The instruments used for the professional assessment were essentially replicas of those currently employed by the Erian Empire—in an era where spies and cameras relayed messages between opposing factions, anything less than top-secret information would inevitably leak to the other side. With the aid of these testing devices, professionals began sprouting up like mushrooms after rain from every corner of Tasmalin Province.
The druid population verification was the least surprising. All apprentices must ultimately pass the test of the Heart of Nature, making their advancement to full druid status crystal clear. Archers were similarly predictable—save for seasoned veteran hunters and sharpshooters, most archers had graduated from Amazon training. A young man with faint dragon blood joined the Dragon Riders upon arriving in Tasmalin years ago. Now, upon testing, he too could advance from Dragon Rider to Dragon Knight. Douglas felt no sense of crisis whatsoever. He and his dragon remained inseparable, and he took pride in having arrived early.
There was only one spot for a full-fledged dragon. The remaining Dragon Knights could only ride wyverns.
Among Saroth's followers, formal priests had emerged. They conducted rituals as taught by Samuel, all devout and living simply. Tasha witnessed ordinary folk wielding divine magic through piety for the first time. Similar yet different from their ancestors, these people neither hated nor depended on the gods. Cut off from the celestial realms, they still thrived, utterly unaware of their own abilities.
Registering the wanderers proved far more complicated. Most habitual thieves and criminals were nomads who fled at the sight of officials, making them exceedingly hard to track down. Prison rolls turned up a few rogues and assassins, but the truly skilled (and reasonably lucky) wanderers roamed the wilds. These outlaws engaged in illicit activities and would never walk into a trap willingly. A hunter might become an exceptional archer in daily life, but what virtuous deeds could possibly hone your mastery of stealth, bludgeoning, pickpocketing, and backstabbing? Only a fool would admit to being a rogue.
In the end, through the mediation of Spike—former black market kingpin and now head of a prominent security firm—the Thieves' Guild was established as an independent entity. This gathering place for professionals operating in the gray zone registered only codenames and numbers, existing outside official jurisdiction.
Five rogues possessed high enough skill levels to master stealth—a number that left Tashu speechless. He understood perfectly why the empire had banned adventurers' guilds. Legendary tales were one thing; reality was another. To build a harmonious society, fewer people roaming the legal borderline was preferable. After all, no one enjoys having their wallet stolen daily—not even by a rogue. Fewer still welcome having their throat slit for no reason. In a stable society where commerce thrives, industry takes root, and wealth gradually accumulates, there's no need for Robin Hoods robbing the rich to aid the poor.
Tasha would find the optimal solution for dealing with these individuals.
Among those who haven't pursued druidic studies but remain close to nature, the Ranger profession isn't uncommon. Forest rangers, gamekeepers, hunters, and retired veterans—they've all received nature's feedback through their connection with the wild. Such professions without formal training vary greatly in skill level; everyone learns through trial and error. The earliest Ranger, Jacob, attempted to organize them for mutual learning and exchange.
Jacob taught them much, though these adults often possessed skills of their own. Learning flowed both ways, making formal master-apprentice titles unnecessary. Rangers lacked dedicated schools; this mutual-aid organization was more aptly called the Ranger Exchange Association. From young lads to old men, the Rangers gathered together. Their shared love for nature and freedom made them get along well. Each outdoor gathering—Ranger skill practice naturally required a natural setting—felt like a picnic.
The appearance of the minstrels was a pleasant surprise. Tasha had previously assumed such a semi-magical profession would have a high barrier to entry.
Testing for bardhood involved singing or playing instruments before a device. Many music lovers found this intriguing, and the queue in the square stretched endlessly. At Lake Rebe, a hub for artists, numerous singers and musicians were discovered as bards. Among those uncovered, some had been famous for years, while others still lived in dilapidated alleys.
"I knew it!" exclaimed a poor musician named Edison (Tasha glanced at him a few extra times because of that name), setting down his violin and weeping before the green-glowing device. "I knew I was born for music!"
Those standing beside him shuddered collectively. Test-takers waiting in line turned ashen, some looking as if they needed emergency heart medicine. Onlookers had long scattered like birds and beasts, while staff members remained beaming, discreetly removing earplugs from their ears.
Many frustrated musicians rushed in from all directions, hoping the device would validate their musical talent. Yet this was misleading. Being a minstrel did not equate to musical excellence.
The live performances of most struggling musicians vividly demonstrated the merits of public taste—their lack of fame was entirely justified. These tunes, accompanied by despair-inducing off-key notes and distorted sounds, made listeners' hearts race and heads spin, as if another moment of listening would bring a sweet taste to their throats. Once deemed unimaginably terrible music, these pieces were now tested and found to possess a faintly extraordinary power—a bardic skill.
Attack skills, of course—what else could they be?
Is it that their playing is so dreadful it becomes offensive, or that their bardic talent prevents them from performing ordinary tunes? Either way, the future is clear: those mediocre musicians rejoicing in their bardic status should brace themselves. They'll likely never play or sing music worthy of applause from ordinary folk.
No new mages emerged. To become a mage in present-day Erian required extensive reading, considerable luck, and deep experience. Cultivating mages demanded immense time—save for those who revealed their magic upon joining by refusing contracts, no newcomers appeared. Inspired by this, White Robe Mage Hayden began scouting young children for promising magical apprentices.
"You should've started this ages ago," Victor remarked. "You can never have too many mages. The earlier you train them, the better."
Hearing that tone of regretful reproach, it sounded as if he hadn't just remembered this today.
Tasha couldn't be bothered to respond. To establish a mage academy, you first needed teachers willing to instruct. In times of spellcaster scarcity, all mages were swamped with work. Everyone was perpetually busy, with not a moment to spare for taking on apprentices.
The Mages' Guild functioned largely as a research institute. White-robed mages collaborated extensively with druids, priests, and even artisan dwarves on joint projects—studying the commonalities of spells and exploring their potential applications in arcane technology. Necromancers spent their days fiddling with bones in graveyards. The last time Tasha saw the Headless Knight, he'd already changed his outfit—and it seemed a few bones were different too. If that necromancer lady took him apart and couldn't put him back together, Tasha would make her pay. The subjects studied by robed mages were exceedingly dangerous, and their temperaments notoriously finicky—utterly unsuited for childcare. Even the seemingly gentlest elder, Webster, had caused casualties. "They touched my books themselves. What could I do?" he'd say innocently, with a hint of regret. "Even the dumbest fool should know a mage's books are untouchable."
True mages, especially those in black robes, truly possessed temperaments that were far from pleasant. Tashar mused that it was no wonder black-robed mages generally possessed higher combat prowess—those who failed to meet the required standards had surely been beaten to death long ago during their training.
Among these professionals, paladins were the rarest—not a single one present. As Templars transformed into paladins, their devotion to the divine shifted to loyalty to humanity, much like that old knight who had fought to the death against Tasha. Those inheriting such a legacy would never align themselves with dungeons that oppose mankind. Among the professions held by both sides, this was likely the class where the Empire held the greatest advantage.
Currently, the most numerous profession was undoubtedly the warrior.
The Tasmalin State army also participated in the trials, though initially they treated it as a mere formality. Among these soldiers, who were prepared to serve as mere extras, a large number were warriors.
The military has always been the aspect Tasha values most. From the very beginning, she kept the army firmly in her grasp, carefully selecting the most capable adventurers. At the very least, when they fell into Tasha's hands, there were nowhere near this many warriors, let alone niche branches like berserkers.
The question seemed to circle back to the beginning.
What was the difference between an ordinary warrior and a professional warrior? The latter possessed extraordinary strength the former lacked, but where did this extraordinary strength come from?
Is it a lack of lineage? Yet as the most fundamental, commonplace, and accessible profession, warriors require no lineage. Everything a veteran learns is sufficient to qualify him as a warrior. Victor once wondered why Captain Harriet held no class rank, indicating that soldiers of his caliber already possessed warrior prowess. Is it a lack of combat experience against monsters? But if that were the case, present-day Erian should have no professional warriors at all—none before Tasha arrived, and none afterward.
Warriors have always existed—they've merely shifted from being exceedingly rare to being numerous.
Perhaps lacking sufficient theoretical basis, but based on Tasha's current observations, the most distinct variable in the control group is likely the "environment."
More precisely, the magical environment.
Fairy lanterns now grow across most of Tasmarin Province.
This isn't the result of any special event, but a gradual, imperceptible shift. One day you notice they've expanded a little further into places where they once couldn't grow. When did that first sprout expand into an entire spring? You couldn't say. It all happened naturally, silently, unstoppably.
Nearly a year ago, a witch discovered mandrake in Angasor Forest. This plant, with its human-shaped roots, matures into a hallucinogenic potion. It screams when pulled up, making it one of the classic magical plants. The discoverer immediately gathered a coven. They debated for hours over whether it truly was mandrake—the plant had vanished for ages, and Shadow Witches weren't known for their sharp memories. Finally, someone proposed a solution: have a Fire Witch burn it. At the time, it seemed like a sound plan.
Abigail lit a small flame. The burning plant leapt from the ground, screaming as it raced over ten meters before collapsing. The witches fell to the ground, grateful for their innate resistance and the fact the mandrake hadn't fully matured—otherwise, half the witches in the world might not have survived.
Mandragora wasn't the only magical plant in the vicinity; many others were discovered over time. The witches found lost magical herbs in Angaroth Forest, attributing it to the area's favorable feng shui. The druid alchemists who had reshaped Angaroth Forest themselves believed it stemmed from differing knowledge systems, allowing the witches to uncover rare treasures they had missed. Later, Mavis's sweet treats loosened the witches' tongues. This half-elf, well-connected with both druids and witches, uncovered the blind spots on both sides. She left the herb garden and ventured back into Angars Forest. In this forest, barely a few years old, she saw plants long vanished.
Those mysteriously disappeared magical plants reappeared inexplicably in Tasmalin Province.
The impact extended far beyond flora.
The eldest witch had just turned thirty-two, outliving the age at which the Shadow Witch's previous vessel had perished. The witches' decline and mortality had persisted for ages, perhaps fueling their reckless, passionate existence—or, to put it bluntly, a death wish born of knowing their time was short. Surviving past their expected time had left them utterly shocked and somewhat at a loss.
Tasha took this matter very seriously. Her concern for the witches resembled that of a panda keeper—upon discovering a case of longevity, she immediately mobilized all experts. Scholars and spellcasters were gathered here, including the dark-robed sorceress Miranda. There was no other choice; she was the most suitable researcher in this field among the mages. This mage also held a keen interest in the witches' ecology, though the prospect of cohabiting with a coven for research proved rather unpleasant.
"What I'm asking you," Miranda repeated, her voice dripping with patience as if addressing a child, barely suppressing her irritation, "is how you differ from your sister who wasted away and died two years ago."
"Yeah, I told you," said the eldest witch, Ophelia, holding her freshly painted nails up to the light and blowing on them. "I'm a fire sign. My sister was a water sign."
"You're an astrological witch?" Miranda hissed through clenched teeth.
Among witches, there existed a branch known as "astrological witches," whose gift lay in the art of divination. If Ophelia truly belonged to this coven—though the notion sounded utterly preposterous—her explanation wouldn't be entirely implausible. But Miranda recalled...
"No." Ophelia finally turned her gaze to the mage. "I'm an 'Echo Witch.' Didn't I tell you that already? Ugh, and you're supposed to be a mage renowned for your intellect."
Miranda snapped the pen in her hand.
Ophelia was an Echo Witch. Despite the name, her abilities had little to do with sound. Witches with this talent could summon various magical creatures and command them for a limited time. Legend spoke of powerful Echo Witches commanding demons from the Abyss, but in an age where magical creatures had vanished, she could summon little more than a gentle breeze.
In short, the constellations she spoke of... were just constellations.
Research into witches' lifespans progressed painfully slowly. The occasional explosions echoing through the room and the apprentice's tearful shouts ("Master! Stop it, Master! You can't kill your colleagues!"), the reason behind this is not hard to grasp.
Tasha felt puzzled.
Scholars of the past had conducted such research, claiming that every spell cast by a caster consumed the magic of Erian. This assertion could be verified to some extent. The dungeon provided training rooms for mages practicing magic. In these densely populated areas where spells were cast, Tasha, as the dungeon itself, could sense tangible magic depletion. Whether robed in black or white, whether necromancers specializing in undead magic or eclectic wild mages, when they cast spells, the dispersed magic in that area was concentrated and drawn out, consumed within their incantations.
Mages were the artillery among spellcasters. Other spellcasters, though less conspicuously so, also drained magic when using their arts. If we broaden the definition of "spellcasting"—do a ranger's magic arrows count? Does a bard's lullaby? Extraordinary power itself seems inextricably linked to magic.
Given this, the province of Tasmalin, teeming with spellcasters, should be more depleted than the Empire—or at least comparable.
Yet in reality, Tasmalin brims with magical energy, boasting more practitioners than the Empire.
Tasha could grasp some threads of this phenomenon but couldn't connect them all. Fortunately, she was no longer alone in her quest. Mages and scholars possessed an insatiable curiosity; no prompting was needed for them to diligently seek answers.
Of course, this wasn't a task that could be accomplished overnight.
In the spring of the seventh year, at Lake Rebe, the Southeast Chamber of Commerce organized a grand collective wedding ceremony.
After various conflicts, clashes, and integrations, the people of Tasmalin State had grown accustomed to their diverse neighbors, and many heartwarming stories of mutual affection had blossomed among them. Marriage registrations between new and old residents peaked last year. The municipal center proposed the idea, and the Southeast Chamber of Commerce enthusiastically supported it. After six months of preparation, this collective wedding spanning the entire Tasmalin State was successfully held.
Over three hundred couples arrived hand in hand—they had met and pledged their lives to each other amidst the turmoil of Tasmalin State. Newcomers and natives, heirs of Erian mainstream civilization and descendants of minority groups—people whose differences were immediately apparent—stepped into the sacred bond of marriage.
While this event held various commemorative meanings, for those involved and the participants, it was simply a romantic and lively wedding celebration.
The largest church in Lake Rebe opened its doors to the public. Centuries ago, it had been a temple of Saros, then gradually forgotten on the city's fringes for hundreds of years. Recently restored by devotees, it now served as a preaching hall for the New Saros faith. The Southeast Chamber of Commerce invested heavily, adorning the church with arrangements that made it both comfortable and magnificently splendid. The Valc Artists' Association, finding the wedding aligned with its mission, voluntarily participated. Over the past six months, painters had restored the cathedral's vaulted ceiling murals, while the colonnade served as a venue for a new art exhibition, housing portraits and sculptures. On the wedding day, bands and choirs took turns performing.
Tasha surveyed the decorated venue, her mind repeatedly drifting to words like "Renaissance." Here, religion and secular life blended harmoniously, permeated with a humanistic spirit.
The wedding itself was quite intriguing.
The main ceremony followed the traditional wedding format of the Erian Empire, but all couples could wear whatever attire they desired—be it full armor or a simple animal pelt. Of course, prior application was required. The organizers would arrange couples in animal skins to be seated away from beastmen and druid couples, as a basic courtesy. Priests, shamans, clan elders, and government officials stood on a raised platform, officiating for couples from each district. Their vows and rituals varied wildly, yet the smiles on their faces were identical.
Three hundred couples and their guests made for a substantial gathering. Fortunately, the church sat on the city's outskirts. The nearby abandoned area had been transformed and connected to the surrounding wilderness, creating a semi-open park spacious enough to accommodate everyone. Beyond the mixed-use zone, the grounds were divided into numerous smaller sections—a logistical challenge for the organizers, yet a solution that maximized individual comfort.
Couples who loved damp environments were seated beside the fountain pool. Nature-loving races found their place beneath treehouses built by druids, while city dwellers sat on the side paved with smooth tiles. The tall section had no overhead beams to bump heads on, and the short section featured custom-made tables and chairs. Massive tables held the buffet spread—meats and vegetables, sweet and savory, dishes that looked delicious and others that looked... questionable. What seemed unappetizing to some was undoubtedly a delicacy to others. No worries, those items were deliberately placed far apart.
"Is that thing alive?" Litiya whispered from beneath her wedding veil.
"I recall the order specified live," Aaron replied, lifting his wide-brimmed hat to glance backward just as a groom scooped food from his tray and extended a long tongue.
Both gasped simultaneously, hastily averting their gaze from the unspeakable spectacle to focus instead on the pleasing features of their lawful partners. Aaron grabbed the veil slipping off Lydian's shoulder to keep it from dipping into the soup. It had fallen three times already during the meal. "Isn't it a pain to eat with this thing on?" he grumbled.
"Why don't you take off that silly hat?" Lydian countered.
They exchanged a sympathetic glance and laughed together.
Traditional brides of the Erian Empire wore thick wedding veils, concealing their faces during ceremonies. Amazonian grooms donned large, wide-brimmed hats to shield their vision from anyone but their wives—though the original custom lacked this element entirely. Back when only women resided in the tribe, fierce Amazons practiced open marriage and elopement; the concept of bride and groom simply didn't exist.
"It's the last time anyway," Aaron shrugged with relief, cheerfully raising his cup to Lydicia. "From now on, I'm yours. Once a brother is married off, he's like water poured out—my sister won't meddle in my affairs anymore."
"Me too. My mom reminded me this morning: 'Follow the rooster if you marry a rooster; follow the dog if you marry a dog.'" Lydicia giggled. "Doubt they'll dare cause trouble again."
When Lydicia's brother boldly demanded she marry some wealthy old man for the family's future, Lydicia shot his hat off with an arrow. The timid little girl could now shoot down tigers and leopards. She had mastered her craft, stood on her own two feet, and led a small squad. When Aaron's sister overprotected him again, Aaron could proudly display his income and his title as Vice President of the Southeast Chamber of Commerce. If the frail younger brother could wield influence in finance, he could certainly be a leader.
They laughed again, silly and unrestrained, gazing into each other's faces. Aaron and Lydie had known each other for years. They were underground comrades supporting one another, lovers, confidants, and best friends. They could discuss anything openly—like who would cook and wash dishes in the future, whether to have children, and how childcare responsibilities would be shared (let the elders' advice about "quitting your job to be a stay-at-home spouse and parent" go to hell)... So what if they gazed at each other? They always looked at one another with complete ease, feeling no embarrassment, only joy, turning their newlywed days into something resembling a golden wedding anniversary.
Perhaps the only couple who could rival them was the current president of the Southeast Chamber of Commerce. Anthony had retired, and his former vice president had taken over. Michelle enthusiastically praised the idea of a group wedding, surprising everyone around her—after all, this president was famously stingy. When she appeared in the line of newlyweds, arm-in-arm with her long-married husband, those who knew her well finally understood.
"What's the big deal? I've got money—I'll marry as many times as I want!" Michelle declared, hands on hips, to the jeering crowd. She planted a big kiss on Larry's horrified face. "What are you freaking out about, silly? I'll marry you all over again."
Now Michelle sat on a bench in the latest wedding gown, her arm around Larry's as a street artist from the Artists' Association sketched their portrait. She beamed like a flower, while Larry grinned from ear to ear, his newly fixed gold tooth glinting in the sunlight.
"Mom, when will it be over?" their son, serving as the flower boy, whined listlessly, glancing repeatedly toward the officiant tossing candy nearby.
"Stop complaining! Some people would kill to be at their parents' wedding!" Michelle snapped through clenched teeth, her smile not wavering.
By the latter half of the ceremony, the hosts were already regretting serving so much alcohol. Drunken dwarves lay passed out everywhere, like garden gnomes—easy to step on if you weren't careful. Tipsy Amazons played apple-bobbing with warriors, and no one bothered to stop them. Doctors on standby carried healing potions, thankfully most of them abstaining from drink. The long-scaled groom began swimming in the fountain, while his berserker giant bride roared with laughter, casually smashing a table into three pieces. But when it came to terrifying drunken antics, no one could match the witch.
Before the crowd descended into chaos, most mages had already withdrawn, leaving the task of restraining the witches to the Iron Golem. The golem plunged the self-igniting Flame Witch into the water basin. As others scrambled to extinguish fires, Tashu himself stepped in, knocking out the Evil Eye Witch who'd tried to force everyone into a kiss, and subduing the Shadow Witch who was on the verge of inciting a riot. (This one hadn't even touched a drop!) back into her can. Turning, he found Ophelia already laughing hysterically as she climbed to the church's highest point. The Echo Witch couldn't cause much trouble, Tash thought. Let her stir up a wind or throw herself to her death.
"Pink-winged little angel, heed my call!" Ophelia raised her drunken hand, bellowing incomprehensible incantations that would make any mage roll their eyes skyward. "Eros, summoned!"
A gentle breeze swept through the hall as translucent creatures materialized in the air, pink powder drifting from their wings. The unsuspecting newcomers cheered, mistaking it for a marvelous illusion.
"...Alright, now you've seen it," Victor muttered under his breath. "This is what a normal fairy looks like."