kiln-dried, it becomes an excellent material for fine furniture, highly sought after in the markets around Lake Rebe. Other varieties are slightly less dense but possess exceptional elasticity. Their wear-resistant properties make them ideal for use in factories as buffers or seals.
A subspecies of oak with a yellowish-brown cross-section is most prized by the artisan dwarves. They craft this wood into oak barrels larger than themselves to store the fruit wine brewed by the quarter-elves. These barrels not only resist moisture and pests but impart a unique, refreshing aroma that enhances the wine's richness over time. Perhaps the greatest issue is that these impatient, food-loving dwarves rarely wait long—their homemade brews often vanish into their stomachs before aging begins, leaving the legend of aged wine untested.
What can you do? the artisan dwarves argued passionately. Hit a snag at work? Have a drink to clear your head. Make progress? Have a drink to celebrate. Saying goodbye to an old friend? Drowning sorrows in wine. Welcoming a new friend? Why not drink until you drop? They had a hundred thousand reasons to drink, and it was then that Tashar realized most artisan dwarves were drunkards. Left unchecked, they'd drink until singing and dancing, ending up sprawled on the floor.
"What did you expect?" Victor snorted, his tone dripping with racial prejudice. "Half-dwarf, half-halfling."
Even the worthless oak branches had their uses. Oak wood burned into exceptionally durable charcoal and served as a perfect substrate for cultivating certain fungi. Druids were always experimenting—the tree-speakers listened to the forest's guidance, the beast-speakers conversed with spirits—to determine whether the mushrooms growing here were edible. Tasha spotted something resembling wood ear fungus among them, but other varieties were harder to identify, perhaps unique species native to this otherworldly realm.
The fungus they dubbed Butter Mushrooms boasted a striking butter-like orange hue, with large, soft caps that looked and smelled like flowers. Druid apprentices carefully peeled the Butter Mushrooms from their mycelium; their teachers regarded this process as a training exercise to cultivate patience and keen observation. At the turn of spring into summer, one could always spot people walking about with flower-like butter mushrooms in their mouths. Raw, they possessed a sweet, tea-like flavor that the apprentices enjoyed as snacks. Cooked, they became intensely savory and aromatic, serving as the perfect finishing touch to elevate even the simplest dishes. This highly productive mushroom quickly found its way into Lake Rebe, where it became an indispensable side dish for the locals.
Another variety, the Black Rock Mushroom, is notoriously difficult to cultivate but thrives beneath oak trees. They emerge quietly after heavy rains, only to rot within a week. Unlike the charming butter mushrooms, these fungi start with a translucent sheen but turn charred black within a day, their skin curling like tree tumors or misplaced volcanic rock. Yet this is precisely when they taste best. Once picked (interestingly, they can be stored for a month after harvesting), sliced and stir-fried or simmered in soup, they release the forest's fresh aroma, delivering a flavor so exquisite it could make you lick your lips.
The Black Rock Mushroom is a native of Angars Forest. Long before the Tarsand settled here, it had already been a prized and elusive delicacy on the tables of the wealthy. While those outside Tasmalin Province might not know what happened here, many grumbled about the drastic decline in this mountain delicacy. As Angaxo Forest recovered, druids effortlessly rediscovered these hidden delicacies. The black rock mushroom market reopened, prices skyrocketed, and they became as valuable as gold.
Oak trees are just one species among many in Angaxo Forest. Pine trees secrete resin from which rosin and turpentine can be extracted, both highly useful in this world's industries. maple sap boiled down into viscous golden syrup, delicious drizzled over pastries, its subtle sweetness favored by the elderly and also used medicinally—here, many delicacies doubled as remedies... The forest was a treasure trove. In the past, surrounding residents lived off its bounty; in Tasmarin's hands, it could develop into a vast forest products industry.
The Southeast Corner quietly opened up, becoming almost as ordinary a region of Tasmalin as it once was. For their own futures and safety, those forced aboard the pirate ship of Tasmalin desperately downplayed the area's existence, yet products from the Southeast Corner grew increasingly prominent. Unconventional tribes like the Amazon and the Alien still face non-recognition, yet as long as the machinery of violence doesn't target this place, many things unfold naturally.
The Lame Street, which successive mayors had tried hard to eradicate only to see it repeatedly rise from the ashes, has lost its vitality. The resilient scum that once thrived there have dwindled by more than half, and this cancerous growth, deprived of nourishment, is shrinking rapidly. They did not meet untimely deaths, merely transforming into other roles—peddlers, laborers, brokers, carters, spies, security guards, and so on. Those who once traded their Southeast Corner passes for petty gains now bitterly regretted it. The pass, further evolved into an "ID card," had become indispensable for anyone seeking fortune in the Southeast Corner.
The Southeast Corner had begun to establish a relatively complete social system, where Dwarf Coins circulated through its banking and welfare networks. Everything from basic living expenses to social benefits—such as pensions and medical insurance—was tied to the ID card. Tashan itself functioned like a supercomputer, cheating by backing up and storing all information within its core.
A flood of migrant workers poured into the Southeast Corner, where the burgeoning magical-industrial sector could fully absorb this labor force. Population flow and exchange were unstoppable. The Southeast Corner sent students to its advanced academies for further education, while its specialized schools (such as the Druid College, etc.) recruited from Lake Rebe and other parts of Tasmalin. Military recruitment was handled with greater caution, requiring rigorous screening and training. This made the local military seem more elite than elsewhere, attracting those who valued their status.
Incidentally, Captain Harriet—whose jurisdiction warrants at least the rank of colonel—successfully navigated the process to reunite with his wife and son. Congratulations are in order.
Not all were without grievances. Some were criminals seeking trouble, like those who'd lost their opportunities on Lame Street; Others were fanatical exclusionists who simply couldn't tolerate the blatant presence of outsiders under their noses. Possessed by the spirit of their ancestors (not those from the era of the Erian Declaration, but those from the last hundred or two hundred years), they radiated a fierce determination to uphold justice. Tasha applied the same approach to both types: punish according to the law, then move on. The police and military weren't just for show.
She had devised numerous protocols for dealing with the latter—for instance, how the city should neutralize the negative influence of wealthy, powerful fanatics if they emerged. Yet as interactions grew more frequent, Tasha discovered such individuals were almost nonexistent. Wealthy merchants excelled at the art of making money with their eyes closed; as long as the value of dwarf coins held steady, they would conduct trade for eternity. Families wielding significant influence were adept at reading the political climate, observing developments, and keeping their offspring in check. While hostile rhetoric toward the alien races circulated across all social strata, the current situation—where peaceful coexistence was already a victory—meant such verbal jabs were merely superficial barbs.
As the military in Tasmalin Province and the dungeons reached a fragile equilibrium—mutually unimpeded yet increasingly interconnected—those who launched attacks against the alien races shared common traits: self-righteous arrogance, limited knowledge and economic standing, and a lack of personal ambition. In short, they were life's failures—insignificant buffoons.
Lacking any real ability themselves, they cling to the vast human race, claiming humanity's past achievements as their own. They believe being human automatically makes them heroes and champions, even if they're actually insignificant failures. This makes them feel entitled to look down on all non-human races with arrogance and contempt. Deprived of independent thought, they are the most thoroughly brainwashed among us. Through self-hypnosis, they have become utterly intertwined with the fate of the human race in their minds. How could these spiritual titans tolerate seeing the despised alien races living peacefully beside them, thriving even more prosperously than themselves?
These enraged individuals plotted in secret, ambushing nearby non-humans and attacking factories where they worked. Despite patrols' protection, their initial assaults injured several orcs. After detaining these perpetrators, human leaders awkwardly approached Tasha for negotiations, demanding their extradition.
"They've merely strayed from the path, driven by momentary rage. There must be underlying reasons—and you understand, attitudes toward the other kind run deep, ingrained over centuries. Such things cannot change overnight. Human affairs should be handled by humans, lest tensions escalate." "The negotiator continued, "Surely you don't wish to provoke a major conflict. For the sake of peace in Tasmalin Province and mutual goodwill, what do you say we handle this quietly? All radicals will be subjected to criticism and re-education. During this period, it would be best for those visibly non-human to protect themselves—wear proper camouflage when going out and avoid leaving the southeast corner."
"Since they attacked our residents, this is my concern. "Tasha said. "Be sure to remind those radicals who haven't committed crimes yet: if you feel criminal impulses stirring, why not turn yourselves in early? We have ample cells here for learning to calm the mind."
If I can't even protect my residents from harm, yet demand they endure and learn self-defense, Tasha thought, then what good is this dungeon of mine?
She might be merciful, she might be ruthless, but she was never incompetent.
"Actually, the second son of a certain family was involved in this incident." The negotiator, running out of options, resorted to revealing a somewhat influential surname. "That family is willing to pay a substantial sum. What do you say?"
"Please convey a message to that nobleman there." " Tashan said as the negotiator nodded with delight. "Next time, please ensure your children are properly supervised."
Otherwise, someone else will step in to discipline them.
Tashan treated them all equally—whether the "pitifully poor" or the privileged second-generation backed by wealth and power. Some enraged beastmen sought revenge, but after Marion mediated, she bluntly stated: Do you really want to share a cell with those people?"
And so they settled down.
Over the years, Tasha had sent countless troublemaking orcs to labor camps. The truly incorrigible troublemakers were too busy working their asses off in those places to scheme (like Zakari, whose sentence had been extended), leaving them no chance to stir up trouble.
Whether strong or weak, in Tashan, regardless of background, age, or race, once you commit a crime, your identity becomes solely that of a criminal. Criminals must answer for their actions. Are you a wealthy, powerful human? Should we spare you for the sake of peace? Are you a beastman with a tragic past? Should we let you off this time out of sympathy or to appease the beasts? Ha, think again.
All criminals are dealt with according to the law. They won't get to enjoy years of peace in their cells. The dungeons are perpetually short-staffed, and labor reform kills two birds with one stone. Tasha is actually looking forward to more criminals joining the ranks. After all, during development, certain high-intensity tasks are simply too inhumane for ordinary laborers.
She didn't hide this information at all; instead, she brought it out into the open. A ripple of unease swept through the crowd. Some cried out, "The outsiders are baring their fangs!" fearing this signaled impending crisis. Others condemned the punishments as inhumane—how could anyone be forced into such grueling, brutal labor? For a moment, the situation seemed genuinely perilous. Many eyes turned expectantly toward the southeast corner, but Tasha's response was... no response at all. Rebel Lake had its newspapers, and so did the Southeast Corner—who couldn't engage in a war of words? It was nothing special.
However, quite a few talents did emerge here.
Alfry the Druid's father, the former tree-seeker Colin, though mediocre as a druid, had spent years writing forest observation diaries and popular science books. His editorials were equally well-reasoned and well-documented. Phoenix, an orc and one of the formerly redeemed prostitutes, possessed a particular interest and talent for words, adept at stirring emotions. The back-and-forth verbal sparring in the papers left people swaying between finding one side convincing today and the other tomorrow. Over time, they all became spectators sitting on the sidelines watching the spectacle unfold.
The other outcome was starkly clear: under the threat of inhumane labor, those passionate youths/young adults/middle-aged men who had fiercely vowed to smash the detestable alien nest suddenly fell silent as chickens. This awkward silence lasted several days before they decided on a flanking maneuver.
That is, instead of confronting the Southeast Corner head-on, they would start with those closest to them.
For instance, they went to the agents selling Southeast Corner goods to smash, loot, and burn. Or they "persuaded" those daring to use Southeast Corner goods with threats, fists, and profanity. As for why these indignant, uncontrollable individuals still avoided targeting burly men, wealthy households, or military personnel when choosing their subjects for persuasion, instead focusing solely on the elderly, the weak, the sick, the disabled, and ordinary commoners—that truly remains an unsolved mystery.
When mushrooms from the southeast corner appeared on every household's table, the blow might have been a bit too widespread.
Under the patronage of certain influential figures, newspapers that had once sung the praises of these righteous forces struggled to offer feeble justifications amid the awkward situation. Soon, as these actions grew increasingly brazen, they fell silent. This time, when the human faction's violent institutions arrested these brave volunteers, public opinion did an about-face and began applauding.
This round of verbal warfare inadvertently gave the Southeast Corner another round of publicity.
Many were surprised to discover how many Southeast Corner products had quietly entered their daily lives. While some began spreading paranoid theories about Southeast Corner threats, most people, once they came to their senses, shrugged it off: they'd been using alien-made goods for so long, and nothing bad seemed to have happened. The citizens of Lake Rebe formally turned their gaze toward their neighbors, growing curious about this city that had undergone such dramatic changes in just a few years.
The underground city was described as an autonomous institution, akin to a merchant guild, while Tashan was referred to as the "Commander." These were all unofficial titles, using ambiguous language to obscure the most sensitive aspects and lull the vigilance of Rebe Lake's residents—indeed, the entire Tasmalin Province. For humans with lifespans of mere centuries, over two hundred years of hegemony felt like eternity. They were born into an unshakable, unquestioned supremacy. As militarism began to face scrutiny and many textbook passages were deemed outdated, the vigilance of most citizens had grown remarkably lax.
Consequently, those in the Southeast Corner gained deeper insights into the Dungeon. Those farther removed suddenly realized how inextricably their lives were tied to the Southeast Corner. The actions of radicals ironically made them recognize the Dungeon's importance to themselves; Those closer to it learned of the existence of the Sand Tower, gaining a more concrete understanding of their superiors. The Sand Tower and the dungeon transformed from vague symbols into tangible entities.
"You didn't want to be that kind of dungeon, but you ended up doing the same thing," Victor said suddenly.
"Hm?"
"A typical dungeon," Victor explained, "if its core is destroyed, all its creations vanish. Those creations instinctively fight to the death to protect the core." He continued, "You, however, don't possess most people's souls, yet you still hold their lifelines—be it these businesses or the information stored in your database. Without you, everything they own becomes worthless paper. They'd be utterly worthless."
Tasha smiled.
This was precisely what she was doing, why she had chosen to become this kind of dungeon. Clinging to tangible contracts only led to exhaustion, turning one into a puppet master despised by all. Intangible interests, however, compelled others to serve her willingly and eagerly.
Tasha needed the dungeon's inhabitants, but they needed her far more.
"You've chained these people to your warship. Killing you won't make them vanish—it'll only provoke the desperate last stand of those left with no way out." Victor laughed. "You said you wanted others to calculate the cost before attempting a decapitation strike, to deter them or ensure they'd go down with you if they succeeded. Now you've achieved that."
The laughter from the Book of the Dungeon was unusually devoid of malice, tinged instead with admiration—or perhaps the malice within the laughter had merely shifted its target. Tasha felt the scene resembled those classic cartoons where two villains, huddled in a gloomy cavern, exchange sinister grins while plotting their evil schemes... Come to think of it, that description wasn't far off.
As one of the villains in this scene, well, having a fellow conspirator appreciate your less-than-benevolent scheme felt incredibly satisfying—like gossiping about the same person behind their back.
"You're teachable," Tasha remarked.
Unsurprisingly, Victor snapped out of his sinister grin the moment he realized the comment was directed at him.
The bonds of shared interests ran far deeper than mere convenience.
When the Old Oak passed away, some of the orcs had already decided to leave. This wasn't the impulsive fervor of their arrival, but a carefully considered choice. More than half chose to stay in the southeast corner, while a smaller group was determined to depart. They resolved to seek out their kin across Erian, unite them, and save them. Even if restoring their kingdom was a mere fantasy, they refused to let the legacy of orc civilization die out.
"Are they leaving this year?" Tashar asked.
"Yes, they plan to depart before the heavy snows fall," Marion replied.
The wolf girl appeared deeply conflicted, and Tashar could see her inner struggle.
"Very well," Tashar said without comment, adding only, "But before they go, have all the beastmen warriors participate in the drill."
It was an annual drill simulating a full-scale human assault, one that had been meticulously prepared for months. Marion nodded without further thought, then walked out, her mind heavy with worry.
"Shouldn't we tell her?" Victor asked. "No one might make it out alive."
Common interests bound the dungeon's inhabitants together. Just recently, news had reached them from the human side: General Syril's forces had likely begun mobilizing.
"Not necessarily. We'll see," Tasha replied.
The city had been preparing for this for a long time. Even if the news was true... it would merely transform the drill into a real war.
In the distance, a vast fleet of airships approached the skies over Tasmarin Province.