More than half of the team was lost during this joint expedition to the White Tower Ruins.
That day, when Tashan returned from the Astral Plane, the group successfully used the teleportation array left behind by the Pioneer Leander to exit the Mage Tower, appearing less than a hundred meters from the White Tower Ruins. They had spent nearly a day inside the Mage Tower. By then, Leander's Lantern Vine spell had worn off, and the passage leading to the tower had closed. The mages currently lacked the ability to reopen the Lecher Mage Tower, so those who had failed to reach the tower's base via the unstable teleportation array were left there forever.
We can only be grateful that all the mages and most of the mage apprentices were drawn by the mysteries of the Mage Tower and acted decisively, stepping into the teleportation array when the choice had to be made.
These casualties are regrettable; they have been recorded as war casualties and are entitled to martyrs' pensions. However, overall, the gains from this expedition far outweigh the losses. While feeding Victor the demonic remains gifted by the Astral Mage, the mages' treasures obtained from the treasury were also brought back to the Archmage's Tower.
Everyone who emerged alive returned laden with spoils, and when the group suddenly appeared outside the White Tower ruins, the nearby farmers were left speechless—and not just because of the miraculous resurrection. Every member of the party carried as much as their weight limit allowed, looking like a swarm of ants moving house, while Tashan was practically cradling a small mountain—she was convinced that if she hadn't stacked it any higher, the pile would have collapsed, and the mages would have demanded she carry even more. The guards and Tashan were busy serving as human pack animals, as were the mages and their apprentices; everyone looked like overloaded trucks.
It was common knowledge that most spellcasters had little interest in venturing out or physical exertion. Their slender arms and legs could only bear the lightest cloth armor and wield the most delicate wands—a mage's wand, after all, was far lighter than even a druid's. But as they emerged from that ancient mage tower, every one of these physically frail spellcasters looked remarkably like snails, every available space on their bodies stuffed to bursting. They were panting like oxen, their legs trembling, yet their faces were flushed with excitement, as if they weren't the least bit tired from carrying all that weight.
One of the onlookers, a farmer, spoke up with a touch of fairness: "If I were carrying a few sacks of gold coins like that, I could walk—I could even run!"
That's exactly the point.
The mages strode along as if on wings, clutching the precious legacy of the ancient mages, and the Grand Mage's Tower welcomed a bountiful harvest. The spectral avatar of the Tower Spirit, Tashan, watched as the crowd gasped, beat their chests in despair, and covered their mouths to stifle screams. If this scene were captured with a photography spell and broadcast, it would surely shatter many people's illusions about mages, killing off the equation "mage = elegant, dignified, aloof, and noble" once and for all.
Of course, it might even undermine the "spellcaster as a threat" theory. The way the mages looked as if they wanted to hug their books and kiss them was no different from ordinary people scrambling for limited-edition items at a mall. Even nearly a week later, mages could still be found laughing to themselves for no apparent reason in the hallways and the cafeteria.
Spellbooks written in ancient magical script were being rapidly translated, keeping a large group of researchers busy. Tasha could translate as well, but her translations were as crude as machine translations. There were many nuances in the spellbooks that only insiders could grasp, and quite a few ancient spells couldn't be translated directly into modern language—readers had to pore over the originals. The documents given top priority were the most profound and the most basic: spellbooks containing powerful spells, and the apprenticeship assignments reviewed by ancient mages. The former is vital for the impending Abyss War, while the latter is essential for the mages' legacy.
"If only we had found them sooner," sighed Hayden, the white-robed mage. "Much of the common knowledge of the past has been lost. We mages have already missed the golden opportunity to make changes, but the apprentices still have a chance. A few years' head start could benefit an entire generation."
Hayden was a teacher at the Mage Academy. His own power was not great, and relatively speaking, he was neither particularly erudite nor deeply scholarly. Though considered mediocre among mages, he was an excellent teacher. The mage apprentices who received their foundational training from Hayden built a solid foundation, enabling them to delve deeply into any field with remarkable speed, making them highly sought after across various circles.
The treasures from the ancient mage tower arrived a bit too late; the first batch of new mages had already graduated and could not benefit from this new knowledge. He did not voice another, less pleasant concern, but Tashan understood: with several years remaining before the Abyss invasion, this responsible and dedicated teacher was still worried about the potential断绝 of the mage lineage.
Still, better late than never.
Compared to the various books that circulated smoothly, the competition for spellcasting materials was far more intense.
Fairy dust, nagas' bones, dragon's-blood ink—whose recipes had long vanished into the mists of history… These materials, which hadn't been particularly precious in the past, had now become either dwindling luxuries or even antiquities of immense archaeological value. Mages from various academic factions argue until their throats are parched, presenting facts and reasoning at the conference table, resorting to trickery, sophistry, and even rolling up their sleeves—leaving no stone unturned to secure just a little more material for their side.
Whether it be black magic, white magic, or neutral practical magic, a vast number of spells have fallen into oblivion due to a lack of materials. While mages have successfully reconstructed many lost spells through research, they are stymied by the absence of casting materials, leaving numerous experiments stalled midway—a source of deep frustration for every researcher. The pile of casting materials brought back is mountainous, yet when it comes to distribution, there are simply too many applicants and too few resources; it is nowhere near enough. Those applying included not only mages but also witches, druids, arcane engineers, historians, and archaeologists—and every application was well-reasoned.
In the end, most of the magical materials were initially allocated to the "Research on Substitutes for Ancient Magical Materials" project team, which is dedicated to developing modern alternatives to these precious materials.
This approach actually holds great promise. Ancient mages loved to mystify magic, were passionate about various mystical rituals, and adored grand spectacles. For example, if an ordinary turtle shell had the same effect as the shell of an endangered, powerful, and ferocious Thunderbolt Turtle, they would choose the latter and document only the latter; if candlelight worked just as well as "the first ray of light cast during a full moon," they would consider the latter the true path, believing that even if the former worked, its power would certainly be inferior to the latter.
When the resolution was passed, many kept glancing at the black-robed mage Miranda, worried she might jump up and vehemently object. Miranda had always been a staunch supporter of ancient mages and ancient magic. She believed ancient magic to be far more powerful than modern magic (which was indeed true), and thus argued that the now-declining mages should return to the lifestyle of ancient magic from a thousand years ago, rather than study the modern magic of the Erian era (a point that had always been highly controversial). Yet now, upon hearing the decision to "demystify" ancient spells, Miranda remained completely silent.
After the meeting, Alchemist Gloria sought out Miranda to sound her out on the "Research into Substitutes for Ancient Magic Ingredients" project team—the team members had prepared a pile of materials to debate with Miranda, but having received none of the expected pushback, they felt uneasy and feared the Black Robe Mages might be playing dirty.
"Why didn't they come ask me themselves?" Miranda said irritably.
"They're scared," Gloria said bluntly. "That group is all theorists—their practical skills are terrible. They don't dare confront you directly, so they sent me to test the waters. We've been through life-and-death situations together, so just give me the lowdown."
"Tell them not to worry," Miranda said, her face still grim. "I agree with their viewpoint."
The alchemist in the rainbow-colored robes gaped, looking as though the sun had risen in the west. The mage in black robes rolled her eyes and said, "The oldest isn't necessarily the best."
She paused for a moment, then—in a rare display of candor—explained, "I still believe ancient magic is more powerful, but it isn't necessarily 'the best,' nor is it necessarily suited to the present."
After visiting the ancient mage's tower, Miranda's views had been significantly shaken. Since leaving Richel's tower, she had withdrawn many of her proposals to restore the mage system to its former ways, and her attitude toward apprentices had become less harsh. As she put it, the reason was that "the strongest" was not necessarily "the most suitable."
In the ancient era, so many immense and terrifying creatures existed. The beings that have survived to the present day are far less powerful than those creatures; they are simply better adapted to their environment. Those powerful ancient mages survived under the law of the jungle; each individual was as terrifying as an ancient monster. Yet their legacy was ultimately severed, replaced by modern mages. A lifestyle marked by mystery, isolation, cruelty, and hostility toward the world ultimately brought about its own downfall. The very laws that made them unrivaled in power were also the reason for their eventual extinction.
Natural selection and the survival of the fittest—not everything improves with age. Take the original spell-casting golems, for instance; upon hearing Miranda's description, Tasa could already surmise why their secrets had been lost. "A magical core a hundred times more powerful than mithril runes, a shell forged from moonlight iron a hundred times harder than ordinary steel, and activated directly by Archmage Reichel's magic"—with such a difficult manufacturing process and such precious materials, how could they ever have been widely adopted? The result is what we see today: spell-casting golems have long since fallen into obscurity, while iron golems have weathered centuries of war and magical decline and remain active on the assembly lines of Eryan to this day.
Beyond that, this journey yielded another significant discovery.
The Astral mages lead peaceful lives and have no intention of meddling in the fate of the world of Eryan again, but before Tasa returned, they still offered one final act of assistance. Leander, a former mage of the White Tower, gave her the remains of a demon lord, along with a blueprint.
"I know what my old colleagues did," the old mage sighed. "The White Tower worked so hard for so many years to reform ancient magic, yet its greatest achievement before its downfall was in the style of the ancient mages. It's truly a pity. I have no authority to give you the energy blueprints of the Astral Mage Tower, but at least over the years, I've improved upon my old colleagues' work."
That blueprint was for a source of magical power.
Compared to the source of magical power beneath the capital of the Eryan Empire, this one could be manufactured more quickly, had a higher conversion efficiency, and required fewer resources. No mage or dragon remains are needed, nor any cursed hybrid monsters. With the efforts of slimes and existing magical factories, a new magical core can be forged—it's as if the human sacrifices of the barbaric era have been transformed into a nuclear power plant. Once the new magical source is completed, the Erian Empire's magical weapons will no longer rely entirely on the dungeons of Tashan.
"You don't object?" Tashan asked.
"Why would I object?" Victor replied. "The Abyss is coming soon. The Human Empire isn't stupid enough to go to war with you over a magic source in the next few years. As for after the war—if you can destroy the source once, you can destroy it a second time. —Darling, I'm no longer just a silly old book."
Victor, who was always playing the contrarian, had regained some of his wits and seemed much more docile. Though this former Demon Lord had indeed been banished by the Abyss, Tasa didn't believe he'd truly reformed; he'd likely just become better at putting on a show.
"Quite so," Tasa agreed, tapping the book on Victor's desk. "Do your best."
Victor was no longer a motionless Dungeon Book; many of his previously hazy memories had returned. Not making the most of them would be a waste of a precious resource. All officially published Abyss science popularization series were brought to Victor for review. As a native of the Abyss, he was tasked with filling in the gaps and proofreading the entire collection to produce a revised edition. For Eryan, who was about to face an Abyss invasion, much of the knowledge in Victor's mind needed to be recorded and distributed as widely as common sense.
"I feel like I've jumped from one sweatshop to another," Victor wailed. "Even if my new boss is stunningly beautiful, it can't soothe the trauma in my heart."
"Be a good boy, finish this and I'll give you time off," the kind boss, Tasa, consoled him. "You can go wherever you want."
She meant what she said.
The demon, who hadn't set foot on the surface in centuries, borrowed Mavis's rolling pin to conceal the horns on his head; once hidden, he looked no different from an ordinary citizen. Tasha provided him with ample financial support, and Magistrate Natasha had an official salary that was more than enough to support an artistic demon.
Victor had only hidden his horns.
He didn't bother conjuring up a mundane face; instead, he walked into the artists' haunts with his striking features intact. Victor wandered through gallery after gallery, theater after theater, and various art salons. He chatted with contemporary artists, his yellow eyes darting with interest from one distinguished figure to another. To Tasha, he looked just like a master thief entering a jewelry store, taking every piece of jewelry out to examine and admire, unable to resist the temptation to choose.
The artists, however, did not see it that way.
When Victor chose to be charming, he could win over almost anyone. They saw a young man who was elegant in speech, witty, erudite, handsome, and wealthy—someone who could speak eloquently on all forms of art, who was curious about modern art without prejudice, and who knew ancient art like the back of his hand. He spoke of the great masters of history as if they were old friends; he recounted the hidden stories of the past as if he had witnessed them firsthand; and he was generous to those in need, warm and friendly.
This Mr. Victor quickly made a name for himself in the art world. "Art knows no bounds, yet life is fleeting—how tragic!" he would say, his face sad and his tone sincere, his eyes so captivating they seemed to draw one in. "If only there were a chance to devote oneself to this great cause forever…"
At that moment, the salon fell silent, filled only with the sound of music. The crowd parted like the Red Sea, making way for a stunning beauty walking down the center. The tall woman had a face impossible to forget; she walked straight up to the man at the center of the conversation, hooked her index finger through his tie, and lifted him off the sofa. "Carry on," she said kindly. Mr. Victor cooperated as she led him away, even turning to wave goodbye to the crowd.
After several minutes of silence, people began frantically confirming with one another whether the figure who had just walked in was indeed Her Excellency the Governor.
Tasha turned a blind eye to all of Victor's less-than-reasonable antics, but with a major conflict looming, she had no time for him to destabilize society. Consul Natasha's fame in Tasmalin State was off the charts; now that she'd stepped in to take charge, Victor could forget about secretly trading souls or establishing a cult.
There was just one minor side effect.
The artists of Tasmalin State possessed free spirits, and the guiding principle of the Valke Artists' Association was the pursuit of free will. In other words, heads might roll and blood might be spilled, but no one could stop them from discussing gossip about their leader. Victor's fame skyrocketed, and within days, he became the talk of the town.
More than the gossip's entertainment value, the people of Tasmalin State seemed primarily shocked that such rumors could even surface about their great Ruler. True, every public figure inevitably has stories that the masses love to hear, but Tasmalin was unique—she was far from human. She was an underground city!
At first, Tasa did not possess a physical form that could be seen by others. To minimize fear, she simply led people to believe that the ghost and the wolf-headed figure were merely messengers for the true ruler; the city lord, who pulled the strings behind the scenes, was essentially a reliable symbol. Once she had extracted the necessary elements and acquired a more human-like form, Mavis's illusions became increasingly sophisticated, giving rise to the figure of "Magistrate Natasha." Yet this body, in the literal sense, is above earthly concerns; it can survive on magic alone, requiring neither food nor sleep. Tarsha is omnipresent throughout her domain; she may know everything about others, while others know nothing of her.
Most of her work is carried out in ways incomprehensible to outsiders. Tasha ensures her physical form always appears appropriate, so Magistrate Natasha is a figure floating in the air. People believe she can accomplish the impossible and even superstitiously assume she is always right; even the occasional pink-tinged rumor is taken seriously by few. Now she's publicly snagged a handsome guy and brought him home, and people have discovered that the wealthy hunk's bills are being sent to the Magistrate's residence. This unprecedented, irrefutable evidence has left everyone speechless.
Then the discussions exploded. People scrambled to dig deeper, desperate to uncover what had happened.
It was at this very moment that Victor's revised and annotated series on the Abyss made its debut. It wasn't enough that Victor's name appeared on the cover; his face was also printed there, and the book specifically highlighted his prior fame in the art world, as if to ensure no one could mistake this Victor for anyone else. When news of the Abyss invasion first broke, books on the subject had enjoyed a brief surge in popularity as people grasped at straws, but even the best-selling titles back then didn't sell as well as this series.
This is what the celebrity effect looks like.
At home, Victor clung to Tasa's waist, rolling around as he demanded royalties, likeness fees, and compensation for damage to his reputation and emotional distress. Tasa kissed his horn and wrote him a check. In the preface to this series, Magistrate Natasha acknowledged Victor's authority, claiming she had "received Mr. Victor's invaluable assistance in matters concerning the Abyss," causing quite a stir among the onlookers.
No one would dare to impersonate the Magistrate to write a foreword; the ambiguous nature of this affair had effectively received official endorsement—admitting that there was indeed a "close" relationship between Mr. Victor and Ms. Natasha, and essentially telling everyone that the Magistrate had no intention of hiding it and wouldn't take any action against those spreading the gossip.
Well, that was just the ticket! The tabloid story turned into nationwide gossip. Even those who usually disdained spreading rumors put on a serious face, claiming they were discussing it out of concern for state affairs: news from the Abyss was so important, yet the Magistrate had entrusted such an obscure figure with the lead role!
No one was foolish enough to think Ms. Natasha was being manipulated, but almost everyone believed Victor was a pretty-boy—or rather, a dark-skinned pretty-boy—who'd struck gold.
The artists sided with Victor, arguing that he had earned the favor through his remarkable talent; his luck was entirely justified, a romantic fairy tale that could not be crudely dismissed as mere favoritism based on looks. His opponents, however, believed that these artists were merely projecting their own group onto the lucky Victor, engaging in a form of intellectual self-indulgence akin to armchair politics. Every day, tens of thousands eagerly await the day's verbal sparring. During the run-up to the event, this grand, nationwide spectacle enlivened the atmosphere in Erian, sustained many financially struggling newspapers, and promoted the revised Abyss information.
Insiders in Abyss research were outraged, feeling that involving such a mysterious, suddenly emerged artist in the compilation of major matters was far too frivolous. Discussions regarding several revised pieces of information began within academic circles and later spilled over into the mainstream media; researchers believed it was necessary to refute the "pretty boy" (well, you know what that means) to set the record straight.
At their strong insistence, the authority among Abyss researchers, the black-robed mage Verbert, met with Mr. Victor at the Magistrate's residence. No one was present during the meeting, and it was later revealed that the elderly mage had nearly suffered a heart attack. Upon emerging from the emergency room, Archmage Welbert declined to discuss the meeting, offering only a mysterious smile to his disciples and students.
"Let's go by the book," he said. "When it comes to knowledge of the Abyss, that gentleman is far more authoritative than I am."