Flames blazed in the sky, fragments of the light airship tumbling endlessly through the air, larger chunks occasionally erupting in small explosions. The heavens momentarily resembled the apocalypse—rain clouds hung low, stars seemed to burn of their own accord. Whatever weapons they had carried, they were now shattered beyond threat along with the airship.
On the ground, the Tree-Speakers murmured cheers. Many would need their eyes treated afterward, for gazing upon the explosion's brilliance had been worse than staring directly at the sun. The Nature Manipulators remained bowed, staffs clutched tightly. The sweat dripping from them fell thicker than the rain. "We did it!" When the news of victory reached them, every body swayed. Some slid down, clutching their staffs.
What power could possibly control the weather?
This wasn't like artificial rain. These nature worshippers communicated with the clouds, guiding the path of water vapor with human souls, as if steering a river's course with a wooden paddle. They guided, persuaded, and coaxed. This downpour was a miracle conjured from nothingness. Though achievable and replicable, each success drained them of vitality.
The raincloud dispersed as people collapsed. Like a summer storm, it came swiftly and departed just as fast, emptying its entire load within mere minutes. Tenacious sparks of stardust still flickered faintly in the sky, most extinguished by the downpour. Even if those remaining embers fell to earth, they would fail to ignite the drenched ground. Vines cradled the body of the Nature Manipulator, the Druid, as the essence of nature enveloped these exhausted companions. Soon they would be carried into the catacombs for rest or healing. Some still yearned to restore order to this turbulent weather. After the war ended, they would have that chance.
Above, the sky remained unobstructed. The course and outcome of this battle were simultaneously relayed to the eyes of the opposing side.
Officers in the command center fell silent, none daring to glance at the general's face. The airship fleet, upon which so much hope had been pinned, had been annihilated in the opening engagement. When that blinding light erupted across the sky, the images from distant scouting birds turned to blankness. The lieutenant colonel who had proposed deploying all light airships as the vanguard swallowed hard, sweat pouring down his face.
A leather-gloved hand clamped onto the lieutenant colonel's shoulder, propelling him to his feet with a jerk. "I apologize, General!" he snapped to attention, his voice tight with fear. "My misjudgment led to..."
"You should apologize," the general said coldly. "What is the status of the second unit?"
"Expected to reach Lake Rebe this week!" the lieutenant colonel hastily replied.
"Very well," General Cyril said. "You will lead the assault once it's complete."
"Yes, sir!" The lieutenant colonel clicked his heels together, saluting with a tone that was hard to tell if it was bitter or relieved.
Only fragments remained of the light airships. They had exploded so violently in the sky that even the most skilled craftsmen couldn't restore them. The only salvageable parts were the magic stones used as airship fuel—hard yet glass-like crystals that had mostly shattered into specks too small for the naked eye. Not even Ah Huang, with his keenest nose, could track them down.
"A pity," Victor sighed. "Magic stones are crystallized mana. Once unstable enough, they revert to vapor. That's why mages of old loathed dwarf craftsmen—those pyrotechnic enthusiasts could drive any mage, carefully imbuing or stripping mana, to fury."
But it wasn't entirely wasted.
Tasha could sense a subtle shift, like desert creatures keenly detecting gathering moisture. This level of "moisture" wasn't enough to bring rain, yet it transformed the parched air into something pleasantly comfortable. The shards of magic stone had lost their form but hadn't truly vanished; the explosion had scattered them throughout this realm.
Beneath the earth, the dragon opened its eyes. Its golden-red orbs reflected the other flying dragons.
The "nest" lay beneath the slime storage chamber, close to the magic pool and the dungeon's core. This was where the dungeon's magic was most potent—ground creatures found it slightly uncomfortable, yet the dungeon's creations could recover swiftly here. The dragon breathed in the overflowing magic from the pool, its shattered scales mending with each exhalation. Goblins brought fragments of magic stones collected from the surface directly to the lair, fulfilling the dragon's request—it possessed an instinctive sensitivity akin to an injured animal seeking herbs.
Fragments of magic stones, once the cores of light airships, were piled beside the flying dragons. The faint lightning properties carried by these stones exerted a subtle, imperceptible influence on the recovering dragons, much like how certain materials or hues become embedded within a statue during its restoration. Their torn wing membranes slowly mended, charred scales and necrotic flesh gradually regaining vitality. Next time, an electric shock of equal magnitude would not bring them down again.
Half the dragon cavalry had been killed or wounded, but they had twice as many reserves—the dungeon's dragons were limited in number, but the trained dragon cavalry were not. As long as the flying dragons could continue to soar, new units of dragon cavalry would keep fighting in the skies.
Everyone bustled about between the two battles, waiting for the next engagement to begin.
The night over Lake Rebe fell silent, all revelry suspended indefinitely. Gone were the sleepless nights of clinking glasses and swaying dancers. Within days, the wealthy seemed to revert to a century past. Merchants still trembled at the memory of that era, but they had no choice but to adapt. They preferred torture and death to utter devoid of entertainment.
The traitor's head remained impaled on the central square, guarded by fully armed soldiers standing watch over the tall wooden poles. The general declared it a ploy to lure out impatient remnants of the rebellion, though others knew it served as a warning to the rest—a sacrifice to deter others. When their carriages passed by, they drew the curtains and closed their eyes. Yet if they had to walk past, each forced themselves to glance a few times with perfectly composed faces, their expressions of utter disgust serving as a clear demarcation. Careful, careful—the General's eyes are everywhere.
Leaving Lake Rebe was never an option. Whether you sought refuge with relatives back home or retreated to the countryside to convalesce, the soldiers guarding the thoroughfares would let no one pass. Submitting an application would only land you on the General's watchlist—a place no one wished to be. Rumors circulated that General Cyril kept a ledger filled with enemies' names—most of whom had already been crossed off by his hand, through death. No one dared verify the rumors firsthand.
"That's great!" many initially cheered. "Those arrogant rich bastards deserved to be reined in! Think of all the waste, all the suffering their dirty money caused!"
Unfortunately, the wealthy weren't the only ones affected.
The lives of ordinary citizens changed even more drastically, though people rarely spoke of it. When life was still manageable, who would dare voice complaints to the officers? Streets grew emptier, laborers buried themselves in work, pretending not to see the shuttered buildings lining the roads.
Many schools suspended classes, ensuring no child blurted out any fatal nonsense ("Why aren't those cool big sisters with big dogs coming to class anymore?" —Yeah, we've all been to their classes.") before everyone could enjoy the break. Countless shops closed indefinitely, their windows plastered with harmless excuses: restructuring, renovations, staff vacations, and so on.
The big bosses of entertainment districts worried only about not making enough money, while small shopkeepers—who might go hungry after just a few weeks closed—were losing their hair at home. Of course, they complained not a word—who dared? Half the population handled goods from the Southeast Corner. With exchanges growing ever more frequent, few could claim no connection to it, save those who intensely despised the alien races. Your shop holds furniture crafted by Southeast artisans, your windowsill displays potted plants from there. Even items without the Southeast Merchants' Guild seal might contain parts sourced from that region. If soldiers came to conduct a thorough search, could you truly remain unscathed? Shopkeepers scratched their heads, examining their kitchens and cabinets, unable to identify a single spot that was absolutely clean. So they shut their doors.
Then, even shops convinced of their absolute innocence were forced to close. When only one store remained open on the entire street, the soldiers patrolling it visited ten times a day. Precious customers fled at the sound of military boots. They were genuine locals, humans, law-abiding citizens—they simply didn't want to empty every pocket during searches. Under Level One Combat Readiness, soldiers had the authority to question any suspicious person and confiscate any suspicious item.
If there were no customers at all, closing shop would at least save some money.
"But for our safety, it's all worth it," people said—whether sincerely or as self-comfort, no one knew.
Some genuinely rejoiced: those who intensely despised the alien race, many of whom had planned (or already) contributed their "share" to expelling them. Those who had looted and burned alien goods were released. Once labeled criminals, they were now hailed as "great heroes defying tyranny." These individuals received a hero's welcome and were granted an audience with the general. Each face glowed crimson with emotion under his words of encouragement.
"I knew this day would come!" they shouted excitedly. "Justice will prevail! The corrupt traitors must be purged! For Erian!"
General Cyril awarded them medals and armbands signifying military authorization. Thereafter, they marched alongside the army into the streets. Following ancient custom, this squad—spontaneously formed during wartime to defend humanity—was called the Defenders. These native Defenders knew every corner of Lake Rebe like the palms of their hands. They sealed off every path, charging at every known traitor with fervor surpassing even the regular army.
"But it was just a basket of vegetables!" protested the housewife whose dinner ingredients had been confiscated. "What good are a few eggs?"
"Keep quiet," her husband repeated placatingly. "It was just a basket of vegetables."
The losses could have been far greater than a basket of vegetables.
Closed galleries were smashed open, artists' gatherings and residences invaded. "It's them, sir!" the mustachioed informant declared triumphantly to the Homeland Guard. "Every painter here is in league with the orcs—their paintings are proof! Their patron is the widow Laura, that traitor who fled before our righteous army arrived, hiding among the alien races!"
"If we were traitors, why would we still be here?!" protested the painter Valke. He had indeed received hints from his patron, but he refused to leave with them. "We haven't sold out our country! Every one of us deeply loves Erian and humanity!"
"You mock the army conquering the orcs, yet dare claim to love humanity?" demanded the Imperial Guard who seized the paintings.
"Precisely because we love Erian do we wish for its betterment—just as one would urge a beloved brother to abandon bad habits!"
"Well, well! You dare compare Erian to your brother, and claim our great empire has vices?" The mustached officer seized upon this accusation. "Even if you haven't committed treason, you harbor treasonous intent!"
Half the artists had already burned their paintings from the Wild Call exhibition, but the other half refused. Like Valke, they insisted they hadn't colluded with the enemy, believing their integrity would withstand scrutiny. They were taken away.
"Sirs, could there be a mistake?" " the landlady cautiously interjected, wiping her hands on her apron. "They're all fine young men and women, never done anything wrong—just painted pictures. How could a painting harm anyone? They're just young, ignorant..."
"Have you colluded with the beastmen too?" Wei Guojun demanded, his face darkening.
The landlady shook her head frantically and retreated in panic.
First it was painters, then poets, novelists, screenwriters, and newspaper columnists. Wei Guojun combed through their writings for clues, convinced this line hinted at sympathy for the alien race, that story implied discontent with the General, the army, and the Wei Guojun. "Even if there's no actual treason, there's the intent for it!" They repeated the little mustache's words, convinced they were spot on. Another common slogan was "For Erian!" So noble, so righteous, no one dared criticize any action taken in its name—did you not endorse it? Then you must be a traitor.
General Cyril stood atop a tower, listening to the cries echoing from all directions. A satisfied smile spread across his face like a smoker taking a deep drag on a cigarette. "Listen," he murmured contentedly. "This is the voice of the people."
Perhaps when soldiers proved insufficient, they could revert to the old wartime practice of universal conscription.
The Second Army reached Lake Rebe on the final day of the week.
The less fortunate residents heard strange sounds that dawn: zzzz, zzzz, crackle, crackle. What could it be? They couldn't imagine or know, for the night before, soldiers had boarded up their windows.
Along the route taken by the Second Army, soldiers maintained a tight perimeter. Not a soul—not even a bird—could pass unnoticed. Shops along the way had to close (if they hadn't already), and residents had their windows boarded up, forbidden to leave. mechanized birds patrolled overhead. The swift response in the southeast corner had made the general suspect spies. This time, to ensure a lightning strike, intelligence was tightly sealed.
The nature of Erian's new weapon remained unknown. The intelligence risked by spies only revealed to Tashan that war was imminent. The mystery unfolded as the second division entered the battlefield. Her gaze swept from the watchtower toward the approaching human forces, and she drew a quiet breath.
It was a line of colossal beasts.
That description might be inaccurate—compared to airships, they were almost petite, though vastly larger than ordinary men, resembling giant circus wagons. No six horses pulled them forward, but six pairs of wheels rolled beneath them. These self-propelled wheels connected to a flat metal track, allowing the heavy chassis to traverse uneven sand and muddy terrain.
"What are those?" Victor muttered.
Tashan could tell him what it was—the metal hull and tracks were too distinctive. It was a line of dozens of armored vehicles, each carrying numerous mechanical birds. A shovel-like forearm extended from the front, followed by human soldiers.
Tashan knew the traps the Artisan Dwarves had buried on the battlefield would likely be useless.
The armored vehicles' "shovels" probed the ground ahead, triggering traps and detonating the mana mines the Artisan Dwarves had engineered from captured technology. Metal spikes extending from beside the shovels drove deep into the soil, penetrating several meters. They traced an arc, violently uprooting the earth when they detected hollow spaces. The bulkhead in the vehicle's midsection opened, ejecting a small mechanical unit equipped with a drill. The drill spun as it plunged into the ground, resembling some sort of well-drilling machine. Tashar quickly realized this was far too elaborate for mere trap clearance—it was a device specifically designed to locate dungeon entrances.
Paladin Alexander could punch open a passage to the dungeon with a single blow, and this machine could do the same—provided the dungeon lay beneath them. Tactics like digging tunnels to cause collapses were thus rendered useless. While burrowing beneath these armored vehicles could halt their advance, it also risked exposing one's own vulnerable underbelly.
If we could delay a little longer, there might be a better solution...
But Tashan spotted something behind the first row of armored vehicles.
Human troops jogged along behind, clearing triggered traps and adjusting the armored vehicles' positions as needed. Behind the lead mine-clearing vehicle, another colossal armored vehicle lacked forearms, possessing only a "tail hook." From its gaping opening, two rows of metal tracks were being laid down, forming a long railbed stretching behind it. The tracks led toward Lake Rebe, and perhaps even farther.
None of the Dungeon's inhabitants had ever seen metal tracks. Tasha didn't know what might come upon them, but she would never allow the enemy to lay a railroad to the Dungeon.
The dragon rider and dragon dove down, breathing fire upon the convoy, engulfing even the last armored vehicle. The troops scattered abruptly. The dragon ascended after its dive, preparing to fly beyond the potential blast radius. Just as it began to climb, it plummeted without warning.
"Trap!" Douglas shouted through the consciousness chain.
The tracks glowed ominously. Several front-row armored vehicles melted into molten iron, yet the last one remained miraculously unscathed. On the roof of the massive armored vehicle, a vast circular rune materialized on the previously bare steel plate. Like a projector, it magnified several times in midair, gripping the falling dragon tightly. It was an incredible sight—the dragon's enormous body suspended in the air, struggling futilely in its fury.
"A magic array?" Victor exclaimed in astonishment.
"You didn't mention this!" Tashu demanded.
"I've never heard of a magic array capable of trapping a dragon instantly—at least not in that era! Dragons' magical resistance gives even demons headaches!" Victor protested. "If such an array existed, and could be so easily engraved onto steel plates for transport, dragons would have been exterminated long ago by those mages!"
Yet the dragons that remained in Erian had indeed vanished without a trace.
This was no time for questions. As soldiers closed in on the dragon, whose struggles grew weaker by the moment, Tasha immediately gave the order.
A buzzing hum filled the sky.
From the forest ahead, mechanical birds—previously hidden by the trees—took flight. The dwarven craftsmen had learned from their enemies. With ample magic stones, the dungeon could mass-produce these small flying machines. While their control methods weren't as refined as those of humans, the dungeon's mechanical birds possessed unique characteristics.
Sharp-topped, extremely fast, and with fragile armor.
The last trait served to enhance the drones' speed, while the other... wasn't exactly a flaw.
The mechanical birds atop the armored vehicles also took flight—or at least, they all attempted to. The humans' decision to conserve energy by not having the mechanical birds fly directly over would soon prove a colossal mistake.
The dungeon's drones descended like a swarm of hornets attacking a brown bear, crashing down relentlessly. By the time they arrived, many mechanical birds hadn't even managed to take flight—and those that had were denied a second chance.
One by one, the drones crashed down. Their performance wasn't particularly impressive; they couldn't perform the flashy maneuvers the mechanical birds could in the air. However, the act of "diving headfirst" required no technical skill whatsoever. All the solidification technology was concentrated at the top of the drones. Like narwhals, they pierced through the bodies of the mechanical birds, dragging them down with a heavy thud onto the ground, soldiers' heads, and armored vehicles.
Then the fragile armor shattered mid-air, unleashing the explosive charges within.
A single drone carried little magical explosives, but five? Ten? A hundred?
A hail of steel rained down, splashing water dangerously and fatally. The easily torn armor became countless tiny steel pellets. When compared to flesh and blood, they were anything but fragile. The robust bodies of the dragon and its rider sustained only minor scrapes, while the surrounding soldiers were swept away.
Amidst the chaotic screams, the dungeon's other forces made their entrance.
Harriet's repeatedly reinforced troops charged down, cavalry leading, infantry following. Despite possessing anachronistic armored vehicles, the northern human soldiers still fought with cold steel, making the clash a battle of the cold-weapon era. As these men were thrown into disarray by ricocheting shrapnel, the cavalry's charge pierced like a spear, plunging deep into the thick ranks from the flank.
Druids and Amazons formed small squads, while shapeshifters carried archers to optimal positions, enabling them to deliver headshots with every arrow. Seedlings from the Tree-Speakers coiled around arrowheads. What seemed like missed shots plunged into the earth, rapidly swelling into sprawling, clawed vines that ensnared several nearby soldiers. They fell on the shifting battlefield, trampled beneath feet, never to rise again. The Beast-Speakers' spirit falcons swooped through gaps, their talons blinding fallen soldiers in a single strike.
The army formed the main force, with professionals filling gaps. The dungeon's troops fought the vastly outnumbering soldiers to a standstill. Fresh reinforcements awaited in the rear, and the hospital, cleansed by natural energy, would only grow stronger.
But the armored vehicles remained a problem.
When the smoke cleared, countless soldiers lay dead or wounded beside the armored vehicles, yet the steel behemoths bore only a few dents. Centimeters of steel plate absorbed the impact. Once their drivers regained their wits, the vehicles began plowing through everything in their path.
Soldiers from both sides, having charged forward, quickly mingled together. Yet the armored vehicle drivers cared not a whit for the casualties. The steel beasts roared mechanically across the battlefield, tires screaming at full throttle, tracks biting into the ground like mad elephants charging into the crowd. The crowded battlefield offered no escape. Soldiers—from both sides—were knocked to the ground, then crushed beneath the tracks. Flesh and bone merely jolted the vehicles; they rolled smoothly over the corpses, leaving pools of blood everywhere.
With other armored vehicles clearing the way, the dragon-mounted armored vehicle began retreating toward its point of origin.
The Tree-Speaker's vines tangled within the tracks, but as the vehicle revved its engines, the vines snapped into pieces amid the screeching of metal. The flying dragons hadn't fully recovered yet, and the dragon cavalry was temporarily absent. Several reckless soldiers managed to smash open the narrow window of an armored vehicle. The arrows fired inside killed the driver, allowing that armored vehicle to leave the battlefield—at a heavy cost. Tasha hoped they would collide with each other, but they didn't. These sealed steel behemoths seemed somehow connected, repeatedly avoiding each other's positions... Wait a moment, a thought struck Tasha. Perhaps they truly were connected.
A hypothesis and a tactic requiring ample mobility emerged in Tasha's mind.
Coincidentally, besides dragons and drones, there was another unit capable of aerial assault in the dungeon.
Tasha soared skyward.