"It's Blue Night," Victor said. "As a young dragon, it escaped from a mage at the cost of one eye. After reaching adulthood, it disrupted that mage's lich transformation ritual and embedded the gem used in the ritual into its own eye."
They stood directly facing the blue dragon, clearly seeing the gaping void where its left eye should be—no sign of any embedded jewel. The socket on the dragon's left side was sunken and hollow, like every wand along their path that had been stripped of its magic core, the eye socket empty and void.
Tasha recalled where she had heard that name before.
"There exists an ancient dragon known as Blue Night," the Oak Elder had once said. "Mountain-sized and master of sorcery, it stands as the undisputed mightiest of the dragons that remain. It has not yet reached the age to return to the Dragon's Rest, nor have I ever heard of it being slain. Perhaps it still slumbers somewhere."
The dragon before him was mountain-sized, its lifeless form as cold and still as rock. Its eyes were tightly shut, its dull scales clinging tightly to the massive skeleton, like a skeleton draped in a layer of scales. The oldest dragon remaining in Eryan had ultimately not survived. Had the still-active magical array around it transformed it into this state, or had it already been emaciated and skeletal before its death?
Tasha shifted her gaze from the blue dragon and surveyed the endless crystal sarcophagi surrounding her. Brilliant light streamed from the vaulted ceiling, refracting multiple times between the fixtures and the crystal, bathing the tomb in a radiance as dazzling as a theater. Crystal sarcophagi lined the walls of the underground chamber, and the skeletal remains within them stood upright. Though reduced to mere frames, they did not lie piled as a heap of bones at the bottom of their coffins. They stood majestically within their tombs, robes draped over their frames, their hollow eye sockets fixed in an unceasing gaze toward the center of the chamber. They watched the blue dragon, and they watched Tasha as she entered.
The vaulted ceiling was inlaid with the remains of the dungeon's fallen, while the corpses of fallen mages guarded the Blue Dragon's bones. The scene was absurd yet solemn, radiating equal measures of sanctity and corruption, its frozen death a profoundly unsettling sight.
"Is that ice crystal?" Victor murmured. "Quite extravagant. They used to be reserved for imperial tombs... But ice crystal should preserve the body from decay."
A flicker of light passed through the corner of his eye.
Was "flicker" the right word? Perhaps "an inexplicable pull" was more fitting. Beneath the dazzling crystal lights, the red, egg-shaped stone held in the blue dragon's claw didn't shine brightly. It seemed both solid and liquid, its smooth stone shell appearing to hold surging, blood-red tides within.
"That thing," Victor said in a strange tone, "is almost a replica of the dungeon core."
An artificial dungeon core.
Invisible threads of magic connected the artificial core to this human dungeon, like blood vessels linking a heart. Tasha could sense their operation mirrored the dungeon core in some fundamental way: magical arrays drew power from the crystal sarcophagus and the blue dragon, forming the artificial dungeon's magic pool; tiny streams of magic gathered and condensed within the artificial core, pulsing out to every corner of the dungeon with each beat. The rails functioned as conduits from the dungeon to distant lands, extending its influence across half the empire, reaching southeast into the province of Tasmalin.
Destroy them, and the entire circulatory system would collapse.
"Is it safe to just walk in like this?" Tasha asked.
"...I don't know."
"You don't know?"
It was rare for Victor to admit ignorance so readily when he usually stubbornly refused to concede defeat. This meant he truly had no clue, not even enough to bluff his way through.
"I've never seen anything like this," Victor said, his expression deeply troubled. "Something's off... everything feels wrong..."
Tasha waited a moment, but he didn't elaborate. So she asked, "Is that replica dungeon core in the Dragon's Claw the heart of this underground complex?"
"Yes." This time, Victor answered promptly.
"Destroying it would take down the entire magic system, right?" she pressed.
"Theoretically, yes." Victor replied.
"Can you spot any nearby mechanisms, spells, or other threats that might trigger disastrous consequences?"
"Nothing at all. That's odd. Places like this should definitely have something..."
"Just tell me what you're certain about," Tasha said. "Is there any way to check for potential threats, or to get me over there completely safely to destroy the core?"
"No," Victor admitted frankly. "You could try flying over. Might be a tad safer than walking."
"Then that's settled," Tasha declared. "Since destroying it is our only option, there's no point wasting more time."
Must the human energy core be destroyed? Yes. Can we eliminate potential dangers during core destruction or find ways to detect threats? No. Then proceed. This body can be treated as expendable.
As they spoke, Tasha spread her wings. Her feet suspended in midair, she flew into the underground palace ahead. The light from the ceiling shone upon her, while the magical array beneath remained dust-free. Both enveloped her, yet nothing happened.
Magic flowed both above and below ground, as soothing as soaking in a magic pool. Having traveled in such a short time from the capital—where magic was barely perceptible—to this place akin to a magic hub, Tasha could distinctly feel her limbs growing more agile and her flight smoother. It was as if she had entered waters with greater buoyancy; she felt a weight lifted, as comfortable as a fish in water.
This state persisted until she approached within ten meters of the artificial core.
Tasha's body suddenly grew as heavy as stone. Though she flapped her wings, she struggled to maintain flight, gliding downward like a flying squirrel. Her chest felt tight, the surrounding air suddenly thinning to an unbearable degree. Even gasping for breath failed to satisfy her lungs.
Seconds later, Tasha realized it was an illusion—the air hadn't vanished, only the magic had. Two steps away lay a magical rainforest; a few more steps forward, a magical desert—more intolerable than the outside world Victor mockingly called the Dead Magic Zone. This explained her fall—dragon wings didn't actually comply with the principles of flight. If governed strictly by normal physics, wings capable of lifting an adult would require immense muscle power to operate. Just as birds ride air currents, these mythical creatures fly by harnessing the subtle magical currents within the air.
Dragons instinctively manipulate this magical air, requiring only a minimal concentration—a dependency so subtle it was nearly imperceptible. It wasn't until she truly experienced an environment devoid of magic that Tasha realized this necessity.
"What the hell is that?" Victor growled impatiently, agitated even by the sensations transmitted through Tashan's link. "Hurry up and finish this. It's more nauseating than holy light."
Tashan lifted her head. The blood-red egg lay mere steps away. Within this radius of roughly ten meters, all magic was tightly sealed within that object, not a single thread escaping.
She didn't advance further. Instead, she drew her dagger and hurled it at the object. At this distance, the throw was guaranteed to hit. Yet when the blade struck the crimson egg, it passed cleanly through.
Tasha frowned. "Are you sure this isn't an illusion?"
"I'm certain. You can feel it too, can't you?" Victor said. "Physical attacks seem ineffective."
"I don't know any magic," Tasha pointed out.
"This body of yours is a magical artifact itself. Your attacks carry a trace of magical properties," Victor urged. "Try punching it? If that doesn't work, try drawing some blood."
"Common sense tells me smearing blood on this unknown substance isn't wise," Tasha replied.
"Then do you have another solution?" Victor countered.
She did not.
Thus Tasha stepped forward once more, drawing closer to the unsettlingly beautiful stone. The rounded red surface reflected her face, distorting her image into a grotesque, elongated version that seemed to mock her.
A sudden warning flashed through her mind. Tasha flapped her wings violently, retreating backward. Her entire back slammed into something, her body bouncing back.
The magic that had vanished moments ago surged back, even more abundant than the magic rainforest. When she turned, she nearly collided with a fleshless face.
The walls abruptly advanced. The blue dragon beneath vanished. In the blink of an eye, crystal coffins closed in, filling her entire field of vision. Behind Tasha pressed a crystal coffin, beneath her feet pressed another, above her head pressed yet another. Gone were the rune-covered floors, gone the bright, open vaulted ceiling. Only countless, ubiquitous transparent coffins remained. They filled every corner, every gap, every space above and below, left and right. The vast, seemingly endless underground palace instantly shrank to a tenth of its former size. Though still immense and crystalline, it felt inexplicably cramped and unsettling.
It was as if she'd been sealed inside a gigantic crystal coffin.
The blood-red egg remained before her, from which emerged the translucent shadow of a bearded wizard.
Dressed in white robes, sporting a long beard, and wearing a pointed hat—quite the archetype. Had he merely heard the description, Tasha could have rattled off a few jokes about Gandalf and Dumbledore. But now, standing before this wizard and meeting his icy blue gaze, all playful thoughts vanished instantly.
"Mage" was the word that came to mind the instant she saw him. He wasn't a cutscene NPC from any game, not some treasure-bestowing old man from a novel, not a comic relief character from a movie tasked with saving the day and livening up the atmosphere. Looking into his eyes was like gazing into an endless sea—knowledge, wisdom, secrets... these things piled up to such a concentration that they no longer aroused curiosity, but instead inspired fear. This shadow appeared remarkably serene—neither joyful nor angry, untroubled and fearless. He regarded Tasha, and Tasha couldn't tell if his gaze passed right through her.
"Derek, Chief of the White Tower, legendary mage, a stubborn old immortal—now surely dead," Victor said dryly. "You might have been swept into a sub-space overlapping the catacombs."
"Generous guest," the Archmage's voice resonated. "Regardless of your race, whether you wish to hear this or can comprehend it, there are things I must tell you."
I truly have no other choice, Tasha thought bitterly. She scanned the surrounding coffins, each indistinguishable from the next, revealing not a single flaw.
The mage's voice echoed through the sub-space.
"A century after the 'Great Departure,' most monsters and celestial kin were utterly eradicated. Yet the calamity did not end," the mage continued, offering no explanation for the term "Great Departure." "Magic stones grew increasingly scarce. The dwarven and human civilizations, which had risen on the back of arcane technology after the War of Heaven and Earth, bore the brunt of the blow—a devastating one."
Unexpectedly, this secret leapt directly before Tashan.
There was no chaotic timeline divergence or appearance of time travelers; magical technology was simply an integral part of this world's progression. Just as Earth's humans forged a technological civilization after the Industrial Revolution, the inhabitants of Erian never lacked scholars, inventors, and skilled craftsmen. Magical civilization flourished within this world. The collision of diverse races fueled conflict while simultaneously forging a more splendid and prosperous world. Like two trees bearing similar leaves, they achieved the same result through different paths.
Magitech advanced by leaps and bounds amidst the flames of the Heaven-Earth War. Warfare demanded weapons, and racial alliances fostered cooperation and development. Destroyed dungeons yielded dungeon cores and magic stones—crucial energy sources—while underground deposits of magic stone ore lay ready for extraction. This golden age of magitech propelled dwarves and humans to the upper echelons of the social pyramid. Yet the decline of the mage-magic civilization was as swift as its rise. When resources grew scarce, a war erupted between dwarves and humans—both equally dependent on magic stones—over control of these vital supplies.
What sparked it? What was the catalyst? Whatever pretexts either side used now matter little. This was a war untouched by notions of good or evil. Humans and dwarves alike fought simply to survive.
Humans emerged victorious.
"This war raged for thirty years," the Archmage sighed. "Both sides sought a swift resolution, yet their forces were evenly matched. Ultimately, the conflict spiraled completely out of control, escalating from localized clashes into a full-scale war between entire races. The resources they consumed far exceeded the value of the disputed ore deposit they initially fought over—by a factor of ten or more. The casualties were incalculable. The human empire regressed by at least fifty years. To compensate for their losses, they completely absorbed the legacy of the Dwarf Kingdom."
After this war, the human empire underwent complete unification. They seized all the dwarves' magical technology and energy resources, and eradicated the gnomes who had mistakenly sided with the dwarves. They gained more weapons than before the war, a slight surplus of magic stones, and the gnomes' gold. This victory was celebrated, and people temporarily forgot the looming crisis.
Both sides suffered immense losses, but completely annihilating one faction and consolidating both sides' assets under one banner made this a war worth fighting.
Mages and scholars grew vigilant.
At this juncture, the Prophecy Dragon uttered an enigmatic prophecy, leading most dragons to depart the plane. Prophecy mages, no matter their divinations, could only discern obscure, inconsequential details. Attempts by the legendary Prophecy Mage rendered divination itself forbidden territory.
"Margarita, the Eye of Foresight, was the most accomplished diviner among the living—and my friend. After seven days of divination, she did not open her chamber door," declared the White Tower's chief mage. "When her disciples entered, they found Margarita had gouged out her own eyes and taken her own life."
"Prophetic mages are mentally unstable by nature. This proves nothing." " Victor muttered, as if to console himself.
No mage ventured to explore the dragon prophecies again, yet the ominous shadow lingered.
That was merely the beginning.
"Over the next fifty years, matters grew increasingly dire. Fewer children qualified as mage apprentices, and fewer apprentices succeeded in becoming full-fledged mages. We old men grew weaker—though this fact was always well concealed." The old mage spoke calmly. "Everyone wanted to know what was happening, and I knew I wouldn't live to see the truth uncovered. I was too old. All fifteen legendary mages within the White Tower knew their deaths were inevitable. So, we began slaying dragons."
Other legendary professionals lived roughly one-third longer than ordinary people, but only legendary mages could evade death through various schemes. They faced tougher promotions than other classes, yet proved harder to kill. Age granted them richer experience and greater power. If all these legendary mages perished, who could stand against the absurdly powerful dragons favored by the planes? While legendary practitioners of other classes might seem healthy for now, even without illness, a century hence they'd lack the strength to wage war. By then, a single burst of power from an ancient dragon could effortlessly obliterate the fledgling human empire built upon these ruins. Humanity could no longer afford such a cost.
After the elves departed, human mages vastly outnumbered those of other races. With their days numbered, these mages began a continent-wide dragon hunt.
They shuttled between rival mage factions, driving relentlessly for a united mage front. The Mage Alliance hunted dragons, uprooting troublesome elder dragons along with their eggs to harvest resources from their bodies. They cloaked this endeavor under the banner of humanity's highest ideals, concealing its true purpose: never for principles, never for resources, but simply an old lion seeking to secure a safe haven for its clawless descendants before its death. After the dragons came the nagas. Any remnant threat deemed dangerous was eradicated. In this tragic and brutal campaign, countless races vanished from existence.
"Absurd," Victor laughed incredulously. "The White Tower was a neutral, scholarly mage academy. When they condemned the radical methods of the Robed Mages, did they ever imagine they'd participate in genocide themselves?"
The White Tower had once been a sanctuary for scholarly mages, a gathering place for those who loved research more than combat. Prior to the War of Heaven and Earth, they had never participated in a single war, offering only theoretical support from the rear. Yet, when more advanced theoretical research allowed them to foresee their own demise, this seemingly cold-blooded madness began to spread. The elder mage lamented how the war between dwarves and humans had left them crippled, yet he himself had clearly done something similar. He remained utterly oblivious to this, his resolute eyes viewing the deaths of others—or even his own—as inevitable and worthwhile steps.
"After that, the young mages began trying to delay the inexplicable decline in magical power. And I, along with some old friends, crafted a magical array capable of reversing the depletion of magic stones."
The Archmage spread his arms wide, as if showcasing the space formed by the crystal sarcophagus behind him.
"If you see me, generous guest, it means we failed. Erian's magic stones and power remain unrecovered, forcing this array to keep running," he said. "But if you see me, it also means we succeeded. We, the forsaken by magic, have sustained Erian's last source of magic with our lifeless bodies."
The dragon's corpse lay here, alongside the bones of generations of mages—nailed into crystal coffins, whether willingly or not. The legendary mages of the White Tower, sacrificing themselves for humanity, surely never imagined they'd become accomplices to the great slaughter of spellcasters centuries later. The remains of martyrs and victims became pools of magic, forming a low-consumption energy cycle that prevented the human empire—slowly losing its power source—from regressing back to its former agricultural age.
Tasha felt she heard the epic of bygone eras.
The Archmage recounted the rise and fall of the mage-driven civilization, revealed the origins of the dragon-slaying craze, and explained many reasons why Eryan had become what it was today. Multiple factions acted for their own reasons; there was no predestined Chosen One. Great heroes were but pebbles beneath the wheels of history. No one could grasp the future in their hands. Countless unconscious races and seemingly insignificant events shaped the Arian of today... Hearing such tales revealed the world's wonder—so marvelous, yet so logical.
Yet questions remained.
Why?
The "Long Journey" likely refers to the departure of the elves and the Archdruid. The mage merely touched upon it briefly, as if it were no great mystery—perhaps in their era, it was not yet a secret. Why did they leave? What befell Mavis's grandfather, the Wood Elf?
Why did the magic stones vanish? This mage slew the dragon solely for the safety of future generations, making no mention whatsoever of the drain on magical power. Was the later scholars' theory that "spellcasters consume planar magic" a case of misinformation spreading? Or was it a new discovery? Could someone have lied for their own gain? Who would that person be?
As minor questions found answers, the solutions to those unresolved, multi-verified mysteries became even more glaring. Tashan began to doubt: Could she truly find answers to the colossal questions threatening the very existence of the plane? Could she truly find a way to reverse the damage?
For the magical creatures and spellcasters of Erian, solving this problem was no less than saving the world.
Yet for Tashar, trapped in the dungeon, saving herself remained an uncertain prospect.
The mage exhaled deeply. He lowered his arms and rubbed his temples wearily, finally revealing the exhaustion befitting an old man.
"That is all," he nodded to Tashan. "I am nearing death and have no time for lengthy discourse. Only this final thing must I tell you: within this cycle system, with its ample magical circuits and mana pool, there remains one missing element—a driving force to sustain the flow of magic indefinitely. Generous guest, the time has come for you to make your contribution."
The translucent shadow vanished. The crystal coffin chamber trembled slightly as the blood-red pebble began to melt, spewing forth a plasma-like liquid.
How could a pebble the size of a head produce so much blood-like fluid? For a moment, Tasha thought it would gush endlessly, but the liquid coalesced, as if colored fluid had been splashed onto something invisible. The writhing, pulsing blood formed bones, covered them with muscle, and ultimately shaped a colossal... monstrosity.
No other word could describe it.
The thing writhed incessantly, shrieking, emitting roars of every pitch from every crevice. Its form was unstable—human limbs, beastly fur, serpentine tongues, fish scales, mollusk tentacles... A mass of indescribable things congealed into a single form, as if a creator had hastily molded leftover materials after crafting something else and tossed it into the world. Its surface revealed a purplish-red hue, like flesh dried too long in the wind. Seconds later, the outer skin writhed and peeled back, transforming into a putrid green.
Tasha nearly vomited.
It was unbelievable. Even back on Earth, she'd only wrinkle her nose at insects or decaying matter—let alone now, when she'd grown far more composed. Yet merely gazing at this monstrosity before her, the intense sense of discord made her stomach churn violently, as if her mind itself had been polluted.
It finally emerged fully from the blood-red egg, the crimson stone now embedded in its forehead—if that thing could even be called a head.
"What the hell is this thing?" Tasha cursed.
"Some sort of... degraded magical creature hybrid," Victor stammered, as if unsure how to explain. He added urgently, "Don't get hurt! Try not to get hurt!"
What if she did get hurt?
Too late. The thing lunged forward. It resembled an unbalanced ball of flesh, yet moved with terrifying speed. Tasha dodged one swipe of its claws, but a gaping maw suddenly split open on its thick arm. A sharp tongue shot out, licking a bloody gash into her shoulder.
She felt no pain, only a tingling numbness. Blood didn't flow from the wound; instead, it rapidly rotted. A large chunk of flesh detached and began writhing toward the monster.
Like modeling clay, it effortlessly fused into the creature's body.
"Generous Guest" needs a push. Don't get hurt.
Now Tasha knew where the former guests had gone.
This magical device required a white mouse endlessly running in a cage. The sub-space was the cage, the monster was the mouse, and Tasha was the fresh raw material for that mouse.