This Dungeon Grew Mushrooms

The fate of the kingdom now all hinged on this bloody decisive battle at Tri-Mountain City.

Under such circumstances, western strongholds like Golden Valley City, which had barely held on, had already lost strategic significance for continued resistance. With the order to retreat issued, the soldiers stationed there could finally pull back from this bloodstained land and move toward relatively safer interior territory.

Veyra’s squad’s assistance mission was also drawing to a close. After finishing the final task of searching for survivors, they would withdraw together with the main forces.

“Veyra,” Phylline suddenly asked in a low voice while they marched, “if… if I’m unfortunately captured by the demonkind, what would you do?”

Veyra glanced back at her, understanding that she had recently had more contact with Louisa and, after hearing that girl’s suffering, had grown sympathetic.

“I’ll come and rescue you.” Veyra answered without hesitation.

“Even if it means betraying humanity?”

“No,” Veyra patted the long sword at his waist, “I’ll carry my sword to save you.”

“They said being taken by the demonkind is a one-way trip — if you go alone you’ll surely be dead!”

“In this chaotic age, if we can die together, that isn’t such a bad thing.”

Veyra’s smile seemed a little dazzling; Phylline turned red and looked away.

Fein leaned close to Veyra and whispered, “I… I want to go with you too.”

The elf Sirian first looked disdainfully at the three lovers exuding the sour stench of romance, then grinned and joined them. “Heartthrob Veyra, don’t forget to take me along.”

“That’s enough, enough, spare me!” Veyra threw up his hands, unable to fend off the teasing.

After a round of banter, Phylline gazed into the distance and sighed softly: “I hope she can start anew this time.”

Because her father had defected to the demonkind, Louisa had been bullied mercilessly in Golden Valley City.

Every time Veyra’s squad returned to the city they found fresh wounds on her.

This frail girl had neither the ability to protect herself nor to travel long distances alone.

On this retreat, the squad planned to take Louisa to Mordu on their way, hoping the unlucky girl could find a new life there.

Suddenly Sirian halted and, alert, looked westward.

A shadow passed over the elf’s handsome face.

“What is it?” Veyra noticed the change in his expression and instinctively placed his hand on his sword hilt.

“Veyra, we need to leave here — the mist is coming!” Sirian’s voice carried a rare urgency.

“Mist?” Veyra followed his gaze and scanned the horizon; the skyline still looked clear, but he trusted his companion’s judgment.

Phylline asked in shock, “How is that possible? How could a mist appear here?”

“I don’t know why it’s appearing here, but it’s definitely approaching!” Sirian said quickly. “Run south now and we still have a chance to avoid it!”

“Will it sweep over Golden Valley City?” Veyra’s voice sank.

“It will.” The elf’s answer was unhesitating.

“Then we have to go back and warn the people in the city!”

“It’ll be too late!” Sirian grabbed Veyra’s arm. “Before we reach Golden Valley City, the mist will have swallowed us all!”

A gray-white fog gradually rose on the distant horizon.

Veyra’s voice was steady: “We can’t just watch the mist attack Golden Valley City — there are still tens of thousands of people there. I remember the adventurers from the islands said that to stop an expanding mist you must destroy its core!”

Phylline pointed out, “The teams that succeeded in stopping the mist had at least twenty people and were led by diamond-ranked strongers! We have no experience at all — this is too dangerous!”

“But I can’t do nothing.” Veyra slowly drew his saber; the fog was spreading at a speed visible to the naked eye. “You three go. I have to try.”

“Weren’t you just saying earlier that if we die it’ll be together?” Phylline rolled her eyes and muttered, then nimbly took the longbow from her back.

Fein silently stepped forward and stood shoulder to shoulder with Veyra; their actions spoke for themselves.

Sirian looked at these three stubborn companions and finally sighed: “May whatever god want to watch over us knaves.”

Veyra looked at his companions apologetically: “Sorry for dragging you into this…”

Finally, Sirian quickly reminded them: “The mist will extract information about those who enter. If the environment inside feels familiar, then the core must be connected to someone or something related to you — destroy it! Do not trust anyone other than us!”

“Extract information?” Phylline’s question hadn’t finished when the gray-white mist surged like a tide and engulfed the four of them tightly.

One second Veyra could feel the warmth of his companions pressed close; the next he was wholly wrapped in cold gray-white.

Shouts were quickly swallowed by the sticky fog as if devoured by some invisible thing.

When the mist finally receded, he found himself standing in an unimaginably magnificent palace.

A high dome hung overhead; gilt reliefs depicted the revelries of kings he could not recognize, and crystal chandeliers sparkled like stars.

Veyra had never been to Oath City, but from what those seasoned adventurers had said, Oath City should not be this splendid.

Yet this gorgeous palace now looked in disarray.

Gilt candelabras lay overturned beside broken porcelain, scarlet velvet draperies were torn into strips, and finely carved screens were split in two.

The scene before Veyra gave him an eerie sense of familiarity. In recent days he had seen so many towns devastated by the demonkind — the traces left by those fleeing in panic were strikingly similar to the chaos in front of him.

As Veyra was lost in thought, a woman in a silk dress stumbled into the hall clutching two gem-inlaid golden cups to her chest; the moment she saw Veyra she panicked and turned to run.

“Wait!” Veyra hurried after her.

Outside the hall, a clamorous roar hit him.

Veyra couldn’t help but stop and climb the city walls following the sounds of battle.

From that height he looked out and saw an enormous metropolis burning beyond imagination.

Countless magic spires leaned like broken spears; in the distant harbor, ships belched black smoke as they sank.

He was certain no such mighty city existed on the continent.

“Where… exactly is this?”

…

At the same time, beneath the city, Sirian stood stunned before a toppled colossal statue in a bloodstained square.

The statue’s head had rolled into the fountain, and its broken neck revealed a dark-golden metallic inner shell.

Two lines of still-clear characters were carved on the base:

[Emperor Arthur, Radiance of the Stars, Founder of the Eternal Empire]

[From the far north desert to the southern frozen wastes, wherever sunlight falls, there lies the Empire’s domain]

“Is this the Hundred Kings’ Turmoil after Arthur died?” Sirian glanced at the burning city around him. “Talk about rotten luck…”