The magnified view shattered completely in the next instant, as spores invisible to the naked eye exploded in the aftermath of the skill. The seeds of the fairy lanterns were too minute, vanishing without a sound, like tiny bubbles bursting in the air.
Tasha had used the skill on several spores positioned at different locations. The images they transmitted before shattering connected together, piecing out the full form of the colossal beast on the tracks.
No, even with dozens of spores, the transmitted images could only piece together a large portion of the steel colossus's head.
Its face resembled both traditional knight's armor and a pointed military boot. The "toe" section gleamed with a dark, sinister light—massive and sharp enough to crush anything in its path. Behind the visor sat a cylindrical head—a heavy metal barrel resting atop a row of wheels. Each wheel bore irregularly sized, asymmetrical holes and was connected to a set of cumbersome machinery. Cranks and sliders transformed the rotation of the metal wheels into the movement of connecting rods, creating a dizzyingly complex motion.
It reminded Tashan of the steam locomotives from the Harry Potter films, though compared to the one before them, those movie trains seemed sweet as fairy tales. This locomotive-like machine, advancing toward the southeast corner, bore no resemblance to any fairy tale. It was cold and menacing, bulky yet intricate, radiating an unmistakable, murderous intent. Cylinders roared and bellowed as white smoke erupted from a row of chimneys atop the structure. It collided with the hat-like structures crowning each chimney, shattering into countless wisps that swiftly dissipated into the air.
Was this steam? Or something else? Tasha doubted a charcoal-fired boiler could produce such pure, nearly colorless smoke. Not a single vent atop the train spewed black fumes. The fairy lantern spores made this even clearer—they clung to the machine solely because magical energy coiled around the steel colossus, though its concentration was too faint to sustain the spores' growth or fruition.
Subtle magic permeated every inch of the magic-driven train, far beyond the traces clinging to the tracks. Something within the carriage itself stirred the spores' craving, though Tasha could not yet discern what it was. The runes hidden within the steel plates sealed the colossus too tightly; the fairy lantern spores clung desperately to the train's exterior, denied entry. Come to think of it, the dragon-hunting magic array had been destroyed days ago. Could that mere remnant of magic truly draw the spores in droves, propelling them to travel a thousand miles a day?
Tasha's fingers tapped rhythmically against her knuckles as she sank into deep thought over this new discovery.
If humanity had completed its industrial revolution, half-baked dungeons run by obsolete races wouldn't stand a chance—Tasha had thought this when first encountering humans, and she still believed it now.
She was no longer the clueless newcomer ignorant of the surface world. As administrator of the human settlement in the southeast corner, she had witnessed the bustling Lake Rebe and other parts of Tasmalin Province. She knew full well that ordinary human technology was nowhere near industrial revolution levels. Nearly all the advanced (by this world's standards) technological achievements she had seen thus far were concentrated in the military sphere.
The dungeons would face off against the military.
Now that the dungeons and human military were officially at war, if there were any devastating trump cards, there was no reason to hold them back or use them sparingly like this. Treating the enemy like a transport convoy was laughable. How could the overlord of Erian be so foolish? Initially, they might have underestimated the dungeon. Then, Tashan employed certain tactics, compelling them to conceal information for their own ambitions and interests. But at this stage, Tashan could find no reason for the human side to show mercy.
She had thoroughly researched General Sirel, who had come here—his background, status, methods, and political views. Sirel held considerable standing among Erian's elite. As the vanguard in the fight against the alien threat, he embodied the humanist ideal of "hatred for evil." Such a self-righteous, brutally efficient idealist—utterly different from those swayed by threats or bribes—would never grant the dungeon an opening, no matter the reason.
Just how unyielding was this man? After the last battle concluded, Tasha had messengers outside Lake Rebe convey offers of prisoner exchange or ransom via loudspeakers and arrow-borne messages. Syril flatly refused, declaring absolute refusal to compromise with the alien races. "This has nothing to do with how much gold you demand," he stated with iron resolve. "Every honorable soldier is prepared to die for his country!"
But Tasha's motive wasn't truly to sell the prisoners for profit.
She merely sought to broadcast this message and the general's stance across Lake Rebe. The Amplify skill was applied to primitive loudspeakers, spreading news of the mass capture and the general's unyielding refusal across half the lake. This not only crushed the army's morale but also undermined the general's strategy of playing the victim. Now the people knew the missing soldiers hadn't been slaughtered by the alien race but captured alive. It was the general himself who truly kept them from returning home—he who refused the ransom, abandoning his own men.
The only regret was that, after testing, Jacqueline's singing couldn't hypnotize half of Lake Rebe through this method. Perhaps it was an issue with the magical environment.
Despite discontent and murmurs quietly brewing among the crowd, General Cyril remained as unyielding as ever. Thus, Tasha was certain: if any powerful weapon were in this general's hands, he wouldn't care about public opinion and would deploy it against the dungeon immediately.
They possessed advanced technological products yet confined their use solely to military applications.
When actual warfare commenced, they deployed weapons in incremental waves—a piecemeal tactic—rather than committing all forces at once.
Despite possessing the technological capability to manufacture deadly instruments like cannons, airships, and armored vehicles, soldiers on the battlefield wielded cold steel instead of firearms.
These inconsistencies cannot be fully explained by human customs or political intrigue. Tasha dares to make a bold inference: Humans aren't unwilling to unleash their technological arsenal indiscriminately—they simply cannot.
They simply cannot afford it.
Perhaps it relates to a shortage of professionals, or the disappearance of dwarves, but Tasha believes it is more likely tied to energy. Optimistically, it's possible that humans would be forced to cease hostilities due to exhaustion, whereas Tasha's current magical reserves could sustain the war effort. Yet rationally speaking, it's implausible that humans have truly depleted their energy sources.
They could still deploy new weapons, albeit in batches. Tasha leaned toward the theory that they possessed some method to regenerate or manufacture energy, albeit one requiring time to recharge—somewhat akin to how Tasha relied on time and slime to produce magic. If that were the case, a strategy of attrition would yield no results; only Tasha would suffer losses. The dungeon could not wear down an empire-sustained army through delay.
"I smell the scent of other dragons."
That night, the dungeon dragon awoke from its stupor. Still weak, unable even to lift its wings, the fury in its eyes burned as fiercely as dragonfire.
"The dragon is part of that magic circle. Far, far away... I can sense it..." The red dragon's hard claws dug deep into the sand as it clenched them. "Someone has imprisoned that dragon."
"Is that dragon still alive?" asked Tashan.
"Whether it lives or not!" the red dragon growled. "Those who did this shall die a horrible death!"
Dragon parts have always been highly sought-after materials. Dragon scales, dragon blood, dragon whiskers, dragon bones... every component circulates among adventurers. Dragons are intensely solitary creatures, meeting only during their rare mating seasons. Beyond that, familial bonds are tenuous—they care little for their own kin, let alone strangers. A dragon condescending to journey with adventurers wouldn't bat an eye at scales in armor, dragonbone blades, or scrolls in dragonblood ink. Yet two exceptions exist.
When someone attempts to cage a dragon, or to remove even a single bone from the Dragon's Rest.
Whether through a professional's assault or through some cunning scheme, whoever successfully defeats a dragon may dispose of its remains as they please. Other dragons will merely mock their fallen kin, even grudgingly acknowledging the dragon-slayer's right to speak with them as equals. But should anyone attempt to control or domesticate a dragon, all dragons would regard it as an insult to their very existence, slaying such a creature on sight.
An ancient dragon that lives long enough to fly to the Dragon's Rest, however many mortal enemies it had in life, will receive at least a modicum of respect in death. Necromancers regard bone dragons as the pinnacle of undead minions, yet those who truly master them are exceedingly rare. This stems not only from the bone dragon's demanding requirements for a controller's power, but also because the finest bone dragon material originates from the Dragon's Rest. The bones of ancient dragons hold immense power, yet they also summon the furious wrath of dragons. Unlucky practitioners often find themselves destroyed by enemies sent from the heavens. Yet some audacious necromancers defy this, prompting dragons to attack any mage wielding a bone dragon—regardless of whether it was freshly slain in battle. Dragons will not tolerate lesser creatures desecrating their kin, even the fallen.
Dragon riders are an exception, though their pact with dragons stems less from the rider's conquest and more from the dragon's choice.
"If possible, tell me whether that dragon is dead or alive," the dragon's roar echoed through the cavern. Tasha remained motionless, only a few strands of hair fluttering in the air. "I need to know what I'm up against."
A discovered, occupied dragon lair and a base capable of restraining a living dragon posed dangers worlds apart.
Her composed voice calmed the dragon somewhat. Its tail tip tapped the ground impatiently. It closed its eyes, recalling for a moment, then shook its head.
"Impossible to tell," the dragon said. "But if it's you, don't worry about traps meant for dragons. "Douglas was caught in the trap with you and can't even get up now," Tashar reminded it.
"Dragonriders share power with dragons, making them akin to vassals whose status isn't quite so disparate," the dragon explained. "You merely possess a trace of dragon essence in your physical form... Water exists within human bodies, yet water isn't synonymous with humanity."
The crimson dragon lowered its head, plucking a massive scale from its chest. It melted upon contact with Tasha's forehead. She felt a surge of scorching energy seep beneath her skin. Instinctively touching her forehead, her fingers met soft flesh, the flesh burning hot.
"Now you can sense it too," the dragon paused before adding, " You'd better act quickly. While you're trapped by that thing, I can feel it constantly draining my power."
Tasha understood the implication.
If a brief magical array could drain so much power from the dragon, what might its prolonged operation extract from the distant dragon? If this draining continued day and night... The vague notion she'd held before became clear.
The magic circuits formed by the rails siphoned power, while the magic flowing through them connected to the "steam locomotive" above—whatever it might contain. They operated like a colossal circuit.
Was this energy fueling the locomotive? Yet no matter how fearsome its appearance or how immense its power, the train still required rails to move. Its limitations were vast—it couldn't abandon the tracks and become a bumper car. Was it for troop transport? Tasha doubted humans placed much hope in armies wielding cold steel—previous engagements had proven this. When machinery and explosives clashed, soldiers became nothing but cannon fodder.
Regardless, Tasha intended to remove the battery.
"You're going?" Victor keenly sensed her intent.
"Mm."
"'You' are going?" Victor emphasized the first syllable. "You, the leader, personally? Have you no one else capable of handling this? Why keep them then?"
"To guard the base," Tasha replied.
Most of the dungeon's forces were prepared for battle, better suited for defense. Dungeon creations like Ghosts and Flying Dragons couldn't stray far from their vicinity. Human spies couldn't sense dragon power nor communicate with Tasha in real time. Other contract holders all had their issues—either holding crucial positions, lacking combat strength, or lacking adaptability. This wasn't a mission that could be wrapped up with a single fight.
This wasn't a turn-based battlefield where the train stopped moving while Tashar acted. New enemy reinforcements could arrive at any moment. Someone had to guard the base camp, where they could be more effective than accompanying Tashar on his mission.
Tashar intended to go alone. His dragon-winged form could fly, possessed ample strength, could sense dragon power, maintain constant contact with the dungeon, and even death didn't mean complete annihilation. Soldiers fight soldiers, generals fight generals—it's all about utilizing resources and talents to their fullest. Ultimately, this dragon-winged body was merely one of Tashar's resources.
Before departure, Mavis could prove invaluable.
As a member of the nature-aligned races, the Heart of Nature had similarly purified Mavis's bloodline, though this didn't manifest in increased attack power. When nature's energy washed over her, the gained strength manifested elsewhere.
"Half-elf Mavis: The energy of the Heart of Nature has cleansed the descendant of the Wood Elves, purifying her bloodline to that of her mother's generation. Natural-attribute herbs and ingredients will now harmonize more readily with her hands. Beyond this, branches from sacred trees will resonate more intensely with her. This is a transformation every archer or mage wielding a Sacred Tree artifact dreams of—arrows fly faster and steadier, staff spells gain potency... What? You say it's useless? Blame no one but yourself for binding an elf descendant who can neither shoot arrows nor cast spells!"
The card description was as infuriatingly sarcastic as ever. Upon first seeing this new card, Tasha found it rather amusing. Mavis was never meant for combat. If a healer stationed deep in the rear developed combat skills, that would be a truly useless liability. The clueless card description offered its snide remarks, unaware that the current situation had accidentally landed them in the optimal scenario.
Mavis couldn't cast spells, but now the Holy Tree Rolling Pin's built-in illusion effect had reached new heights. It deceived not only human eyes, but machinery as well.
The fewer targets it covered, the more refined the disguise became, and the longer it could be sustained. The alien bloodline detectors, modeled after the Red Hounds, faltered before the enhanced illusion. Whether it was the Artisan Dwarves, Marion, or even the Tarsand—whose lineage was now a mystery—they could stand directly before the device, walk past it, and not trigger a single reaction. It concealed the massive dragon wings behind Tashan, rendering them invisible to perception. Even if someone accidentally bumped into those hard wings, they would instinctively forget the encounter, much like a traveler forgetting they kicked a stone along the road.
Unfortunately, the device couldn't conceal Tashar's entire presence. Otherwise, she might have attempted another decapitation strike—strolling unnoticed into Lake Rebe, then slaying the human general at the height of battle.
"Are you really going alone?" Victor asked once more before departure.
"Isn't there you?" Tasha replied, spreading her wings.
The dragon-winged woman took flight deep into the night, her path concealed by darkness and clouds. She bypassed Lake Rebe, circling toward the other end of the sensory link.
...
At 6:30 in the morning, Wood, the innkeeper, yawned as he descended the stairs. He held a sausage pancake in his left hand and a large mug of beer in his right, intending to leisurely eat breakfast at the front desk. No one would be checking in at this hour; guests who rose early to hunt for food usually slept another half hour. This was Wood's most cherished quiet time...
Knock knock knock!
Wood closed his mouth just as he was about to take a bite of the pancake, glancing around the counter to make sure he hadn't accidentally bumped into something. Someone knocking on the door? At this hour? Surely not another door-to-door salesman? Before he could wonder if he'd misheard, the knocking sounded again—still three light, rhythmic taps.
"Coming, coming!" he called, setting down his breakfast. He wiped his greasy hands on his shirt hem, stepped around the counter, and opened the door.
All the murmurs of disturbance vanished the moment the door swung open. Standing outside wasn't some early-morning sales pest, but a tall woman. She smiled at Wood, her breath forming a puff of white in the air.
Wood quickly stepped aside and invited her in. It was that time of year when autumn gave way to winter. Though no snow had fallen yet, anyone lingering outside this early morning would inevitably be rubbing their arms and stamping their feet. The shopkeeper turned back toward the counter, his peripheral vision catching the woman's black hair, neatly pinned up. It was as jet-black as a raven's feather, though the temples showed a hint of gray. Wood was startled and couldn't help but look again, realizing it wasn't gray hair but frost clinging to her strands. Good heavens! Was it really that cold outside today?
"Damn weather!" he sighed, pushing the untouched hot beer toward her.
"Yes, truly awful weather." " The woman declined the beer and continued, "Losing your travel companion in this weather is truly unlucky."
"You lost your companion?" Wood took back the beer sympathetically and took a big gulp. "Oh dear, that's terrible luck! Did you agree to meet here? The capital is crowded, and it'll be even harder to find each other once you're inside!"
The woman sighed and shook her head. "Not at all. I have money on me, but I'm a complete country bumpkin who's never been here before. Without a friend to guide me, I have no idea where to go."
"Are you here on business?"
"No, just traveling."
Without batting an eye, the woman booked the most expensive deluxe room. Even if she was truly a "country bumpkin," she was clearly one with some savings—prices in the capital were outrageously high even compared to surrounding areas, yet every year a flood of tourists poured in, sustaining businesses like Wood's. This guest was the quintessential tourist, her eyes darting curiously around the room before settling on Wood's left hand.
Wood flexed his left hand showily, though its range of motion was limited. The shopkeeper rolled up his sleeves, both arms exposed. His right arm was thick and hairy, while his left was thin and smooth—the back of that hand was flat, fingers bony and skinless.
"I used to eat from the army's bowl," he said, his right hand manipulating the joint of his left prosthetic limb, straightening and bending it into a loose fist before switching hands to pick up a cup. "See this engraving? It's the unit number—the 29th Army..."
"The capital's unit?" the woman asked casually.
"You bet!"
"But the capital's units only go up to twenty-eight," she said slowly, glancing indifferently at the steel prosthetic and the half-filled registration book set aside. She seemed quite talkative, showing no sign of impatience.
"Who knew you were so clued in?" the shopkeeper roared with laughter, not the least bit embarrassed at being called out. "Saying twenty-nine is just bragging—no harm done. But claiming twenty-eight? That's impersonating a soldier!"
Wood had worked at a nearby factory in his youth. After a run of bad luck, one arm got caught in a machine. Fortunately, he had some savings and could afford a steel prosthetic (the pattern on the back of his hand was the factory's serial number). Later, he opened an inn and lived quite comfortably.
He shared this story with the woman, who listened with genuine interest, occasionally chiming in. What started as a few casual remarks somehow blossomed into a lengthy chat. Perhaps it was her warm expression, or maybe her easy manner, but Wood began pouring out tales about the neighborhood and his own life.
He spoke of the factory where he'd once worked, of the changes near the capital over the years. He spoke of his late wife and the precious daughter she'd left behind, Abigail, now in the throes of adolescence. Yet even a rebellious young girl remained an angel, he insisted. "She's a bit odd these days—all my brother's fault!" Wood complained, smoothly transitioning into tales of his reclusive younger sibling who never left his room.
When discussing his brother, the shop owner wasn't nearly as tender as when talking about his daughter. He grumbled about his brother's strange habit of staying in his room without seeing daylight, about his terrible social skills. Wood insisted his brother should get a proper job instead of holing up in his little room writing stories no one wanted to read, skipping meals, and starving to death without anyone to support him. "He'll never meet a girl!" the older brother lamented anxiously. "Who would marry a poor, hack writer?"
"Dad!"
Footsteps echoed down the stairs, stomping and thumping across the wooden floorboards, the anger palpable in the sound. A girl with braided hair came running down, her voice sharp as she confronted Wood. "Uncle Edwin is not a lousy writer!"
"Alright, alright," Wood's voice softened instantly. "But Sweetie Pie, no publisher would ever..."
"Don't call me Sweetie Pie! I'm seventeen!" Abigail cried, flushing crimson as if only now noticing the woman watching her with a smile from the shadows. She tugged hastily at her nightgown, stamped her foot, and turned to dash back upstairs.
"Ah, a young lady already, yet still so fiery," Wood sighed, though his face betrayed not a trace of regret—only a smug grin.
"She's adorable," the guest agreed readily.
The shopkeeper laughed heartily, his appearance starkly different from his petite daughter—more like a bear standing upright. In his good mood, Wood felt a surge of generosity, eager to assist this tourist he'd bonded with over conversation. He sold him a map of the capital, generously marking it with notes ("These spots rip off tourists!"), before warmly seeing him off.
The female guest, who had signed her name as Natasha, headed upstairs with her bag, and the lobby fell quiet once more. The shopkeeper, now fully engaged in conversation, felt no trace of sleepiness. His thoughts drifted between his precious daughter, who had no one to keep her company and had to hang around with her uncle, and his troublesome younger brother, still unmarried to this day. Wood recalled the female guest's bare fingers, devoid of any rings, and his mind began to wander.
She was a woman of truly unique charm, he mused. Yet as he pondered this, Wood suddenly couldn't recall the color of her hair or eyes. He racked his brain in confusion, realizing he couldn't even remember her face clearly—only the impression that she was exceptionally beautiful... Was she truly that beautiful? Even that seemed uncertain, like a dream that grew hazier the more he tried to remember it.
By the time new customers arrived, the shop owner had already put the morning's incident out of his mind.