This Dungeon Grew Mushrooms

The eastern sky grew pale. Morning light spilled across the valley mouth—now utterly unrecognizable.

When the colossal puji self-detonated, its devastating force tore through the gorge, consuming most of the valley entrance. The blast wave shattered the cliff walls on both sides.

The once narrow, naturally defensible chokepoint had become a ruin of shattered stone and churned earth. Both cliff walls leaned inward, collapsing into the only passage. The unstable mass looked as though even the slightest disturbance might trigger another landslide.

Between the rubble, fragments of armor, snapped blades, and dark, dried blood could be seen wedged in the cracks.

Under the sharp commands of Sigmund’s vice-captain, the surviving demon soldiers were digging across the ruins—these were the rear units that hadn’t managed to squeeze into the valley and thus had escaped the explosion. Ironically, they were now the only combat strength left.

A few stronger demons who happened to be farther back had also escaped, as well as most of the bloodborne elites who had been fighting on the cliff walkways. Once the explosion struck, they managed to retreat.

But the greatest problem was… Sigmund was buried inside.

“Dig what？ If he didn’t die he’ll crawl out on his own, and if he’s dead you won’t dig him up anyway.” Vilaris threw down that line before taking her remaining forces and storming off—her entire troll battalion had been wiped out, and she wasn’t in the mood.

But Sigmund’s vice-captain couldn’t give up. He kept organizing rescue squads to dig through the debris.

Yet it turned out Vilaris was right—the digging was pointless.

Because the very-much-not-dead Sigmund dug himself out.

A heap of giant boulders suddenly burst apart from within, stone fragments and dust erupting outward!

Sigmund staggered out from the opening.

He was in a state of utter ruin.

The enchanted armor that symbolized his status and power was now bent, crushed, nearly unrecognizable—little more than mangled scrap clinging to him.

His once immaculate silvery hair was now matted with dirt, hanging loose across half his pale, round face.

His breaths were ragged, his stance unsteady, but the aura radiating from him was enough to make every nearby demon warrior instinctively step back and bow their heads.

Only the vice-captain ran to him first, voice trembling with emotion: “My lord! You’re alive… thank the abyss!”

Sigmund slowly turned his gaze toward him, crimson pupils glinting between strands of silver hair. His voice was calm: “What are the casualties?”

“Vanguard… completely annihilated. Middle ranks devastated—we can barely assemble complete formations. Only the rear… is more or less intact…”

The vice-captain’s voice cracked; even the siege of Citadel Highwall had not cost them so dearly.

Covered in dust and ruin, Sigmund listened without any change in expression. His gaze lingered once on the collapsed valley: “We depart. Return to Citadel Highwall.”

“That… the Prince…?” the vice-captain asked hesitantly.

“At most, I will face punishment,” Sigmund replied. “With our current strength, even if we rush to join the battle at Three Mountain City, we would serve no purpose.”

What the vice-captain didn’t know was that Sigmund’s internal condition was far worse than his outward injuries.

His power was unstable. The backlash of the dark curse gnawed at him. And most importantly—

There were too many unanswered questions.

Why were the storm elementals obeying commands？ What was the secret behind that puji—the one that had driven his roommate into such a frenzy？ And what exactly was his so-called roommate, who always spoke in riddles, now muttering things like “he who controls the puji controls the world”…?

In theory, because they shared the same body, sharing life and death, neither could hide anything from the other.

Yet there were things that made no sense.

Sigmund had had enough of being kept in the dark. He needed to investigate everything.

But the biggest problem was—how could he hide this investigation from the roommate sharing his consciousness?

…

Inside Dragonhowl Valley, now functionally relegated to a giant latrine of ruins, the surviving humans were frantically working.

“Inanna, our healing potions are nearly depleted. The healers with us have long overdrawn themselves… many of the critically wounded likely won’t…”

“Don’t give up! Use the Mycelial Coexistence technique! Just try to keep them alive!”

“Inanna, the rock walls near the valley mouth are full of deep cracks—they’re extremely unstable and could collapse at any moment!”

“Relocate the entire camp farther back. We no longer need to hold the valley mouth.”

“Inanna, the food stores…”

Arama had lost an arm and lay unconscious. Lorenzo was gravely injured, mana exhausted—no one knew how he’d survived Vilaris’ rampage with only a broken staff. Most of the warriors on the walkways had died.

Now, inside the valley, the highest-ranking and most trusted person was—Inanna.

She had brought the reinforcements. She was Arama’s only daughter and rightful heir. And she was the one who single-handedly summoned the giant puji that turned the tide and pulled everyone back from the brink of annihilation.

Thus, even though she had never stepped forward to command, every matter requiring a decision naturally flowed to her. Everyone sought her judgment. They already saw her as their temporary leader.

To support her, Lin Jun pulled Hunting Fang and Xinghou into the fungal network as her “in-brain advisory group,” quietly feeding her guidance. It worked beautifully.

As for Lin Jun himself—he was fully occupied churning out puji to escort the Knight Puji carrying the Sunstone fragments back to Puji Fort.

The truth was, if no one interrupted her, Inanna would have preferred to hide somewhere and have a good cry.

Those knight pujis who lived with her, protected her, accompanied her—one by one they had died in front of her. All for her, and for her father.

And now her father lay gravely wounded…

Gravely wounded…

She instinctively scooped up a passing ordinary puji, gently pressed its cap, squeezing out spores.

Holding the puji, she entered the makeshift infirmary where Arama rested. Looking at his pale, sleeping face, she lifted the puji, intending to bring it close—

“I’m… not ready to become a puji-handler just yet.” A weak but clear voice sounded.

Arama had awakened at some point and was watching his daughter quietly, his gaze complicated.

“Stubborn…” Inanna muttered under her breath. She withdrew the puji, eyes reddening.

“Perhaps.” Arama didn’t argue. He asked softly, “Now… what’s the situation outside?”

Inanna summarized the camp, the casualties, and their current plans.

“And the Sunstone？” Arama asked.

Inanna shook her head. “It’s buried in the valley mouth after the explosion. We haven’t had time to dig for it.”

Arama didn’t react with anxiety or disappointment.

In his view, the fact that so many people in the valley had survived at all was already a miracle.

His gaze fell on his daughter—full of pride, relief, and lingering worry.

Finally, he said softly, “You did very well… child. I’ll need time to heal. For now, the next few days will depend on you. Go ahead and do what must be done. If there’s anything you can’t decide… come to me.”

“Mm！” Inanna nodded hard and clutched the puji in her arms tighter.