Military airships boasted superior defensive capabilities, yet beyond the cockpit, they featured no observation windows. The Empire's youngest general stood behind the airship pilot, his face dark as he watched the rapidly shifting clouds outside.
General Cyril, only thirty-five years old, possessed brown hair and blue eyes, a commanding presence that embodied the "classic human male appearance" most revered in Arian's early years. In the previous era, golden hair was hailed as "kissed by the Light God upon the crown." Yet by the height of the Arian Empire's glory, such a celestial hue had grown incongruous. Murals were altered, and human heroes in posters were all repainted with brown hair—the most common hue among Erian humans. People genuinely believed the finest human bloodlines bore this standard appearance.
Syril took pride in this and deeply missed that era.
Times had changed. The days when blond, black, and red hair were suspected of being remnants of otherworldly races were gone. Opportunists and weaklings had infiltrated the once-united military. Other high-ranking departments dared to meddle in military affairs. These ungrateful fools had completely forgotten where their positions came from—Erian had been conquered inch by inch by the army! Had this happened a century ago, news of a foreign presence would have triggered maximum alert. Even if the entire army hadn't been mobilized, it would have entered wartime readiness, with all resources funneled to the military. How could things be like this now? — Especially when the enemy was merely a dungeon!
Even now, the memory made General Cyril's blood boil. The governor of Tasmalin Province was his man. When the alien detection alarms sounded hundreds of miles away, pinpointing Tasmalin, it felt like a resounding slap across Syril's face. How many years had passed? Not a single day had gone by since the Abyss Factor detectors first registered a response that Syril hadn't spent searching for the dungeon's trail. And yet, in the end, the fire had broken out in his own backyard. What made it even more infuriating was that he hadn't been the first to discover it.
Colonel Robert, who had left the seat of power in disgrace years ago, submitted an application, apologizing for his oversight. All blame was shifted onto the governor and his aide-de-camp. The detailed report he produced—stating that it was not the druid but the dungeon that had activated the detector—was sufficient to offset his minor transgression of oversight, leaving Siriel seething with frustration. Who would believe Robert truly knew nothing? That damned bastard had surely feigned ignorance for years, only reporting it now when the truth became impossible to conceal—pure self-preservation.
General Syril accused him of treason for withholding critical information, yet General Norman vigorously defended Robert, insisting his merits outweighed his faults. "Had Colonel Robert not detected it in time, who knows how much longer Tasmarin Province would have suffered under the shadow of the Abyss," the old man said, feigning concern as he glanced at Cyril. "After all, nearly five years of searching failed to uncover the dungeon."
Even if Robert had been foolish enough to keep it hidden, the immense disturbance this time would have been enough for Cyril to discover the dungeon—albeit slightly later. Couldn't Robert's swift response prove he'd been plotting this for a long time? General Cyril suspected Norman and him had some secret deal behind closed doors, though it might not be the case. In Cyril's eyes, General Norman was one of those fallen soldiers who had lost their edge. Their rivalry had been longstanding, never ceasing since Cyril's promotion to general.
Sirel had indeed leveraged some family connections to climb to the rank of general at such a young age, but he considered himself infinitely superior to those old fogies who had ground their way up through seniority. He was the most outstanding graduate of the Erian Military Academy, possessing top-tier expertise in both military theory and magical weaponry. He wore his full uniform—belt, sash, tie, breeches, and boots—meticulously, regardless of season or location, proving his worth through cruelty and ruthlessness toward the alien race tenfold, a hundredfold. Syril despised the military's old guard from the bottom of his heart—those cowards who were not only timid but also a hindrance.
Had Robert not escalated the matter, Syril, fully in charge, would have charged straight southeast toward Tasmalin and crushed the Abyssal remnants with a thunderous strike. But the colonel submitted his report. The matter circulated around the conference table for days. Though ultimately assigned to Cyril, it came shackled with numerous restrictions.
The Logistics Department refused to deploy the Cleansing Blades cannons, claiming every corner of Erian required their presence and that all artillery couldn't be entrusted to Cyril.
"The local Purifying Blades in Tasmarin Province were already deployed against the southeast dungeon, resulting in the contamination of Angaso Forest years ago without significantly affecting the dungeon itself," the Minister said, flipping through Colonel Robert's report. "This weapon excels in surface combat but is ineffective underground. I see little value in redeployment."
"But the alien forces and traitors targeting the dungeon clearly reside above ground," General Cyril frowned.
"It's common knowledge that the dungeon's strength lies in its vast array of troops. The small number of traitors collaborating with it are, by comparison, insignificant." "Moreover, the disappearance of Tasmalin Province's own 'Purifying Blade' likely indicates the dungeon possesses specialized countermeasures against magical cannons. Wasting a defense weapon with superior surface combat capabilities on a small remnant force would hardly be prudent."
"Lake Rebe has always been a prosperous region of Erian, and Tasmalin Province's tax revenues have grown remarkably over the past two years. Last year's fiscal income even ranked second nationwide," the Finance Minister stated. "Therefore, I also advise against indiscriminate bombing tactics, as they would inflict significant losses on the Empire."
"Is that so?" Siriel sneered. I suspect you're simply reluctant to part with the Blackrock mushrooms needed for your banquets?"
Since the order to search the underground labyrinth was issued, military units across Erian have been mobilized to varying degrees. General Cyril, primarily responsible for this mission, has been the most zealous. In his efforts to root out the remnants of the Abyss, he has employed numerous potent weapons from the Defensive War era over the past few years. While effective against the alien species, these weapons have also caused considerable damage to cities and the environment. Sirel knew his colleagues privately criticized him. They worried only about their own holdings, about the luxury goods affected—why couldn't they see the greater danger posed by the continued existence of these alien entities?
The alien species were like pathogens, threatening to infect the very body of Erian at any moment. When confronting such a dangerous threat, cutting through the chaos swiftly was entirely justified—even if it meant sacrificing a piece of flesh or a limb.
As expected, when Syril voiced his accusations, murmurs of dissent rose from around the conference table. "How can you say such a thing?" General Norman spread his hands. "If a mosquito lands on a priceless treasure, is it weakness to stop a fool—not that I'm implying you are—from mindlessly smashing it with a sledgehammer?"
The others around the table chimed in in agreement.
Look at this bunch of liars with their eyes wide open! General Cyril still gnashed his teeth over it. This wasn't weakness—it was outright corruption! Treason!
The driver felt the murderous glare from behind like needles piercing his back. For the third time, he nervously wiped sweat from his brow. The general snorted coldly and left the cockpit.
The plan for a city-wide bombing was rejected, but another request gained the Führer's approval. No matter how adept those cunning remnants of the Abyss were at maneuvering, they were merely grasshoppers after harvest. Their time, along with those traitors', was running out. General Cyril raised his leather-gloved hand, adjusted his cap, and smoothed the immaculate collar of his uniform before striding toward the ship's hold.
Lake Rebe was approaching.
A vast fleet of airships arrived at the outskirts of Lake Rebe. Unaware citizens instinctively craned their necks, staring in astonishment at the colossal, sky-obscuring structures not far away. As if giant whales were soaring through the heavens, these immense vessels became terrifying when they descended. Their cloud-like, snow-white hulls blocked the sunlight overhead, threatening to swallow the entire area whole.
The airships bore the emblem of the Erian Empire beneath their hulls, signifying their affiliation with the human empire. Yet the sudden arrival of this fleet still plunged many uninitiated souls into panic. Stampedes erupted in the city center, prompting swift military intervention. The military presence in Lake Rebe, usually scarce, suddenly became ubiquitous. New soldiers poured continuously from the airships.
Troops from the capital had arrived.
The news spread rapidly throughout Lake Rebe. As expressionless soldiers fanned out across the city, the heavy clatter of their boots echoing through streets and alleys, the information spread like ink spreading through water. It was dusk. Lake Rebe was both noisier and quieter than usual—streets that should have been empty were filled with fully armed soldiers, while nightlife venues that should have been bustling fell silent, every household barricaded behind closed doors.
The people of Rebe Lake harbored complex feelings toward the military. On one hand, some held near-fanatical reverence for the soldiers, with nearly everyone believing the military could protect the human empire and taking pride in that belief. On the other hand, many harbored fear toward them. In earlier years, uniformed personnel could break down doors without any formalities and drag away those suspected of having ties to the alien species.
Even now, in relatively untouched Lake Rebe, people remember that such actions remain not illegal.
In today's Lake Rebe, few dare claim they have no connection to the alien species.
Unspoken panic spreads everywhere. Abandoned shopping baskets litter the ground, filled with produce bought fresh from the market today—for years now, most of Lake Rebe's fruits and vegetables have come from the southeast corner. Behind tightly shut doors, some hurriedly burned ingredients beyond recognition for dinner, devouring the incriminating evidence in haste; others, more timid, picked out telltale local specialties like butter mushrooms and burned them in the stove.
Parents snatched toys from their children's hands if they came from the Southeast Corner. Children who tried to cry were silenced by the grim faces of their elders. Small pieces of furniture were smashed into wood chips and burned as fuel, while larger pieces had their brand labels scraped off. Whether cheap or expensive, common or rare, no one dared to resell anything at this moment, and no one would buy anything now. That day, countless families ransacked their homes, desperately transforming branded items into irrelevant trash.
Merchants grew even busier. Vendors touting "Southeast Corner Authentic" vanished overnight, while shop owners scrambled to distance themselves from the alien race. When the military arrived, arresting suspects everywhere, no one thought of minimizing losses—preserving their lives mattered far more. The middle class held no hope of finding protection, while the upper echelons abandoned all pretense the moment they learned the invader was General Syril. Everyone knew him as an uncompromising hardliner on alien matters—better to kill by mistake than let one slip through.
Panic gripped everyone. Those with deep ties to the underground city had already received advance warning.
Since survival under General Cyril was impossible, they might as well make the accusations reality and fully align with the underground city. Before his arrival, those informed through various channels sought refuge, and the city's gates opened wide for them.
Chaos reigned within the Southeast Merchants' Guild as the evacuation reached its final moments. Vital supplies had been relocated, and guild members alongside refugees had already slipped through secret passages into the underground city. Once everyone was gone, these subterranean tunnels would be permanently sealed, becoming solid earth.
"Hurry!" Larry urged. "They're already two blocks away!"
"What about you?" Michelle snapped. "What are you dawdling for?"
Anthony, the Southeast Guild's leader, had long departed. Michelle, the deputy leader, insisted on bringing up the rear to manage supplies, delaying her departure until now. Standing at the tunnel entrance, she lifted her skirt, glanced fearfully at the doorway, then turned urgently to her boyfriend.
"I'm not leaving," Larry said, licking the gap in his teeth. "Your face is on their wanted list. Who cares about a bodyguard like me?"
"Then what good are you staying?!" Michelle snapped. Her voice sharpened with panic, mismatched with her ladylike attire, sounding no different from when she used to curse in the streets with hands on hips. "Who doesn't know Spike Security rose to prominence thanks to the Southeast Corner?!"
"On the surface, we're an independent company. No ties to Southeast Corner. Besides, plenty of people made their fortunes off Southeast Corner. You can't tell at first glance. If they tried to round them all up, they'd never finish. We've got work to do..." Larry stepped forward and pushed Michelle's back. Hesitating, he added, "When I'm done with this, I'll come back. Then maybe we can..."
"Shut up! Shut up!" Michelle yelled, pulling her fist back from Larry's stomach. "Don't say it! Tell me when you get back! You better come back!"
Her eyes red, she bit down hard on Larry's lips, leaving a bloody gash, then leaped headfirst into the tunnel without looking back.
The passage to the underground city closed behind her as goblins swiftly rebuilt the entrance into level ground. Larry wiped the blood from his mouth, grinned foolishly, and scaled the wall to leap out the rear exit.
This was destined to be a sleepless night.
General Cyril's proclamation heralded the start of a long, dark night. Standing tall upon the platform, he declared: I hereby declare Lake Rebe to be on Level One Combat Readiness!"
Armies marched through Lake Rebe's streets, the clatter of boots, the banging on doors, and the wails echoing through the night. The acting governor and his men were dug out, their faces ashen. These wretched souls, abandoned by all, were tortured and then hanged in the central square. Soldiers then raided homes in the southeast quarter for contraband goods—the military stormed these residences without allowing any chance to destroy the items. The general cast a contemptuous, disgusted glance at a toy that rolled to his feet and declared, "Colluding with the enemy and betraying the nation, then using such filth to educate the next generation—truly a disgrace to humanity."
During Level One Combat Readiness, military priorities supersede all else. The general's words were law here.
The entire pseudo-government, complicit with alien forces, was executed. Their families and servants, having yielded ample evidence of collaboration during the searches, met the same fate. Of course, the General was a well-educated man of refinement, and the Erian Empire was no longer the feudal realm of noble intrigue. Though their assets were confiscated entirely (bolstering war funds for the coming conflict—a privilege these guilty dead should count themselves fortunate for), children under fourteen were sent to orphanages. There, they would learn the shame of their parents' deeds.
On that night, spirit-repelling runes were plastered across every corner of Lake Rebe. To the ghosts, the lake seemed encased beneath a glass dome.
Yet messages still flowed back and forth.
Spike, the former black market kingpin, now headed a security firm. Neutral in stance, his men worked as bodyguards and mercenaries. The Lame Street still housed the small-time players of the gray zone, where informants and spies originating from there were more agile than rats. Druidic ravens, spirit pets, perched silently on lampposts, their dark brown eyes reflecting the fleeing soldiers.
Thus, both sides knew the war would begin at dawn the next day.
The largest airship opened its hatch, a door spanning a third of its hull. Emerging were not mechanical birds, but light airships far smaller than the whale-class transport vessels.
These light airships lacked the soft, white contours of their counterparts; their airbags were encased in a rough, uneven metal shell, giving them a menacing and bizarre appearance. They offered no camouflage in the sky, standing out clearly, yet their speed far surpassed that of the larger airships. Over thirty of them approached together, resembling a swarm of giant beetles.
They headed toward the southeast corner, where residents had long since retreated into underground air-raid shelters (having goblins to dig such shelters proved remarkably convenient). The Tarsand forces had no intention of waiting for the airships to reach their target before engaging. The dragon cavalry, led by the Dragon Knights, had already moved to intercept, determined to eliminate this fleet of light airships outside the stronghold's perimeter.
As creations of the Undercity, dragons, like ghosts, were constrained by distance limitations. When the massive airship fleet approached Lake Rebe and hovered over its outskirts, the dungeon's aerial forces were beyond reach. Yet at this distance, engaging them was perfectly feasible. The wilderness stretching over ten kilometers beyond Lake Rebe served as the chosen battlefield, where the clash erupted.
Douglas's dragon plunged into the airship formation like an arrow, effortlessly piercing through their ranks. The light airships, nearly the dragon's size yet seemingly lighter, were all knocked aside by the collision, like balloons struck by a dolphin. Those sent flying appeared undamaged, their metal hulls offering solid protection.
But now the dragon was amidst the airships.
The dragon riders remained at a safe distance—the perfect moment to strike without risk of friendly fire. The red dragon drew a deep breath, sparks flaring from its nostrils as searing dragonfire erupted from its maw.
The light airships scattered rapidly. For airships, their agility and speed were astonishing, yet none escaped the area-of-effect attack. Flames obscured the sky, bursting into several fiery blooms. When the smoke cleared, ten airships had vanished.
"Nice!" Douglas chuckled, his expression quickly turning serious with a sharp "Huh?"
Though ten airships had vanished, only half were seen plummeting, trailing black smoke.
When the dragon rider looked up, he saw an empty sky.
Not entirely empty—the dragon cavalry remained. Dragon and rider flew forward blankly, scanning their surroundings, bewildered by the sudden disappearance of their enemies. Those light airships had vanished right before their eyes—not through radar-evading tricks like stealth aircraft, nor through camouflage. They had completely disappeared from sight.
Douglas snapped into action, pointing toward their point of origin and barking orders: "Form Third Formation! Full Charge!"
The bewildered dragon riders swiftly obeyed, forming a single-file line less than a dragon's length apart and charging forward. For the first few paces, there was no reaction. Seconds later, one dragon's body halted abruptly.
"I hit something!" the rider exclaimed triumphantly.
The air rippled like colorless glass pushed through water. The other dragon riders, energized, surged toward that direction.
It was at this very moment that disaster struck.
Despite the perfectly clear, cloudless sky, crackling thunder echoed overhead. Through Douglas's eyes, Tasha saw leaping arcs of electricity.
Linear lightning suddenly blanketed the sky, its instantaneous branches weaving a dazzling, blinding web of light. The pale flashes were hard to discern against the clear backdrop, but the crackling noise, the screams, and the spreading acrid stench were sickeningly clear. The light airship revealed itself in that instant, each tiny point dancing with silver serpents in a frenzied, deadly choreography.
Even Douglas, the dragon rider blessed with dragon attributes, grunted under the electric shock. His limbs went numb for a split second, nearly causing him to slip from the dragon's back. The dragon cavalry fared worse. Even the flying dragons plummeted from the sky. These riders, barely stronger than ordinary men, fell like lightning-struck moths, their bodies crashing to the ground. From below, they resembled insects colliding with an electric fence.
Ground vegetation, catalyzed by the druid, provided ample cushioning across this chosen battlefield. Yet many riders had already ceased breathing before impact.
In mere seconds, only one dragon remained in the sky. Its second breath attack hadn't yet reached firing range, and the light airships, having discharged their electricity, showed no interest in prolonged combat. In the next instant, they blended back into the air.
How could a single dragon block an entire sky?
Light airships proved far trickier than their colossal counterparts. Though lacking the capacity of the giant whale-class airships, they outnumbered and outpaced them, their most formidable trait being their ability to become invisible. Tasha didn't believe they could remain invisible indefinitely (otherwise they could have arrived without detection), but the sky was vast. Even knowing their general direction made pinpointing their location difficult. When they suddenly reappeared, she'd struggle to stop them from deploying whatever weapon they carried against the southeast corner in time.
Now was the best—and likely last—opportunity.
"Douglas, come back," Tasha commanded.
Many druids stood on the chosen battlefield, not just the tree-speakers.
Tree-speakers could provide plant shields, while beast-speakers and shape-shifters were of no use here. Yet beyond these three branches, as the energy of the Heart of Nature swept over each druid's body and soul, a fourth branch emerged.
The sound of oak staffs striking the ground echoed. These druids' wands were not adorned with acorn bells, but mistletoe. This spherical plant, growing on oak branches, harmonized with the druids' power like the oak itself. Unlike acorns, the entities communicated through these wands were neither plants nor animals, but another facet of nature.
Clouds gathered in the clear sky.
The Druids' chant flowed into the wind, invisible wind spirits carrying their prayers into the clouds. Moisture gathered from all directions, faster than birds, faster than dragons, and certainly faster than airships. Huge clouds, larger than the Leviathan airship, darkened the sky at a visible pace. Morning turned to dusk, swiftly approaching nightfall. A thunderclap erupted within the clouds like a starting horn, and the sudden downpour crashed down, the earth and sky rumbling in unison.
"Druid - Weather Manipulator: The energy of the Heart of Nature washed over the followers of the natural faith, granting the Druids—who previously had only three branches—a fourth path. Or rather, it imparted a weakened version of the legendary skills once exclusive to the Archdruids to ordinary Druids. Those advancing along this path grew closer to nature itself, gaining the power to command the winds and summon the rains."
Literally commanding the winds and summoning the rains.
The numerous limitations of the lackluster rain-summoning skill have been merged into the new character card itself. The darlings most favored by the Heart of Nature no longer grant skill bonuses to Tass, yet their inherent power more than compensates for this. If the title "Weather Manipulator" leaves you unimpressed, the name given to this class upon advancement speaks volumes. Weather Manipulators who advance to Archdruid are known as "Cataclysm Druids."
The fleet of stealthy, electrically charged, agile light airships wasn't without flaws—namely, their lightness.
Within the dense, torrential downpour, the light airships began to wobble into view—first discernible only through gaps in the rain curtain, then soon losing all concealment. The violent storm whipped the airships through the sky, spinning and tossing them like plastic bags hurled into a typhoon. The downpour tore at their hulls as nature's lightning crackled through the sky. Then, electric sparks ignited across all the airships, resonating with the storm.
This wasn't the earlier spontaneous discharges. These arcs were chaotic, intermittent, yet persistent. They coiled around the vessels, licking at hulls and interiors like faulty electrical coils. Finally, within the growing white arc on one airship, a flash of fire appeared. The next instant, flames erupted from within the airship, as if igniting a blazing sun amidst the rain clouds.
BOOM!
Beneath the rain clouds, a mushroom cloud bloomed in the sky.