The truth sent shockwaves through Erian.
For a time, it was the topic on everyone's lips—from every corner of Tasmalin Province to the very heart of the Erian Empire. As one of the conditions for this collaboration, Tasmalin had insisted during pre-negotiations that the final research findings be made public, regardless of the outcome. The Dungeon could provide experimental resources and facilities, and make concessions elsewhere, but on this point alone, it would not budge.
"Your decision may shatter the beliefs of an entire generation," an imperial official remarked with a bitter smile. "We have always believed that direct disclosure was premature."
"In my view, the truth has come far too late," Tasha replied. "Every individual has both the right and the responsibility to know the truth. Beliefs founded on falsehoods from the outset are better off extinguished sooner rather than later."
To describe the uproar as merely "a huge commotion" would be an understatement.
The truth struck like a heavyweight bomb, shattering countless old notions in its wake. The Empire acknowledged that "non-human beings and spellcasters are vital components of the magical ecosystem." This admission implied another truth: the myriad races they had long condemned as remnants of the Abyss were, in fact, no different from humans—all were native inhabitants of this plane.
The shockwaves surpassing those of the Red Rain Day swept across the entire empire. On the day the news was officially announced, a pall of gloom hung over the capital as countless people's worldviews and beliefs shattered.
Were those humans who raised slaughtering blades against alien races without hesitation truly born devils—cruel, evil villains?
Some had been brainwashed by human supremacism, fundamentally refusing to regard other races as equals. To them, outsiders were little different from livestock. While some might cherish cats or dogs, they never viewed these creatures as beings on the same level as themselves. Without that sense of "togetherness," empathy vanishes, compassion ceases to exist. Humans show no mercy to stones blocking their path—only the urge to eradicate.
After the Day of the Red Rain, most of these individuals vanished, either psychologically or physically. The more extreme humanists found it unbearable to acknowledge their own alien heritage, as it negated the very meaning of their existence. Half either took their own lives or succumbed to madness before facing justice. Among the survivors, roughly equal numbers began questioning their former beliefs or insisted the Day of the Red Rain was merely a conspiracy. The remaining hardliners numbered nowhere near what they once did.
Yet even before the Day of the Red Rain, hatred toward the alien race wasn't the decisive factor driving most people's actions. Hatred could unleash explosive power, but love and honor sustained enduring resolve.
More of them—indeed, the majority—were what one might call "good people."
They firmly believed they were doing what was right. These soldiers faced death with grit, willing to sacrifice their lives, convinced that every effort they made was to protect their families, defend the human empire, and safeguard the entire world of Erian. Human armies possessed remarkably high morale. Their outstanding soldiers were brave, resilient, willing to sacrifice, and fiercely protective of honor. It was through this united resolve that humanity ultimately defeated the dwarves, whose magical-magnetic civilization was more advanced, and the orcs, who were far stronger.
The humans of Erian cannot be simply defined as villains. In truth, no race upon the earth can be neatly categorized by crude dichotomies of good and evil. When magical energy began to wane, both humans and dwarves, dependent on magical civilization, fought for survival and expansion, igniting war. As productivity advanced, magical creatures gradually faded from the scene. The populations of ordinary humans and orcs, less reliant on magic, exploded. Conflict over living space intensified, eventually brewing into new wars. The Erian Empire stands tall because humanity prevailed time and again.
Some argue that while humans are far from morally pure, dwarves are hot-tempered and greedy, and orcs are savage and frenzied. Had history taken a different turn, with dwarves or orcs emerging victorious, the defeated might not have fared much better.
Perhaps they are right, but this does not justify the Empire's enslavement and extermination of other races.
Thus, all manner of crimes were pinned upon other peoples.
A massacre requires no horde of demons—only a pretext, a spark, an outlet for rage, hatred, and fear, coupled with a crowd of ordinary people lacking clear judgment.
The birth and expansion of the Erian Empire unfolded amidst perpetual warfare. Initially, people battled against the gods and demons, then the dwarves, and later the orcs. Which of these conflicts was not an earth-shattering, all-out war fought with utter exhaustion? The ancestors of the Erian Empire fought for survival, fought to protect their families, fought so their descendants might live without fear in the cracks between worlds. Even centuries later, these wars and victories still stir the blood.
The human armies that endured these conflicts were driven by faith, proud of their deeds. Many, like valiant paladins embracing death, persecuted outsiders and spellcasters not for personal gain. As they wrought horrific tragedies, they genuinely believed they were fulfilling a grand purpose.
Until now.
Those who believed they were doing the world a favor, who saw themselves as champions of justice, now discover with horror that their actions have run counter to their goals.
The dazzling utopia shatters, revealing its monstrous truth. Only now does the true weight of their sins crawl onto their backs.
The indifferent masses were one thing, but the most affected were the elites. Throughout the years of confrontation, the Empire had continued cultivating new pillars of society, preparing for potential future wars. These vibrant new generations grew up under an education geared toward readiness, honed like sharpened blades. When the empire they trusted delivered this outcome, the slap came from within, landing squarely on the faces of the elite. Guilt fell upon the veterans, while the whetstone shattered the blade. The foundation beneath these young men crumbled, their world utterly shaken.
The shockwaves lingered, growing ever more intense. A pall descended upon the empire's vital organs, leaving the upper echelons nearly helpless. Yes, they could quell any unrest with an iron fist, but how could they control hearts? How could they prevent those whose faith had shattered from abandoning themselves?
An outstanding cadet leapt from the highest tower of the military academy. He had been regarded by classmates and instructors as brave, eloquent, and cheerfully optimistic. This happened without warning. Subsequently, instructors on patrol orchestrated several suicides. They acted in concert, perhaps spurred by the bloodstains beneath the high buildings. The phenomenon spread like a contagion, forcing the academy to suspend classes temporarily.
Across the nation, suicides among veterans mounted. One grieving widow plastered her husband's suicide note on the military district's main gate. The veteran who took his own life had participated in the massacre of a wild orc tribe, personally slaying children the same age as his own daughter. "We were told it was a necessary evil, even if it might trouble our consciences. I told myself the same—that whether I wanted to or not, I had to eradicate the evil seed, for the sake of Erian," the trembling handwriting read. "But it wasn't. It never was."
Iron-fisted tactics could crush enemies, yet proved powerless against the demons within men's hearts. An empire accustomed to blood-and-fire strategies lacked the sensitivity to handle such matters. While adept at mobilizing morale, it had always stood on the side of righteousness, mostly confronting inhuman foes. The treatment of soldiers' post-war psychological trauma had only recently been brought to the forefront.
Unfortunately, the heartland of the Erian Empire had long been dominated by a cold, militarized way of life. The only place that could be considered a cultural center lay far from the capital—Lake Rebe.
The entire province of Tasmalin, including Lake Rebe, was under the control of the Tashan.
In the days following the announcement, the dungeon's domain remained far from idle.
Drones and spies continued their relentless work. At this moment of imperial turmoil, efforts to poach talent or foment internal strife could be accomplished with half the effort and double the effect. Yet the visitors from Tasmalin Province proved unexpectedly merciful. The voice delivered by the drones was not one of mockery adding insult to injury.
It was simply song.
Jacqueline's voice echoed across the skies of the empire.
Though mechanically broadcast, her singing lacked the immediately recognizable skill of a minstrel. Yet Jacqueline remained an exceptionally gifted vocalist. After years of gentle healing, her face now bore vivid expressions of joy, sorrow, anger, and happiness—though she still spoke only when singing. It was as if all other speech, all other emotion, had been distilled into her song.
Perhaps it had some influence after all. Backed by a choir of ordained priests, the bard of fairy and siren heritage sang softly, her beautiful, moving voice captured onto tape after tape. Through the mouths of drones, it was broadcast across the lands of the Erian Empire.
Clear as mountain springs flowing, gentle as spring breezes caressing the face, hearing it alone calmed the soul. Anger, pain, sorrow, guilt... all manner of complex negative emotions faded within the song. At least when Jacqueline's melodies filled their ears, those suffering torment could think of nothing else.
For the first time, the Empire's mechanical birds made no attempt to intercept these drones, allowing them to fly deep into the heart of the Empire.
Some minor treaty negotiations unfolded between the Empire and Tasmalin.
Most of the books and researchers within the Mage Tower were evacuated, though a small contingent remained behind, continuing collaborative research into the mysteries of Erian magic. The leaders on both sides cautiously probed each other, careful to avoid sensitive topics. The researchers themselves, however, couldn't care less—the recruitment and isolation of spellcasters had only lasted a little over a decade, insufficient time to foster significant loyalty to either the Empire or Tasmalin. Mages possessed their own pride; Tasmalin felt their self-importance was on par with that of witches.
The Empire approved and organized a medical institution dedicated to military mental health. This semi-official body collaborated with the Dungeon's medical department. The Empire's military mental health facility boasted many experienced military doctors, while Tasmalin offered soothing potions and a considerable number of minstrels. For now, the Empire only accepted potion trade; sending half-magical practitioners to treat traumatized individuals might not be beneficial for their mental health.
Plague Witch Leslie was arrested. Tasha caught her poisoning the potions destined for the Empire. She lamented her failure to poison them, declaring she'd do it again given the chance.
"They deserved it!" Leslie hissed. "They showed no mercy when hunting witches. Now they just say it was a mistake? Ha! Don't make me laugh! Now we're supposed to provide potions to heal the fragile hearts of these pure, innocent little babies? Let them all rot in the mud!"
"This batch of potions will be supplied to those cadets who attempted suicide," Tasha said. "They haven't done anything yet."
"They haven't had the chance yet!" Leslie snapped. "Their ancestors' hands are stained with our blood! If war breaks out, they'll do the same thing!"
"Because their ancestors killed your ancestors, and because they might do the same thing in the future," Tasha repeated the witch's words. "Leslie, those two reasons are perfectly valid for them to use."
The witch's brow furrowed, her melted smoky eye makeup making her resemble an angry little raccoon.
"Ancient grudges and potential future threats—if that's a valid pretext for war, then every creature on this land could harm any being, human or otherwise, at any time. Erian's history is so long, its bloodlines so tangled." "Tasha said, "Didn't they use that very excuse when they attacked the spellcasters?"
"So what? Guilty is guilty." Leslie crossed her arms defensively. Tasha knew she was simply running out of reasonable counterarguments.
"Nothing. I'm just telling you. Take it or leave it," Tasha replied. "Setting aside the issue of vigilante justice, even if we were to try war criminals, it should be those responsible for the war crimes who face judgment. Soldiers are merely cogs in a vast machine. Those who voted for the Anti-Mage Campaign are now dust."
"The Empire's current leader is still alive!" Leslie retorted immediately. Why don't you seek justice for the orcs and dwarves who died in recent years? By your own laws, didn't they deserve to die?"
"By the laws of Tasmalin," Tashar corrected. "So what do you propose?"
"Have the entire upper echelons of the Human Empire commit suicide in atonement!" The witch flashed a twisted grin. "If they refuse, then declare war!"
"I think that's a good idea," Victor muttered.
"War," Tasha chuckled. "Who will fight? You?"
"I will certainly join the fight!" Leslie declared.
"You alone?"
"I'm not the only one who wants war!" Leslie argued. "If you'll just let me go gather people..."
"You'd drag a whole crowd into battle?" Tasha finished for her. "Fine. Then you're the instigator and commander of this war. Every soul who dies in it will be on your shoulders. You're the one dragging them back from peaceful lives into fire and death. You're forcing them to sacrifice their futures for the past—got a rebuttal? Are you going to claim you'd only recruit volunteers? Throwing a single stone across the border could spark a full-scale war. This isn't a street brawl. Leslie, you've clearly never been in a real war."
"I've seen enough of it in the past!" Leslie retorted defiantly.
"Then that's where we differ," Tashar said curtly, ending the exchange. "After seeing enough history, your conclusion is to start a new war. Mine is to end this one."
Enough blood and tears have been wasted. Enough internal strife has been endured. To let young souls continue fading away when a turning point arrives—isn't that too tragic?
"Your ambition has grown again," Victor chuckled softly from the side. "Only when you count the lands beyond the wall as your own backyard do you care whether the flowers and trees there are damaged."
"No, my ambition has always been this vast," Tasha said flatly. "Only now do I possess the strength to act upon it."
On both sides of the Nightfall Line, the relationship between the Empire and Tasmalin Province was slowly shifting.
In response to the drone songs, the Empire's mechanical birds fell silent. Propaganda loudspeakers no longer circled the skies. Receiving this signal of goodwill, the Dragon Cavalry ceased shooting down all mechanical birds entering their side of the line, reserving such action only for those entering classified zones.
The new Chancellor (the previous one having retired) introduced subtle shifts in wording during routine addresses. Descriptions of the alien races and the dungeons grew more measured—antagonism persisted, yet it softened compared to the past. The long-rumored "non-existent passage" emerged silently onto the surface. Following the signing of bilateral trade agreements, exchanges began between civilian merchant guilds.
By the following spring, the first political-level negotiations between the two sides commenced.
The ruins beneath the capital city have been fully excavated. The Empire possesses the prototype magical technology products that Tasmarin requires, while Tasmarin boasts far more abundant magic stone energy than the Empire. The Empire wishes to send its military personnel to Tasmarin Province for advanced training, as the magical environment here greatly benefits practitioners' advancement; Tasmarin desires to send its mages to study at the great library in the Imperial capital, whose collections include numerous lost spellbooks. Both sides claimed their research into magical technology was purely for production and daily needs, aiming to build a prosperous society with a highly advanced magical civilization. Both feared that personnel sent to the other side might be detained or placed under house arrest—a concern born, of course, from their own past attempts to do just that.
It was obvious this would be an extremely arduous meeting of haggling.
"Is this useful?" Victor asked skeptically. "The terms even include 'restrictions on weapons manufacturing.' Who on either side would actually follow that?"
"Ask for the moon, settle for less—that clause is purely for bargaining leverage," Tashu replied.
"I don't see the point. Wasting months nitpicking over wording, only to sign a non-binding agreement instead of a binding contract." Victor relentlessly undermined the process. "Aren't ordinary agreements meant to be torn up anyway?"
"At least it shows a willingness to pursue peace," Tasha smiled.
While the Empire and the Dungeon's diplomats engaged in endless wrangling across the table, away from the negotiations, both sides' media outlets found ample material to cover extensively over the following months. Tasmarlain's press and broadcasting industries had flourished. Whether covering the standoff between the Erian Empire and Tasmarlain, elections for regional and racial representatives, or the biannual conference of scholars from all races, each event drew widespread attention. Orc Phoenix's newspaper column had already gained enough traction to expand into broadcasting. Perhaps within another year, current affairs talk shows and similar programs would begin to rise.
When history unfolds, each step appears slow and unsteady, frustrating to watch—yet impatience serves no purpose. Tasha was content with her current, long-lived form. Barring unforeseen events, she would always witness the seeds she planted blossoming into fruition many years later.
"You genuinely desire peace?" Victor sounded surprised.
"What? I thought I made myself clear enough," Tasha replied.
"If you desire a vibrant Erian, peace is not the best option," Victor advised. "Only conflict forges civilization."
"That's a new one," Tasha chuckled. "Based on current experience, civilization only perishes in war; peace is what preserves it."
"Is that so? Look at the former Erian Empire!" Victor tapped the pages. "It was your arrival that brought change—stirring the waters so different fish could swim within. Before that, peaceful Erian was dull and lifeless, as predictable and tedious as a clock, emptier and colder than a graveyard."
"That wasn't peace."
"Because a few scattered tribes still roamed and fought?"
"Because it was merely the dominant race carrying out genocide." Tasha said.
Tasha crumpled the corner of the page, as if kneading an animal's ear. Victor's complaints soon dissolved into muffled grumbles.
Peace isn't a bad thing.
Tasmalin Province developed day by day, the Empire weakened through several tremors, and the situation looked promising. Yet the merger and reorganization of the dungeons had made no progress over the years. The question mark over the timeline remained a question mark, with no indication whether the progress bar had moved at all. Tasha managed to obtain a fragment of the dungeon core. When fused into her own core, it vanished without a trace, eliciting not the slightest reaction.
Victor appeared unchanged, mostly acting like a dim-witted mascot, yet occasionally offering insights so sharp they made one take notice. The Book of Dungeons remained unchanged for over a decade—damaged pages unrepaired, no new pages appearing, and no old pages disappearing.
The mystery of the Extraordinary Ones and the magical environment seemed to have found a reasonable explanation, yet delving deeper only brought more questions to the surface. If the extraordinary are the producers of the magical environment, why did it deteriorate in the first place?
The decline in spellcasters led to the deterioration of the magical environment; their drastic reduction was caused by the Anti-Magic Campaign; the Anti-Magic Campaign arose because scholars drew erroneous conclusions, while high-level mages and powerful magical creatures had already vanished, unable to prevent it; high-level mages slaughtered dragons and eliminated powerful magical creatures as if seeking death because they knew their days were numbered.
Why could these high-level mages no longer survive?
Over eighty percent of the likelihood points to changes in the magical environment.
The Anti-Magic Campaign could not have been the starting point of magical decline; at most, it gave a final push to the already declining Eryan. The decline must be traced back two or three hundred years earlier.
Before the dragon-slaying frenzy, dragons had already migrated en masse. Could the dragons' departure be the cause?
Probably not. Dragons departed due to an obscure prophecy. The Dragon Prophecy unfolded after the Dwarven War, whose cause was the depletion of magic stone resources. Thus, the origin must be pushed back another three hundred years. What occurred between the Planar War and the magic stone depletion? The Far Journey of the Elves and Druids. Could the decline in magical energy be linked to them?
For now, it remains unknown.
Too many gaps, too little evidence. Tracing back to the source, the reason for the Elves and Druids' departure remains a mystery, as do the events following the expulsion of the Celestials. One could even push further back: what transpired during the War of Creation? And before that? Sometimes Tasha felt she thought too little, other times she thought too much. Ultimately, the unsolvable question became a sword hanging over her head: At the very beginning, why did Erian—that high-magic plane where magical races flourished, magic and mage-driven civilization thrived, and extraordinary beings were commonplace—decline from prosperity?
If it could happen once, it could happen again. Could the barren plane, barely catching its breath now, withstand whatever caused it?
Tasha sighed inwardly. How fearless ignorance had been when she first awoke in the dungeon.
Until she found answers, she would be like a squirrel awaiting distant cold winds—cautiously maintaining peace with rivals while stockpiling pinecones for winter.
...
First came a blinding white light, then excruciating pain and searing heat.
Cyril saw endless flames.
They were everywhere, filling the entire carriage. The intense heat had welded the doors shut, blocking the last escape route. The explosion happened fast, yet the minutes between the blast and losing consciousness felt unbearably long. Cyril smelled burning fabric, the scent of roasted flesh—perhaps from his own body. Heart-wrenching screams faded amid the crackling explosions, lasting mere seconds. Then, beneath the metal where Cyril had fallen, another dark flame flared.
Cyril jolted upright in terror.
He thought he'd jumped, but in truth he'd only twitched his fingers and opened his eyes. Cyril's eyelids ached terribly, as if glued shut. God! The heat and pain seemed to return, flames still burning on his retinas. He let out a whimper.
"...Awake?" A fragmented voice came from nearby. "He's awake!"
Someone dashed out with thumping footsteps, rousing Cyril from his past hallucinations. He blinked again. The ceiling wasn't very high, nor particularly clean—there were even cobwebs in the corners. Cyril realized he was lying on a bed, unable to move.
Then he remembered why he'd lost consciousness.
"Where are the aliens?" Cyril shouted anxiously, his throat feeling like it held a red-hot coal. His voice came out hoarse and unpleasant, like a donkey's bray. Embarrassed by the sound, he closed his mouth, but soon couldn't resist struggling to raise his voice again: "The battle... how did it go? Did we win?"
No one came for a long time. Such neglect of a general was utterly intolerable. Rage surged through Syril's mind, his belly filled with curses. But when the door finally opened, an old woman who bore a faint resemblance to his mother stepped inside.
"Syril," the old woman said wearily, "the war ended over a decade ago."