Beyond Red Gum County lay a vast expanse of wasteland. Douglas walked swiftly, covering considerable distance until a sprawling wilderness came into view in the distance. In winters past, trees would stand here, bare of leaves and blanketed in snow, resembling white torches. Now, due to the effects of the blight, only a barren snowfield stretched ahead.
From the moment he entered this untrodden area, the ground was covered in untouched snow. His spurs sank into the drifts, no longer producing a crisp ring; his boots sank into the snow, bringing the soft, crunching sound of packed snow beneath. The sound was faint, audible only in such a quiet, uninhabited place. Douglas's stride was steady across the snowfield. After leaving the county town behind, he slowed his pace, swaying with each step, openly scanning his surroundings while listening to his own whistling and footsteps.
Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch.
Douglas halted at the sound of that extra footstep.
An unfamiliar footstep in the snowy night sounded like the perfect ghost story. Yet the rider who encountered it clearly beamed with delight. He scanned his surroundings, found nothing, then pivoted lightly on his toes.
"Good evening!" The rider tipped his hat. Recognizing the figure behind him, he added, "Ma'am." "
Behind him, a woman had appeared without warning. She wore light clothing, appearing no different from any ordinary female traveler from the neck down. But her head was covered by a thick hood, from which gleamed stark white bones. Douglas instantly recognized it as a wolf skull. The exposed muzzle was remarkably intact, while the eye sockets were wrapped in bandages—like someone who had temporarily forsaken sight for some ascetic practice. He stared curiously at the woman's head, his gaze so candid it felt almost polite.
"What are you looking for?" the woman asked.
Her voice was lazy and husky. Had Douglas encountered it in a tavern, he would have bought her a drink. Now, the setting was wrong. The rider twirled his hat regretfully, flashing his most charming smile.
"A night like this is perfect for a stroll, but walking alone is rather pitiful," he said. "I was waiting here for a stroke of luck or a traveling companion—and now I've found one."
"Do I match your expectations?" asked the woman wearing the wolf skull.
"You surpass my imagination," Douglas replied.
Sincere yet non-offensive compliments to women came as naturally to him as drinking water. The star rider had always been a ladies' man, adored by women from eight to eighty. But now, staring at that skull, he suddenly found himself at a loss for words.
Her voice carried none of that muffled, canned resonance, and her jaw didn't open and close with each word. Douglas combed through every thread of evidence, finding clues only to dismiss them, repeating this cycle countless times within the span of a few sentences. Finally, he thought, screw it—only cowards stay silent at a moment like this.
"Pardon me, ma'am, if I may be so bold," Douglas said. "You're not wearing a mask, are you?"
"..."
"I mean, is that your head?" he pressed.
Only now did Tasha begin to find the man somewhat intriguing.
It wasn't just his insight. The Rider had no proof, merely speculation. Yet Douglas's tone held not a shred of panic, only suppressed excitement—the tone of a child asking, "Did you get me a present?"
"A devil worshipper?" Victor muttered. "No, even necromancers wouldn't look like that. At best, they're just delusional snobs who've read too many historical records."
Tasha interpreted Victor as implying copycats or delusional adolescents—like Earth teens attempting to draw demonic summoning circles from stories.
"If so," Tasha said, "what do you plan to do? Whip me with your rope? Use the dagger in your boot? Or whatever's under your hat brim?"
"You really don't hold back, do you?" Douglas made a pained face, pulled his hat down, and spread his arms in surrender. "What can I say? Even the most earnest tourist needs a companion who gets the joke. If I'd run into a killjoy bandit instead of a considerate lady like you, I'd need some self-defense skills."
The rider wasn't as carefree as he appeared. Take that earlier nimble turn, for instance—a posture designed to evade threats from behind or overhead at lightning speed. Douglas had his lasso coiled around his waist, daggers secured in his riding boots and gaiters, and that hat ornament... Tasha had observed him all along, noticing sharp mechanisms concealed between several buckles. If detached and combined with the lasso, they could potentially form a weapon like a blood-dropper. The hat-removal gesture was merely one of his combat stances. Even now, the taut muscles along his neck revealed he hadn't lowered his guard.
The muscle-reading techniques taught by the Amazonian professor proved remarkably useful. Were the circumstances different, Tasha would have been tempted to challenge him to a fight.
Douglas's "unguarded" posture resembled a goose gliding effortlessly on the surface while frantically paddling beneath the water. Simultaneously, he appeared increasingly agitated, likely interpreting Tashan's response as tacit agreement. His excitement mirrored victims in horror films who perish from curiosity—talent no match for a death wish.
"I must state," Douglas declared, raising his hands as if sensing the subtle malice in Tasha's gaze, "I come here purely out of curiosity."
"Sincerity," Tasha repeated. "And that sincerity manifests as today's spy antics?"
"That is precisely my sincerity!" Douglas declared with righteous indignation. "Wandering the streets in theatrical garb, sticking my nose into every place marked 'No Trespassing'—isn't that the best way to catch your attention? My disguise is meant to evade the notice of irrelevant parties, but to the city's true rulers, it's child's play. Forgive me, I have no means to contact you, so this was my only way to see you."
"Now you've seen me," Tashar said.
This admission confirmed his status as the wolf-boned leader of the alien race and the city's true ruler. Tashar acknowledged it bluntly, tossing the ball back to Douglas. At this point, Douglas seemed to grow slightly awkward.
"Well, I suppose we could get to know each other better, take it slow," he said, tipping his hat and adopting a coy expression. "I'm Douglas, the Dragon Rider. Might I ask your name, my lady?"
"You may address me as 'Your Excellency,'" Tashar replied.
Douglas choked on his words, while Victor chuckled softly, his laughter tinged with a peculiar sense of superiority.
What exactly is he gloating about? Tashar thought with mild amusement. You don't even know my name. The "true name" used for the contract was the name recognized by this world—long, complex, and distinctly Abyssal in style. It held legal weight in the contract, but Tasha still identified herself as "Tasha"—a fact unknown to anyone here so far.
"Your turn," Tasha said to Douglas. "Shall we start with 'the purpose of your visit'?"
"I've laid my heart bare before you, yet you refuse to listen. " Douglas clutched his chest, a wounded look on his face. "I worked alongside Miss Jacqueline for years in the circus. I simply couldn't stand by and watch her venture here alone, so I escorted her. Beyond that, I suppose I had a bit of personal curiosity. Ah, as for what others think? Well, I can't vouch for that."
Douglas blinked innocently, his expression earnest as he betrayed his comrades.
"Including your ringmaster?" Tasha pressed.
"Ringmaster Frank," Douglas smacked his lips. "He wouldn't do anything. That gentleman's worst offense is tax evasion."
The implication remained clear—he was still selling out his fellow performers.
Truthfully, Tasha didn't need his reminder. Though the dungeon's gaze couldn't penetrate buildings, the nearby watchtower maintained constant surveillance.
Douglas wasn't the only one restless that night—he just made a point of it, earning himself the chance for Tasha to test him personally. Other visitors were shadowy and unimaginative; half of them ran about in nightclothes, convinced the darkness shielded them.
Some made connections with each other, while others roamed alone all night, avoiding contact. These individuals weren't entirely disconnected, nor were they organized. The watchtower broadcast their movements live, observing them darting about, searching places they deemed suspicious. Some cautiously climbed into the Exchange, only to wander aimlessly through the flat, empty huts, finding nothing.
In the southeast corner now, the existence of the underground city wasn't exactly a secret. Humans working at the exchange would watch as the ground opened, and Amazonian or artisan dwarves laboring below would pass traded goods up to the surface huts. Humans would then carry the contents out. This wasn't classified information, so nearby residents weren't overly sensitive about it. They saw it as a convenient underground passage connecting to the subterranean ruins inhabited by other races—nothing more.
You mean the underground city? Fine. With all those passages, underground kitchens, and so many people living there, it could indeed be called a city. You mean the Abyss Outpost? Ha ha ha ha, don't be ridiculous.
Tasha didn't stop the underground city's residents from inviting surface dwellers down. In fact, the Amazons had already shared their training rooms with human soldiers, who marveled at the convenient facilities. Unlike lords who rigorously screen visitors to their strongholds, the Dungeon is Tashar herself. She wields absolute control over everything within, and she'd welcome the most suspicious individuals to come down and see for themselves. The truly vital sections—like the Dungeon Core and the Magic Pool—are well-hidden. Letting the doubters inspect the rest is beneficial either way: either they'll dispel their suspicions, or they'll slip up and be caught by Tashar.
"You're not planning to let these people into the dungeon, are you?" Victor warned uneasily. "Situations where a dungeon is destroyed by an attack from a hundred miles away are rare. Most dungeons are destroyed by the adventurers who enter them!"
"I'm not that reckless," Tashar said.
Allowing surface dwellers entry ultimately stemmed from their weakness—they posed no threat. The newcomers' capabilities remained unknown. Even if they currently resembled a pack of ignorant rats, Tasha wouldn't take them lightly. While admitting them into the dungeon offered convenience, it carried risks. For instance, if one of them suddenly transformed into a magic cannon and fired... well, that would be quite the spectacle.
"How did past adventurers destroy dungeons from within?" Tasha asked. "Even if an acquired dungeon lord can't constantly monitor the entire dungeon, once patrol soldiers spot enemies, couldn't the lord at least expel them?"
Only in extremely rare cases did a dungeon develop consciousness on its own—exceptions like Tasha, who had crossed over, or what Victor believed to be innate Nest Mothers. Most dungeon lords are monsters from the Abyss, or pitiful beings drawn to it—becoming either masters or slaves to the dungeon. These acquired lords who activate the core lack Tasha's intimate knowledge of the dungeon; they rely on spells or dungeon constructs to monitor its interior.
"Adventurers are strong, and they keep coming." Victor detected the dismissive undertone in Tasha's voice and emphasized, "The only reason you've had such smooth sailing is because these people are astonishingly ignorant and weak!"
"You call the magic cannon weak?" Tasha reminded him.
"That's an exception! External tools don't make them inherently powerful. Ants that use tools are still just ants." Victor insisted.
Tasha couldn't be bothered to persuade him further. You couldn't make someone who'd never seen the Industrial Age (or demons) understand just how powerful "external tools" could be. Sometimes she felt Victor's attitude toward magical technology resembled that of warriors from isolated nations, convinced their martial arts could defeat guns and cannons.
That said, Tasha hadn't witnessed this world's true power either. She couldn't imagine a sword cleaving the earth, nor had she seen the mage Victor spoke of who single-handedly clashed with an entire army. While she'd witnessed many unnatural phenomena, none had been powerful enough to alter her perception of this world. Their perspectives were both limited, making pleasant conversation sometimes impossible.
In a place Tasha couldn't overhear, another unpleasant conversation was unfolding.
After dinner, the priest in his Saros vestments entered the inn's doorway, moving unusually quickly despite his conspicuous limp. Samuel was clearly lost in his own thoughts, paying no heed to the innkeeper's teasing remarks.
"Which room is that old gentleman staying in?" he asked anxiously. "The one with white hair and a wooden staff!"
"Off on another preaching mission, Father?" The innkeeper and a loafing assistant both chuckled. "Don't think you can claim kinship with every cane-wielder. Watch out, or they'll throw you out!"
"Just tell me his room number!" Samuel's face flushed crimson, as if he had something to say but held it back. "I have urgent business with him! About... about his son!"
The owner finally gave him the number. Samuel dashed toward the room, ignoring the voices behind him betting on how long it would take before he was thrown out. Fools! he thought excitedly. That one won't throw me out!
After just three knocks, the door swung open. The old man stood behind it, silent, his hawk-like eyes sizing up the pastor.
So close, Samuel realized they stood at vastly different heights. He had to strain his neck to meet the old man's gaze. He was a remarkably imposing figure, his hair entirely white, yet time had neither softened his piercing gaze nor diminished his robust frame. Taut muscles strained against what should have been a loose-fitting pullover. A thick beard, as stiff as his hair, bristled around his face, lending him the appearance of an old lion.
Samuel had to take a small step back to spare his aching neck. Under the oppressive shadow cast by this presence, the confident speech he'd rehearsed before setting out crumbled into fragments, nearly failing to escape his lips. Gathering his composure, his shifting gaze caught the pendant hanging at the old man's waist, and his confidence surged.
"I am Samuel, the priest of Saro." " Samuel stood tall, trying to appear taller. "Before the previous priest was called home by the Lord, she entrusted the priesthood to me. I received the final earthly legacy of Saro... I see, I see you, and I think, well, I feel we should talk, you know."
His speech fell flat, a hundred times worse than any rehearsal. The old man's features were as rigid as stone. He hadn't moved an inch throughout Samuel's speech, his expression showing not a shred of reverence, let alone basic emotion or kindness. Samuel's steadfast confidence began to slip away. The rosy picture he'd envisioned grew dimmer by the second until he started to wonder if the man would actually close the door.
The old man remained utterly silent from start to finish. When it was over, he didn't nod. He simply stepped aside from the doorway, creating a narrow path just wide enough for the pastor to squeeze through. Samuel hurried through the opening, and the old man closed the door behind him.
The pastor's heart, which had nearly leapt out of his chest, returned to its proper place. He breathed a huge sigh of relief and sat down on a chair in the living room. The old man followed him in, neither offering tea nor sitting down, but simply stood there, arms crossed, watching him. Samuel gave an awkward smile, stood up, and made a futile attempt to bridge the height difference between them.
"I am Samuel, priest of Saro, the Staff-Bearer, chosen of Saro," Samuel repeated. "And you... how should I address you?"
"Alexander," the old man said. "A veteran soldier."
"A Paladin!" Samuel blurted out. "I know you're a Paladin!"
The old man remained expressionless.
"I've heard of the staff you carry! Paladins of Saro conceal their weapons within such great staffs, using only the staff against those who stray. Only when facing true evil do they draw their blades—this is the mercy and valor Saro bestows! And that ornament at your waist—it's the Hand of Saro, symbolizing the Sun God's redemption." Samuel's voice trembled with emotion. "You undergo arduous training to become full knights. Your dedication elevates you beyond the ordinary. Even now, after Saro has left us, you still wield immense power! Praise Saro! I never imagined I'd meet a true paladin in my lifetime... I have heard your tales—many tales—of knightly orders, composed of paladins and priests, unstoppable upon the battlefield. We fought against evil, spreading the glory of Saro, under his protection..."
His torrent of words gradually trailed off, for the old man smiled. Alexander's lips curled in disdain, as if observing something laughable.
"Our ancestors shed blood to protect those behind them," he declared. "Our victories stemmed from the courage to sacrifice, not some god's mercy from the heavens. I never imagined Saros's remnants still roamed the earth today. Your mentor must be either mad or hate you."
Samuel froze, as if doused with a bucket of cold water.
He had been too excited. For the first time in so long, a priest of Saro had seen his mentor speak of people and things from his own world. When Samuel heard mention of the old man's staff, his heart had filled with hope. Seeing Alexander himself and the ornament at his waist, the priest had been certain of his identity. Like a lone traveler spotting a fellow pilgrim after endless solitude, the young Son of the Light rushed forward in wild cries—only to crash headfirst into a bloody mess, realizing his supposed comrade was but a phantom of his own heart.
Then fury ignited within him. His tongue grew numb and icy with rage, stumbling over his words. "What are you saying?" Samuel demanded. "How dare you speak thus of a Saros priest! How dare you utter such blasphemous words! You... you are unworthy to wear the Hand of Saros, the symbol of a paladin!"
"Hahahaha!"
The old man roared with laughter, the sound reverberating so fiercely it made Samuel's head buzz. The Son of Saro steadied himself with effort, like a sapling struggling to stand upright in a thunderstorm. Even after the laughter died, his eardrums still thundered.
"Yes, it is the emblem of a paladin. We earn the title of paladin through humility, honesty, mercy, courage, justice, sacrifice, honor, and faith. We forge ourselves and defend Erian! You call it the Hand of Saro?" Alexander unfastened the pendant from his belt, holding it in his hand. "Quite the opposite! It is the Hand of the Nameless, the hand of any who resist! It symbolizes humanity taking its destiny into its own hands, refusing to bow before demons or gods!"
Samuel's mouth opened and closed futilely, like a fish out of water. His voice was faint as he said, "You said the Paladin is one who possesses faith..."
"What does that have to do with the gods?" the old knight scoffed. "Steadfast conviction is faith. My unwavering faith doesn't mean I must kneel before anyone."
Samuel was speechless. Wasn't kneeling before Saro the natural thing to do? He was a god! It was the divine might that repelled evil, the divine mercy that granted people peace and prosperity. No amount of humility before Salo could be excessive. The blasphemy and absurdity in the paladin's words left Samuel speechless, unsure where to begin his rebuttal.
These words did not come from a villain, nor from a deceived commoner, but from a paladin. Samuel felt profound disappointment, nearly losing all hope in that moment.
Alexander fell silent for a moment, gazing at the nameless hand. The pendant's centerpiece was a small silver hand clutching a pearl. Both the tarnished silver and the pearl's faded luster spoke to the pendant's age. The old knight shook his head and tucked it away.
"Paladins did cooperate well with priests during the last Orc War," Alexander murmured, a bitter smile touching his lips. "We are both relics of a bygone era now."
"Then why did you deny the gods?!" Samuel shouted, grabbing the old knight's tunic in despair. "We fought side by side back then! What made you abandon the gods, abandon us?!"
"Do you truly believe that?" The old knight frowned. "Listen, I don't know how your mentor deceived you..."
"She did not deceive me! Servants of Saro do not lie!" Samuel retorted fiercely.
"Then you should know that four hundred years ago, the gods were driven out—by us!" Alexander's voice was heavy. "If you believe our ancestors fought side by side in the Beast War, you must understand: if those priests four centuries ago hadn't mastered those 'blasphemous' methods, how could they have continued wielding modified divine magic two hundred years later—after the gods departed—to fight alone for humanity in the Beast War?"
Samuel stood like a pillar, his mind in turmoil, feeling his blood run cold. The old knight shook his head again, seemingly losing patience for further conversation.
"I suspect you came here for more than just 'reminiscing,'" Alexander said. "Whether for Saro or other reasons, at least here, we can still find common ground on certain matters."
The old knight fixed his gaze on Samuel, speaking deliberately, word by word: "Tell me about those otherworldly beings."