The "Declaration of Peace" struck a nerve within the Erian Empire. The upper echelons, who had believed themselves sufficiently attentive to the dungeon crisis, finally recognized their inherent arrogance—the empire had grown accustomed to managing minor and major troubles, nearly forgetting how to confront a truly equal adversary. They reacted as if facing a mortal threat, swiftly... convening a new round of meetings.
"Are we to continue nurturing a tiger that will devour us?!" " someone declared. "The dungeons escalated from regional crises to this scale precisely because we dragged our feet and wasted time in meetings! They're about to ride roughshod over the empire. We must deploy forces at any cost to wipe the dungeons from Tasmarin Province—even if it means sacrificing the entire province!"
"General Syril shares this view." " someone poured cold water on the idea. "Look at the outcome of that last campaign."
"That was because we didn't strike hard enough, letting them exploit our weakness..."
"Do you have a solution to the energy crisis now, General List?" General Norman countered. "I believe we shouldn't provoke them further. They lack the capacity for continued expansion, but if cornered, they might resort to suicide attacks."
Many who witnessed the peace declaration nodded nervously. Just look at those airships—if they abandoned self-preservation and chose mutual destruction with the Empire, what chaos would ensue?
"Perhaps they truly only seek a place to call home," someone cautiously suggested a softer approach. "They marched all this way without killing a single soul."
"That could be mere deception, for they lack the strength to wage full-scale war against us. To simply let them be is undoubtedly the folly of courting our own destruction!"
"Not attacking immediately doesn't mean abandoning them. We too need time to repair our energy sources. Perhaps we've been miscalculating this matter for far too long."
"I don't consider it a misstep, in that era..."
"Allow me to rephrase this from an economic perspective..."
"Gentlemen, given the current state of public morale..."
After a century of stability, the empire's elite were erudite scholars, well-versed in ancient and modern knowledge, capable of presenting the most incisive arguments for the interests they represented. The military still held the majority of the say, but finance and public sentiment were gaining increasing weight. After the initial shock and anger subsided, and after careful consideration of all factors, the outcome remained virtually unchanged—still aligned with the policy established during the Chancellor's speech.
Along the border of Tasmalin Province, high walls were erected.
Armored vehicles patrolled the perimeter, while deep trenches studded with spikes and artificial underground rivers were deployed to prevent the spread of the underground city. Reinforced concrete walls encircled the province, densely wrapped in barbed wire. Watchtowers stood every hundred meters, flanked by dozens of meters of barren open ground. At night, searchlights swept menacingly across the clearing. Sentinels patrolled the perimeter with hounds, ensuring not even a mouse could slip through.
The "Nightfall" envisioned by the Führer had finally materialized. The Empire claimed it was to prevent alien attacks, though given its inability to shield against aerial threats and its fragility against dual assaults from steel golems and magical bombs, its primary purpose likely lay in deterring Imperial citizens from attempting illegal crossings.
By the time the initial defenses were erected, the first wave of new immigrants had settled in Tasmarin Province. Their numbers and caliber satisfied Tasha Sand, forming a solid foundation for the Dungeon's surface operations. She understood her limitations well—the Dwarf Artisans' magical technology had reached a bottleneck. The Dungeon needed considerable time to integrate the new residents. The slogan of "liberating the entire world" was best left to fantasy.
Besides, high walls couldn't block everything.
Anti-aircraft guns remained energy-intensive and rare weapons. While advertising airships were obvious targets, sufficiently stealthy drones and flying creatures could breach the defenses. Propaganda machines and druidic shapeshifters traversed both sides, carrying the voices of the southeast and bringing back news from the Empire. A large contingent of spies, unable to retreat in time, remained behind in the Empire, commencing cautious underground espionage. There, they could shelter those who couldn't escape, establishing footholds within enemy territory.
The seeds had been planted in the Empire's soil, nourished by ample sunlight and rain to sprout.
The Empire couldn't shoot down every drone and bird. Beyond outlawing "intercepting enemy aircraft" and "capturing enemy birds," they didn't sit idly by. Academic mechanics swiftly took action, using broadcast drones as templates to create mechanical birds for broadcasting—a rather amusing development when considered. The Dungeons had invented drones based on mechanical birds, while the Empire improved mechanical birds based on drones. Through war, their technologies were exchanged and upgraded.
These mechanical birds flew into Tasmarin Province carrying imperial propaganda, denouncing the darkness of the dungeon regime and urging the deceived populace to rise up. They declared bloodline verification a shameful lie designed to divide the people. If the stowaways repented and returned, the Empire would not prosecute them for treason committed under deception. Simultaneously, messages urging alien races to surrender were broadcast.
Dragon Rider patrols routinely cleared the skies of this spam. Even when some messages slipped through, the Tassamarin forces did not treat them with the same level of urgency as their adversaries. The broadcasts from the mechanical birds were far inferior in quality to speeches delivered to the leader. The sections concerning the alien races were saturated with condescending pity and absurd speculations about their lives. The Dragon Cavalry always treated them as jokes, requiring none of the ideological indoctrination sessions the border forces on the other side underwent. Even if such content were played on loop in the ears of the alien races, it would only elicit cold laughter.
It wasn't that they genuinely sought to mock the alien races. Tarsan believed the Empire genuinely strived to persuade them to surrender. They simply never learned how to think from a minority perspective. The masters of the dominant, most powerful culture often forget other peoples exist. Having once looked down on minorities, when the tables turn, they struggle not just to condescendingly integrate, but even to feign equality—their inherent arrogance seeps through unconsciously. They can't hide it; they never considered it offensive to the tribes.
"Lay down your weapons and return," they plead with feigned kindness. "We won't kill you! If you bow to the Empire, we'll tolerate your existence as natural-born sinners. We'll permit you to live as second-class citizens, tail between your legs. Isn't that far better than living in constant fear out there?"
Pah! scoffed the alien races working and living in Tasmalin Province. As the mechanical birds chattered incessantly, a cyclops carrying a laundry basket raised his foot to kick one, only to be restrained by his companion. "Don't," the companion advised. "A whole mechanical bird brings a much higher bounty."
The cyclops pondered this and realized it made sense. The thought of the bounty for recycled trash made her feel that a little mental pollution wasn't so bad after all.
After fruitless attempts to deliver supplies for a long time, the Empire slowly realized the problem with their surrender draft.
"Don't you think the mechanical birds have been sounding more pleasant lately?" Victor said. "Some of them manage to return with the information they observe. I thought you'd crack down harder."
"It's unnecessary," Tasha replied. "A give-and-take approach is better."
"Is that so? How gracious of you," Victor said with obvious skepticism, clearly thinking Tasha was putting on airs.
"The blockade standoff is a process, not an end in itself," Tasha stated.
Tasha's goal had never been to carve out a kingdom for herself.
If that were her aim, she could have started by locking a bunch of people underground to play emperor from the get-go. The self-sustaining system of the underground city could support such a scheme, but what would be the point? Tasha harbored no ambition to conquer all of Eryan. However, she did want her influence to span the entire realm.
The Empire was aiding her cause.
The more they studied the inner workings of Tasmalin Province, the harder it became to ignore the reality of the alien races' existence. The more they struggled to deny the similarities between alien and human kind. What, truly, was the fundamental difference between the so-called humans and the alien races upon the earth? One day, they would have to admit the gap between the mixed-blooded tribes wasn't so vast. One day, among those observing them with malice, someone would realize different races could coexist peacefully.
Where there is give and take, flowing waters will inevitably mix and blend. Just as introducing new species into a stagnant fish pond sparks competition and revitalizes the water.
While the Empire's mechanical birds touted the convenient, comfortable lifestyle of the imperial capital, Tasmalin seized the opportunity to promote its magical technology schools. Vocational colleges training technicians and higher institutions cultivating scientists all opened their doors, while more foundational schools were established. As magical factories opened one after another, the demand for literate workers grew exponentially. When factory wages and commercial profits surpassed farming income, sending children to school ceased to be the exclusive privilege of wealthy families aspiring to official positions. Increasingly, ordinary households enrolled their children in academies, causing literacy rates to soar within mere years.
The drones of the underground city perpetually hunted for the Empire's missteps. Should anyone be unlucky enough to be spotted by a reconnaissance drone or flying bird, the Empire would swiftly arrest the "alien" and immediately release sensationalized news nationwide. Headlines like "Military forces in an undisclosed location secretly arrested and tortured citizens based on Red Rain detector readings; a pitiful three-year-old perished after being labeled an alien" would circulate, accompanied by subtly incriminating evidence—enough to send local residents into another wave of panic.
Before the Red Rain, some could turn a blind eye to matters not concerning them. After it, everyone—including soldiers and officers—became a potential next victim. People lived in constant fear, and a frightened herd could trample even tigers and wolves. "Arresting suspected aliens," once seen as a trouble-free task, gradually became a thorny issue, with fewer officials willing to use it as a performance metric.
Broadcasts, newspapers, and journalism on both sides flourished amid the war of words. The flood of information from multiple perspectives gave audiences opportunities to choose and think. Imperial bans proved difficult to enforce; once the floodgates opened, private discussions persisted despite prohibitions. Tashan never stifled discourse—whether voices were beautiful or ugly, wise or clever—let them speak. Each person was responsible for their own words, and if harm was inflicted upon others, that became a matter for the judiciary.
Two years after the "Nightfall," it was perhaps unsurprising that the Church of Salo became the most widespread faith in the province of Tasmalin.
Salo's Holy Son, Samuel, spread the faith among the earliest orc slaves. Centered on light and justice, it began as an ideological fellowship, gradually developing into a more distinct religious order over time. The Salo Church remained active throughout the war and its aftermath—tending to the wounded, conducting funeral rites for the dead, comforting the bereaved, counseling prisoners—filling the spiritual void of the disoriented. Its influence grew exponentially.
The long-lived yet tumultuous Salo faith underwent several transformations over the past five centuries.
Before the Celestial Realm's isolation, it was a sacred order of good and lawful, open to all virtuous races, fiercely opposing evil while devoutly worshipping the gods, basing all actions on divine will. Around the time of the Beast War, the surviving faith transformed into the Church of Light. The Templar Knights became Paladins, and the church—composed of those who renounced the gods—fought solely for humanity, rejecting the name of the gods and denying all non-human races. During the War of the Wizards, priests and mages—both spellcasters—met the same fate. Survivors who fled with divine artifacts clung to life in the empire's corners, fueled by resentment and defiance. They began plotting a return to the past, forming the peculiar entity described by Samuel's foster mother—one even more rigid than the original Saros faith...
Yet the Saros faith today bears no resemblance to the one described by Samuel's foster mother.
It invokes the Sun God's name, yet urges people to pray for the light within their hearts. The Holy Son proclaims divine love encompasses all—men and women, young and old, every race—assuring that sincere faith brings inner peace. Even those with dark bloodlines, or those who resorted to unscrupulous means, could find salvation through good intentions.
"If the real Sarro saw what they're doing, he'd probably be so furious he'd strike them down with lightning," Victor remarked with schadenfreude.
For this very reason, he enthusiastically supported every petition submitted by the Holy Son of Saro, even urging Tasha to erect a statue of the deity. "I've seen Saro with my own eyes!" he declared excitedly. "Let me recall... black hair, red eyes, a bulbous nose, pockmarked skin, and a tangled mess of filthy beard and nose hair all jumbled together..."
Tasha rolled her eyes dramatically at such childish behavior.
The Son of Saro, now known as Pope Samuel, did not demand a statue be erected.
"We should not worship idols; the divine resides within our hearts," he declared, declining believers' offers to fund a statue. "Your sincere prayers and acts of kindness to others outweigh a hundred visits to an idol." The once-green youth was now in his thirties, appearing gentle and steady—a look perfectly suited to his Saros vestments and ideal for promotional leaflets distributed far and wide. Indeed, that was precisely how the Saros faith operated. "God Loves the World"—these bold words accompanied an image of the Pope in his vestments under the sun, a gentle, fair-haired saint with blue eyes, arms open wide and a compassionate smile, beckoning to those who viewed the poster. This leaflet often sold out immediately upon printing. It ranked first on the list of "Top Ten Flyers Housewives Won't Throw Away." Even if you weren't religious, keeping the leaflet wasn't such a bad idea.
Some elders pinned the poster behind expectant mothers' doors, convinced that gazing upon the Pope under Saint Salo's blessing would yield children of striking beauty—ahem—noble character. The logic behind this remained a mystery.
Samuel enjoyed astonishing popularity among women of all tribes, from eight to eighty. He had evolved from a comedic mascot into... ...Tasha felt this still-too-young, too-handsome youth might be closer to an idol than the aloof Pope—a young priest stepping forward to save his beloved Saros faith, choosing to become an idol... Sounds perfectly reasonable.
Of course, Samuel wasn't just a pretty face.
He had kept vigil for fallen warriors in dark cemeteries and preached amidst skepticism and ridicule in bustling salons. He visited prisoner-of-war camps to counsel those who refused to cooperate; when a prisoner spat in his face, Samuel wiped it away with serene composure.
"You lying traitor!" the prisoner cursed.
"I once harbored doubts, but I never spoke lies," Samuel replied.
"Is that so? Did your god command you to betray humanity?" the man sneered.
"The divine loves every soul equally—human and non-human alike. There is no betrayal," the Son answered.
"You speak of those celestial beings?" The former officer clearly knew more, snorting derisively. "We expelled the heavens long ago. Your ancestors participated in that blasphemous act. How omniscient and omnipotent could a god be, if driven out? Rumor has it the gods' backlash swiftly slaughtered countless clergy. How much could such a god truly love humanity?"
"Then he was no god," Samuel replied with a smile.
The prisoner was stunned by this counterintuitive answer. His carefully prepared rebuttal stuck in his throat. For a moment, he stood frozen, unable to continue his impassioned speech.
"Our God Saroth is all-knowing and all-powerful, loving every soul in Eryan," Samuel answered gently yet firmly. "If the 'Saroth' in heaven is neither all-knowing nor all-powerful, nor does he love the world widely, then he is merely a powerful being who has usurped the name of Saroth—not a god."
This question—once the source of Samuel's anguish, the rock that shook his faith, the wellspring of his despairing tears—had now found its answer within him.
"Look at me. I am a cripple," declared the Son of Saro, rising to his feet and revealing his legs without hesitation. "If Saro permits a cripple to serve as His Son, He must be far more forgiving than the stories suggest."
He smiled at the captive: "Please extend that same mercy to others and yourself. It is no sin."
In the third year, the Mages' Guild within the dungeon invented pesticides.
The inventors were the mage Miranda and her apprentices. Following the old lineage, their heritage stemmed from the Black Robe Mages. The brutal terminology and animal/plant experiments left Tasha utterly bewildered. Only when they finally mentioned the effect—killing crop pests without harming the plants—did she realize that such high-sounding cursed potions were actually pesticides.
Tasha stared in awe at the group of people before her, dressed in classic dark wizard attire—their fingers stained yellow from unknown potions, their faces as grim as debt collectors. She never imagined their invention could be so beneficial to the nation and its people, so down-to-earth. Judging them by their appearance made Tasha feel a bit ashamed. She wanted to step forward, shake their hands, and offer some old-school, heartfelt congratulations. Unfortunately, this was a research results presentation conference. The person seated beside him seemed to completely disagree with Tashan's perspective.
"I object!" The Druid representative slammed his fist on the table. "This is absurd! Are we supposed to pour this poison into the soil?!"
"What else? Pour it into your mouth?" Miranda's lips curled into a humorless sneer.
"You!" The druid's face flushed crimson with fury. "This poison will contaminate the soil! It will spread through rainwater and groundwater, polluting rivers and oceans! If you proceed, how are you any different from the Withered Covenant?"
"The soil will still yield healthy crops. The minuscule concentrations that disperse won't poison animals even if absorbed into their flesh."
Miranda raised a hand, and the apprentice began reciting the results from various control group experiments. The casualties among the living animal and plant test subjects did nothing to improve the druid's expression. The younger druid accompanying him lost his composure, angrily accusing, "How could you do this to living creatures?!"
"Would you rather I did this to living humans?" Miranda sneered. "Go ahead, keep pitying rabbits while Tasmalin's humanoid residents starve to death."
Tasmalin's land was hundreds of times larger than the Southeast Corner, with regions ranging from fertile to barren. Tasmalin sand couldn't possibly supply food for everyone. As populations migrated in and grew, food indeed became a significant problem.
"With enough manpower, farmers can catch insects themselves!"
"What about fungi? What about powdery mildew and rust on crops? Catch those by hand too?"
"We're working on it!" the druid insisted. "We're selecting the best disease-resistant seeds, mitigating extreme weather, using the most natural methods..."
"Elves build houses, yet they worship nature—why not just live in the trees?" Miranda cut him off bluntly. "If you want to return to nature, go ahead! Not everyone can turn into animals and live in stables."
"&￥@*%!!"
"Please refrain from profanity," the host urged.
"A beast's brain capacity only allows for so much," Miranda retorted.
"Host, is that considered personal attack?" the orc representative raised his hand.
"We think Mir hit the nail on the head!" the witch representative Medusa chimed in, eager for chaos, giving the mage two thumbs up. "We're with you!" Medusa, the witch representative, chimed in with relish, giving the mage two thumbs up. "We're with you!"
"Who the hell is Mir?" Miranda shot her a dark look. "When the mage speaks, witches shut up."
The artisan dwarf representative had already dozed off, snoring softly.
As the dungeon's population grew, conflicts of all kinds became inevitable.
The Naturekin and Druids favored preserving pristine wilderness, while the Artisan Dwarves' magical technology and the Robed Mages' research demanded the same land. Mages and Witches continued to snipe at each other over magical academic differences—no deep-seated hatred, but always eager to cause trouble. Black-robed and white-robed mages greeted each other with disdainful sniffs. Every race had types whose natures made peaceful coexistence impossible—like the arid-loving lizardfolk half-breeds who found their moldy-house-dwelling merfolk descendants utterly unbearable... This wasn't the first dispute, nor would it be the last. Where differences exist, conflict follows.
Yet this very diversity made the world vibrant.
The voter results ultimately favored the black-robed mages. Pesticides would be pilot-tested in areas outside major forested and wetland regions before widespread adoption. Concurrently, the mages pledged to rapidly refine the formulas, identify varieties with minimal residue, and begin developing naturally biodegradable formulations.
With druids' hybrid breeding and fertilizers, mages' pesticides, and multiple approaches working in tandem, Tasmalin's agriculture began explosive growth.
Then, in a year coinciding with a once-in-a-decade famine, many parts of the Erian Empire suffered complete crop failure under the dual scourge of pests and disease. Thus, small breaches began appearing along the Nightfall Line.
Bribed and persuaded guards quietly turned a blind eye, but more crucially, high-ranking officials turned a blind eye, tacitly allowing the situation to unfold. Within these "non-existent" trade channels, certain goods began to circulate.
Surplus grain flowed out, exchanged for foreign tribesmen, for magical artifacts that could never be weaponized—artifacts unearthed over the years from collapsed sections of the capital—and for a slight easing of hostility from the other side. Perhaps the daily chant of "Die, die!" in the dungeons was reduced from seven times to three. Merchants discussed only prices. Escorting soldiers from both sides remained silent, pretending not to see each other.
These transactions continued throughout autumn, until the first snowfall that would seal the roads approached. Vast stretches of wasteland lay near the border—being trapped here was no good. As the last merchant caravan from the dungeon packed up to leave, their escort leader spoke to the garrison for the first time, though only one sentence passed.
"My sister didn't starve to death," the stern soldier said flatly, thrusting a cigar—a high-grade import from the capital—into the leader's hand. He walked away, his expression unchanged.
"You could have just said thanks," the leader remarked, raising an eyebrow behind him and scratching the scales on his face.
...
"You could've waited a bit longer," Victor grumbled. "Why not let a few more starve? We could've looted the bodies."
"What a waste," Tashan replied. "They wouldn't give me the corpses anyway."
Victor muttered his complaints incessantly, as if Tashan were some reckless spendthrift who didn't understand the value of food and grain. "Even if I killed them, I couldn't win," Tasha asked him. "So are you thinking of me, or just craving a field of corpses?"
The wicked book chuckled and began beating around the bush. Tasha found him utterly adorable, then started reflecting on how such thoughts smacked of a昏君's mentality.
Never mind, that's beside the point.
Tasha not only traded grain but also shared fertilizer and a degraded version of pesticide. This served both as humanitarian aid and a product showcase.
When spring arrived the following year, and when the Erian Empire peacefully began its harvest, that tiny, nonexistent trade window remained open.