This Dungeon Grew Mushrooms

A man in hemp clothes ran desperately through the streets, but the sound of hooves behind him grew ever nearer.

At the end of the street a squad of soldiers riding strange mounts appeared.

The mounts had lizard-like scales and scorpion tails; six segmented legs tapped the cobblestones with a “tata” sound, and a horn on their foreheads shimmered with dark purple starlight in the firelight.

Two legs obviously could not outrun six.

The soldiers caught up with the man and, without a word, cut him down from behind with a single stroke.

“Exterminate the traitors! Leave none alive!” the officer at the front shouted, eyes beneath his helm flashing with fanatic light.

Yet what they carried out was nothing but wholesale slaughter.

They brandished straight swords, dragged civilians out of hiding and killed them, then pillaged their belongings; cries and hysterical laughter mixed together, and the whole city became hell on earth.

Veyra, hidden in the shadow of a broken wall, watched this atrocity in full.

He bit his lip so hard blood ran from the corner of his mouth; his whole body trembled uncontrollably.

That trembling did not come from fear, but from the fury in his heart!

To him, these soldiers waving butcher knives had shed the skin of humanity and become monsters more hideous than the demonkind.

Though the kingdom’s nobles had long competed for power, carried family vendettas, and even seen entire clans wiped out in political strife,

even the cruellest purges had never before swept through and destroyed a city’s common folk like this.

In the face of the demon threat, population is valuable—whoever acts like this will surely arouse the hatred of everyone else.

Because of this, the army’s brutal slaughter of their own people completely shattered Veyra’s belief in humanity’s bottom line.

He understood there were a few depraved villains in the world, but he had never imagined that humans could band together and become bloodthirsty beasts.

Veyra’s hand clenched the sword hilt so tightly—if he hadn’t repeatedly reminded himself that it was all fake, he would have already borne down and charged at those beasts.

Unable to watch any longer, Veyra turned and slipped away.

So far he still had no idea where this place truly was, let alone what the so-called core might be.

All he knew was that this magnificent metropolis seemed to have just been breached, and the victors were holding such inhuman revels throughout the city.

Veyra threaded through alleys and lanes, trying to find the traces of his teammates.

But after a long search he found nothing.

Instead he once again ran into the soldiers’ brutality.

A soldier held a blade and forced two half-grown children into a corner.

They appeared to be a brother and sister; the boy gripped a wooden stick he’d picked up somewhere and sheltered his sister behind him.

The soldier deliberately walked slowly, inching closer, clearly enjoying the feeling of toying with his prey.

It’s all fake!

It’s all fake!

It’s all…

“Die! Beast!” an angry low roar made the soldier snap his head around and swing his straight sword.

Veyra’s curved blade was like a silver snake; it easily parried the straight sword and thrust straight into the soldier’s throat so he couldn’t even let out a howl.

The soldier, face contorted, pointed at the suddenly appearing Veyra and tried to do more, but his body was pinned against the wall and in agony he fell silent.

Veyra withdrew his blade and flicked the blood away, then took a deep breath to the sky.

Although he knew everything before him was false, after slaying that beast his thoughts felt somehow clearer.

He was about to turn and leave when the hem of his garment was gently tugged.

The boy with the wooden stick looked up at him with grateful eyes and asked, “Uncle, are you going to the cellar too?”

“Cellar? What’s that place?” Veyra asked.

The boy tightly held his sister’s hand and whispered, “It’s where everyone hides… Uncle Fu says it’s very safe.”

Veyra thought for a moment and nodded. “Let’s go together.”

The boy immediately showed a relieved expression, took his sister’s hand, and led Veyra down a deep alley.

Veyra’s plan was simple: go look; if there were no teammates inside, he would slip away and continue searching—after all, he’d been running around like a headless fly anyway.

Led by the two children, they reached an abandoned courtyard.

Half the courtyard wall had collapsed and the ground was strewn with debris.

The boy skillfully parted the weeds in the corner and revealed a hidden wooden hatch.

No sooner had they stepped into the cellar than a cold glint flashed toward them!

Veyra drew his sword to block; blade and spear met with a crisp metallic clash.

The spearman was a wary middle-aged man who, in the dim light, had mistaken Veyra for an enemy soldier.

“Uncle Fu, it’s us!” the boy shouted anxiously.

At the sound, the man lowered his spear; through the faint light filtering from the hatch he finally recognized his people.

The underground space was more spacious than it looked; over thirty cowering figures huddled in the shadows, and the air was thick with the mixed scents of blood and herbs.

“Veyra!”

The familiar call made Veyra’s heart lurch.

Looking over, he saw Fein pushing herself up from a corner and suddenly throwing herself into his arms.

But when his gaze fell upon the motionless figure on the floor, his heart tightened at once.

Phylline lay there, her body covered with wounds both deep and shallow, her face as pale as paper.

From Fein’s account, Veyra learned what had happened.

The sisters had been positioned not far from each other.

When Fein was beset by soldiers, Phylline had appeared in time to rescue her.

But while struggling with a squad captain, Phylline had been grievously wounded.

Even after taking a healing potion she had slipped into unconsciousness.

Fortunately, a passing Uncle Fu brought them into this refuge, and by luck they had remained safe so far.

After checking Phylline and finding no immediate danger to her life, Veyra—whether the things here were real or not—turned and thanked the middle-aged man called Uncle Fu for sheltering his nephew and niece.

Uncle Fu, in turn, thanked Veyra for saving his kin and apologized for his earlier strike.

At that moment, footsteps and coarse shouts came from outside.

“Look! There’s a cellar here!”

“Maybe there are treasures hidden inside!”

Two soldiers bent to climb down the steps. The instant they stepped onto the stair, Veyra and Uncle Fu struck together.

Veyra’s blade sliced across the first soldier’s throat; blood sprayed the earthen wall.

But Uncle Fu’s spear misfired—the thrust that should have pierced the second soldier’s throat only grazed his shoulder.

The wounded soldier let out a bestial roar.

Veyra stepped in and finished that soldier with a counter stroke, but it was already too late.

Outside the courtyard the sound of marching feet and armor clashing grew dense; clearly more soldiers were approaching.

Uncle Fu looked up at Veyra, eyes full of guilt and despair. “I’m sorry, I… I—”

There was no time to think. Veyra looked back at Fein, trembling while clutching a staff, and at the unconscious Phylline.

“Protect everyone!” he said.

Then he sprang out of the cellar, slammed the wooden hatch shut behind him, barricaded the entrance with scattered debris, and dashed back out.

As he charged out he collided with a soldier running up the stairs.

A flash of steel.

Veyra’s blade grazed that man’s neck and blood gushed like a spring; the scene was witnessed by the dozen or so soldiers who had just arrived.

Veyra glanced around, vaulted over the courtyard wall, and ran.

“One enemy only! Don’t let him escape!” an officer shouted.

Chaotic footsteps and shouts rose behind him; more soldiers joined the pursuit. He didn’t look back and plunged into the burning street, drawing all the pursuers’ attention upon himself.