For Tarsha, this was a season of bounty.
Crowds poured in from every corner of Erian, like animals fleeing the mountains after an earthquake. A vast influx of people surged into the province of Tasmarin, many of whom possessed little non-human blood. To be precise, after the Day of the Red Rain, the terms "human" and "non-human" had grown imprecise—nearly everyone was mixed-blood.
Human bloodline functioned more like a dominant trait than a dominant gene; its presence did not overwhelm other components. If one were to strictly adhere to racial labels, the Artisan Dwarves might be called "XX percent human, XX percent dwarf, XX percent gnome, XX percent halfling hybrid descendants." Each Artisan Dwarf's specific composition varied, making even a single description a tedious ordeal. So for now, let's continue calling those with more pronounced non-human features "non-humans," and those who look human "humans."
"We... don't have to enlist, right?" a particularly tall man asked cautiously.
"Of course!" the staff member replied.
If this were a card game, the arrival of these outsiders would undoubtedly mean new units. But in real life, the number of combat-ready troops increased by a mere handful. They weren't warriors—they were merchants, artisans, laborers, apprentices... refugees, wretched souls fleeing their homelands in search of peace. These weary arrivals desired neither prison nor the battlefield; they sought only shelter.
Not that Tasmarin would let them off scot-free.
Each incoming group attended the "New Residents of Tasmarin State Lecture," where staff meticulously detailed all necessities for living in the province. The content was basic, its core message simply: "Do not break the law." This lecture appeared like a mere formality, yet it carried significant weight. Afterward, each person must sign an agreement, pledging to become a law-abiding citizen.
It was no agreement to be signed lightly.
The document was densely packed with fine print, much like a product upgrade consent form—something most people never read carefully. The demonic contract lurked within. With a single stroke of the pen, those eligible to sign committed themselves to Tasand.
The demonic contract process is as follows: Both parties must agree on the terms of their respective obligations and demands. This process requires mutual knowledge, confirmation, and honesty. Only then is the contract signed, sealing the deal. The previous lecture had clearly outlined the terms to everyone, and the agreement reiterated them (Party A: abide by laws, be dedicated to one's duties, and follow dispatch orders when threatened in the dungeon; Party B: provide sanctuary and housing loans). The preconditions were already met. This contract was fair to all, young and old alike, and could hardly be called fraudulent.
Victor praised this arrangement lavishly, claiming it aligned perfectly with his own vision. Such self-congratulatory flattery earned him only silent contempt from Tasha. The underestimated Victor then recounted his glorious feat of signing a group of Templar Knights. The details were quite complex, but to put it bluntly in Earth terms, it was essentially the "Last Page of the Delivery Slip is a Demon Contract" fraud scheme.
That incident directly strangled the ancient courier industry of Erian in its infancy. Demons sure have thick skin (pronounced with the first tone).
Several dozen individuals refused to sign. The spellcasters separated themselves from the crowd in this manner, conversed with Tasha, and ultimately signed the most basic non-aggression pact. During this period, Tasha encountered more witches and mages than she had seen since arriving in Eryan. Some looked like they'd stepped out of fantasy art books, while others resembled ordinary passersby feeding birds in a garden.
It was a season of great harvest.
Within the Mind Palace, new character cards multiplied relentlessly. Diverse skills filled the mental inventory list ever longer, while intricate cards spread across the table like a stamp collection, granting Tasha a sense of achievement akin to philately. This explosive growth continued for days until the last empty space on the table was filled. Just as Tasha anticipated finding new placement spots, all the cards suddenly floated upward.
Lights flickered, the cards dimmed, and their surfaces extinguished abruptly along with the palace's flames.
The Mind Palace began to tremble, as if struck by a typhoon originating within. Unlike the tidal waves that accompanied past information unlocks, this disturbance of the sea of consciousness was directionless and unstoppable, leaving only a dizzying disorientation. The dragon-winged form looked up warily at the dungeon's ceiling. Everywhere appeared undisturbed, yet the dungeon's core itself had suddenly short-circuited. The omniscient perspective within the dungeon abruptly extinguished.
The dungeon could see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing—trapped within the locked, cramped, and broken core of the dungeon, as if returning to the very beginning. Tasha felt herself swept up by a whirlwind, spinning endlessly in the same spot, trapped in an inescapable cycle.
"Warning... Incomplete Dungeon - Tasha, contract units exceeded... Ssssh... Current mana sufficient. Proceed with merger and reorganization?"
Tasha heard the intermittent prompt.
She strained to make out its meaning, but the muffled, static-filled line had already finished playing, showing no sign of repeating. The "system panel" she'd adjusted herself was as dull and lifeless as her character cards, like a dead key—pressing any button yielded no response. The connection between the dragon-winged body and the dungeon's core remained intact, yet Tasha could neither sense all the contract holders nor perceive any of the dungeon's structures. This sudden loss of control sent a chill through her heart.
For the first time, Tasha experienced the drawbacks of an incomplete core.
Regret came too late. Only Ah Huang remained in the consciousness link—or rather, the fragment of the dungeon core she had separated into this goblin. The creature sniffed around blankly, trotting eagerly behind her as Tashan passed by.
Tasha abruptly halted. Ah Huang collided with her leg, then nonchalantly circled around to her front before crouching in fear at her master's darkened expression.
Standing beneath the dungeon's lamplight, Tasha stared expressionlessly into the distant darkness—never imagining she'd one day perceive the dungeon as dark and profound. She realized she couldn't go to the Magic Pool. For one, she couldn't summon the goblins yet. For another, the Dungeon Book was kept there.
If Tasha had to command Ah Huang to tunnel in just to speak face-to-face with Victor, he'd instantly sense something was amiss before she could even begin her conversation. Was the current contract merely temporarily dormant, or had its effects truly faded? If the latter...
Tasha possessed the self-awareness of one who commanded a fierce tiger.
In truth, her initial ability to forge a master-servant contract with Victor stemmed entirely from the home-field advantage of being the dungeon's ruler. Even though she found Victor endearing, even though she mocked him as a fool with her words, as her understanding deepened, Tasha understood all too well how dangerous he could be when given the chance. A toothless viper is adorable. A caged tiger is adorable. A dinosaur trapped in an electric fence is adorable. A demon bound by a contract is adorable. When the preconditions vanished, emotions were abruptly cast aside, and cold reason took hold.
There could be no further delay.
"Proceed with the merger and reorganization?"
Tasha selected "Yes."
Lights flickered on one by one within her mind's sea.
The dungeon returned to Tasha's control. All structures, dungeon constructs, and dungeon perception fully restored. The indoor storm gradually ceased. The Hall of Thought remained immaculately bright and orderly. She sat before the long table, seemingly unchanged from before the lights went out. Yet no. Tashar lowered her head. Only a single card remained on the table.
All cards except the Dungeon Card had vanished.
A vast section of the Hall of Thought remained shrouded in darkness, imperceptible, completely sealed off. If the earlier situation had been like a circuit breaker tripping due to excessive current, this was akin to shutting down part of the circuitry to sustain the core's operation. She could sense the faint connection to the Contractors, confirming the contracts still existed. But all the cards were gone—no sarcastic descriptions, no attached skills. Dragonwing Body silently chanted [Summon Full Moon], yet there was no response.
All the systematic, game-like conveniences granted by the contracts seemed to have vanished.
Perhaps they weren't gone, just imperceptible. A significant portion of her mana reserves had vanished, and Tasha could sense a large section of her consciousness occupied—like detecting background files loading on a suddenly sluggish computer.
Tasha picked up the sole remaining card. The Dungeon Card now displayed only a brief line of text.
[Fragmented Dungeon - Tasha]
Merging and restructuring. Progress: ???
"Victor?" Tasha called through the link.
The Dungeon Book responded almost instantly, sounding perfectly normal, as if it hadn't registered the disturbance at all.
Tasha simultaneously queried several other Contractors, who also reported no awareness of what had just occurred.
"If the dungeon core is incomplete, does that impose limits on the contracts we can sign?" Tasha asked Victor.
"Who knows? I've never raised a dungeon," Victor replied. "Maybe? Honestly, a ramshackle dungeon like yours making it this far is already worthy of a special case study."
"Can't a 'ramshackle dungeon' expand?"
"With the core shattered like this, there's no precedent for revival." Victor shrugged, flipping through the pages.
"About what happened earlier—give me some advice," Tasha requested one last time.
"What happened?" Victor asked blankly. "Is the contract messed up?"
"Yes." Tasha sighed, changing the subject. "This new batch we signed is large, but most are non-combatants."
With no precedent, asking Victor was pointless. Too bad Victor knew nothing. Good thing Victor knew nothing. Now that the die was cast, all that remained was to gather the dungeon core and wait.
Tasmalin Province had stabilized, with buildings and armies taking shape. Tasha wasn't helpless without her skills. The skills acquired in the past were no longer indispensable, and the newly gained ones hadn't yet been integrated into the dungeon's operational system. Better for the wood to vanish before it warmed than for the house to be stolen after the beams were laid. Looking on the bright side, even if this state were to persist forever, it would merely be icing on the cake—a useless appendage.
Far more painful is the loss of magic power. Yet the Empire currently faces even greater turmoil than Tasand.
Wait. Upon closer inspection, Tasand realized the monster souls it had devoured earlier vanished completely along with the magic power. Those things had never been fully digested, lingering in a half-melted state like hairballs stuck in a cat's throat—a rather disgusting thought, considering what they once were. Its disappearance was likely the sole silver lining in this ordeal.
Worrying about it now was pointless.
Time to turn the page.
At this very moment, new stowaways journeyed thousands of miles toward Tasmarin Province, their hearts filled with both dread and hope. The empire's border defenses grew ever stricter, yet methods for scaling the walls multiplied. Those seeking better, safer lives would always find a way. Tasmalin's vast shared border with the rest of the Erian Empire was far less easily sealed off than the former southeastern corner.
Along the long frontier, restless souls gazed toward the horizon.
At this very moment, Tasmalin's new residents nervously carried their belongings, studied the local regulations, registered for temporary housing, and began meeting their new neighbors. Some had been isolated for far too long. Arriving in a place where they no longer needed to hide, they found themselves opening up to those who offered a friendly smile. Others, having lived in fear for too long, see fellow "outsiders" walking in sunlight yet still keep doors and windows tightly shut, placing packed bags within easy reach along escape routes.
It doesn't matter. Whether overly warm and boisterous or coldly aloof, they will stay, they will adapt, and they are safe.
At this very moment, Tasmalin's natives bustle with activity. Beyond weaponry, the artisan dwarves—mastery craftsmen who adore creating furniture—find purpose anew, working feverishly. That pillow-obsessed Tuck has even launched a bedding company. General Harriet's forces (yes, he'd been promoted, though the title clearly wasn't bestowed by the Empire) proved as adept at patrols and maintaining order as the Amazons. The new recruits performed admirably, though some rookies still found their attention wandering when dragon cavalry swept overhead.
In this wave of migration, people from all walks of life bustled about and earned substantial income. Only in those rare moments of downtime do they pause in wonder: When exactly did they grow accustomed to dealing with "the other kind"?
When you gaze out over such vast territories and so many heads, your own troubles seem utterly insignificant.
"So why are you taking in so many useless people?" Victor was saying. "So-called 'cheap labor'? I thought those prisoners of war were enough for you."
"No," Tasha replied. "Though they could serve as cheap labor for now... but the difference is significant."
Before the captured Imperial soldiers could grasp their situation, they were merely cheap labor—the most worn-out cogs in the massive machine Tasha operated. If their minds couldn't adapt, if they clung to outdated notions like "human supremacy," then they'd simply work themselves to death—though they wouldn't suffer abuse. Tasha would maintain them like precision machinery, providing ample nutrition and rest until every last ounce of value was squeezed from them.
But these refugees arriving in Tasmalin Province? They would become the "foundation" of the future.
The dungeon's sphere of influence expanded once more, evolving from a base perpetually on the brink of collapse into a true territory. Tasha was transforming her role from a local bandit leader into a regional warlord. She had risen from concealment, and while the ascent from dormancy to prominence took time, establishing a firm foothold demanded even greater effort and resources. To stand as a minority on this land, surrounded by enemies on all sides, would be certain death. At the very least, in this vicinity, they must integrate with the majority.
That is why the red rain fell.
She had long suspected that mixed-blood individuals were the majority. What truly separated the various ethnic groups was not some obscure bloodline, but rather the collective self-identity and civilization of each group. Tasha didn't need to force intermarriage between overtly human and overtly alien races. She needed to crack open the fissure in people's stubborn beliefs. One day, Tasha believed, humanity would see racial differences as leaves on the same branch, each with its own veins. Until then, she needed more members who identified as alien.
If rigid racial concepts couldn't be eradicated overnight, then she would harness them. The notion of racial opposition had turned neighbors into strangers, forcing them to flee their homes and seek refuge in the unfamiliar lands of Tasmalin. As long as Tasha avoided the blunders of her opponents, these exiles would become the dungeon's natural allies.
"Speaking of which, the Abyss hasn't launched just one large-scale invasion of the Material Plane, has it?" Tasha inquired.
"Right. Earthbound creatures call them 'Demon Calamities.' I participated in several myself." Victor clicked his tongue, as if savoring some fond memory.
"As a henchman?"
"As a commander!" Victor snapped. "After the First Demon Calamity, I was a Great Demon, dammit."
He'd vaguely mentioned the Great Demon's path to power to Tasha—a journey from newborn Abyssal seed to the pinnacle of the Abyssal demon hierarchy, a relentless, despair-inducing trail of slaughter. No one was born a demon lord. Those who fought their way to Archfiend status possessed admirable qualities and extraordinary luck—each one worthy of being the protagonist in a novel. This only deepened Tasha's confusion. A being of Victor's caliber shouldn't be perpetually coming up with half-baked ideas during the dungeon's expansion.
"So, what I'm doing is essentially the same as what you did back then," Tasha voiced her confusion. "As the minority—you, as outsiders—overthrowing the ruling majority to establish a new regime... Logically, the strategies required for such actions should be quite similar. Yet you seem perpetually dissatisfied with my methods."
Victor paused, then burst into laughter.
He laughed for a long moment, the pages of his book slapping against the stone slab as if Tasha had uttered some thoughtless nonsense. "Where do you see our actions as identical?" he asked.
"Demons also lure creatures from the Material Plane to the Abyss," Tasha reminded him.
"No, no, you've misunderstood," Victor chuckled. "Outside of demonic invasions, demons do indeed do that—to strengthen themselves, or just for amusement, hunting prey. But when total war begins, who has the time for that in conquered territories?"
Demon contracts and schemes are intricate, yet their warfare is brutally simple. Once a region falls into the Abyss's grasp, all living things there share one fate.
They are consumed.
Resist? Devour them. Yesterday's fiercest warriors become fertilizer for the Abyss. Surrender? No problem. Devour them too. Demons couldn't care less whether you fervently pledged allegiance to the Abyss or tried to play double agent. Nothing was more convenient or efficient than turning you into nourishment. They would be devoured, then transformed—either into degraded clone armies or shambling corpses, raw material for the Abyss's sorcerers to craft all manner of monstrosities. The dungeon's devouring function wasn't some makeshift outpost expedient; it was a microcosm of the Abyss's very essence.
"Won't such an Abyss become the world's enemy?" Tasha asked. "Wouldn't anyone who doesn't want to die choose the Celestial Realm?"
"The weak are doomed, but the strong are not. We still bind contracts with the powerful. Those who pledge allegiance become bound to the Abyss, gaining greater power, extended lifespans, and the right to switch allegiances—the allure of that last privilege is beyond your imagination."
The pages of the Book of Dungeons smoothed themselves, unfurling gently like a gentleman straightening his collar.
"Imagine this," Victor's tone was calm, tinged with amusement, "You're fighting a hopeless war, struggling to hold on. Every day, comrades fall in battle. Their bodies are either devoured or reappear on the battlefield the next day, standing opposite you. You see no future, surrounded by numb souls. Ironically, 'hope' seems to dwell in the abyss, while those monsters across the field thrive daily. When lambs keep dying no matter how hard you fight, the exhausted sheepdogs begin questioning the purpose of battle. And once doubt and fear take root... just a little push, and boom! They'll discover wolves are far happier than sheepdogs."
"But the strong are always few, right?" Tasha said.
"True," Victor's spine tapped. "But here, standards are lacking. It depends on how the high-ranking demon who strikes first chooses to think. A being of power won't be used as mere fodder. Abyssal sorcerers can transform practitioners into monsters almost completely, though the success rate isn't high. This 'transformation' and 'Abyssal bond' sometimes blur into indistinguishable states. Entities influenced by the Abyss invariably become more bloodthirsty than before. So, you see, the number of 'powerful beings who've turned to the Abyss' is far greater than people realize. Consequently, everyone believes they might be the next favored one to be looked upon with favor. The competition among traitors is quite fierce."
Victor paused before continuing, "Even those truly lured by the Abyss never form bonds as deep as ours, the natives. The demonic lineages are the Abyss's darlings—we're favored from birth. The countless slaughters from demon spawn to archdemon only please it further. The Abyss's will echoes within our souls; its power resonates with us—something no other beings can achieve. Do you still pity us?"
Like celestial deities in the heavens, the demonic lineages are the favored children of the plane within the Abyss. Tasha had tasted the sensation of being favored by a natural will—a power so immense that when embraced, it felt as though every blade of grass and leaf around you became your ally. By the same token, imagine if that favor came from the even more tyrannical will of the Abyss—the feeling of the world bending to your will would be as exhilarating as wearing a protagonist's halo.
"Still pitiful," Tasha said. "Not free."
"What? Listen to this—someone claims the products of the Chaotic Abyss are not free!" Victor exclaimed in disbelief, bursting into laughter. "The Abyss's armies have never been organized. The only rule is strength. The sheer pressure of high-tier Abyssal beings is the sole reason attacks ever coordinate. We have no tedious principles, never need excuses, and answer to no superiors. As long as you can keep your skin intact against the strong, you needn't obey anyone. If that's not freedom, then what are those rule-bound birds in Heaven?"
"If all demons must endure an endless craving for slaughter and devouring, like what I sensed in your soul..." Tasha said, "then you seem no different from those Abyssal puppets—just slightly more advanced slaves."
"By your logic, humans are slaves to desire too. Who is truly free?" Victor countered.
"But humans can choose," Tasha replied. "Choose Heaven, choose the Abyss, choose Nature, or choose to drift aimlessly through life."
This was why Tasha cherished humanity.
Humans were neither angels nor demons; they could freely weigh good and evil. Endless paths led to endless possibilities. In present-day Erian, diverse races and Tasha herself were all choosing their future directions.
Victor fell silent. After a long pause, he hummed. "Perhaps you're right," he admitted with unexpected candor. "That's why I prefer Erian over staying back home."
Tasha smiled.
A comfortable silence lingered until a thought suddenly surfaced.
"When did I ever say you were pitiful?" she asked abruptly.
Victor remembered the backup plan he'd left within his soul, and could predict what "that other him" would do. But he had no idea what 'he' had actually done, or what had transpired between "he" and Tasha. had no idea what exactly "he" had done, or what had transpired between "him" and Tasha.
And the word "pitiful"—Tasha had only ever said it to that one Victor.
A long silence fell.
"I... I don't remember?" Victor said, confused and shocked. "I don't recall."