While the paladin and the wolf-headed body of Tashan were locked in a fierce struggle, a dagger slipped through the gap in the trapdoor.
Ghosts, thieves, and the artisan dwarves hiding behind the trap faced off against each other. After several probing attempts, the seasoned thieves swiftly seized the initiative. The wraith's presence rendered his stealth useless, yet he himself served as a check on the wraith. He had discerned that the wraith's offensive couldn't last long. Once the faceless wraith launched its attack, the outcome would be decided swiftly—either the rogue would fall to its claws, or the wraith would dissipate, leaving the rogue free to destroy his foe.
Based on their last encounter, his odds of winning were higher.
The ghost's claws hung like the Sword of Damocles over the rogue's head, their threat real only in the instant of descent. Both knew that unless pushed to the brink, they would remain merely a distracting secondary weapon.
The rogue reacted swiftly; the frozen standoff lasted barely a minute. A minute later, he began moving again, eyes fixed on the Ghost, ears alert to sounds behind him. His palm slowly reached toward the wall behind him, fingers lightly touching the surface. The Ghost showed no excessive reaction to this small gesture. Encouraged, the Thief pressed his palm down, adhering to the area he had anticipated.
His touch was as light as a butterfly's wingbeat, as swift as a dragonfly skimming water. Neither the force nor the fleeting warmth of his hand was enough to activate any mechanism while it rested there. He had already scrutinized the wall thoroughly beforehand; no visible holes existed, eliminating dozens of potential traps. The thief's lineage traced back to a legendary hero. Ancient texts and his masters' teachings had equipped him to unlock an imperial tomb. His sensitive fingers could discern the contours and texture of any surface through touch alone, like an insect sensing the direction of air currents through stirred hairs.
The thief's dagger slipped into the barely perceptible crevice. With a click, the stone wall shifted, revealing its true form.
He smiled, though the smile remained stiff. Men like them excelled at blending into crowds, their emotions perfectly matching the roles they played—like chameleons. When left alone, they had long forgotten how to express their own joys and sorrows. Mr. Ordinary offered an incongruous smile, uttering a heartfelt exclamation at the exquisite craftsmanship before him.
The stone slab, previously indistinguishable from the wall, separated from its place. Only when triggered did one discover the trapdoor concealed there. Its form and color were disguised so masterfully, like a dead leaf butterfly on a withered tree—you wouldn't even notice it was there until the moment before it took flight. Only a dwarf's craftsmanship could create such an extraordinary mechanism. Thieves had long heard of its fame, and today they finally witnessed it.
He cared not whether one was human or not; in his eyes, there were only different "professions." These two professions could be called natural enemies: one camouflaged within the environment, the other camouflaged the environment itself; one laid traps, the other dismantled them. In that bygone golden age, the finest craftsmen and thieves vied for supremacy. Better spears and better shields reached ever greater heights through their clash, competing and advancing together. Legendary artisans wore the blood of great thieves as badges of honor on their creations, while master thieves regarded treasures from the masters' hidden realms as essential for making their names.
But the dwarves have vanished, their creations mostly lost, surviving only on the black market or in certain untouchable, deadly places. This nameless thief, trained in the finest traditions and mastering the best of their craft, now finds himself utterly useless at disarming traps. It was as if a hero honed for a decade had finally emerged, only to find all dragons had perished of old age; like a physician who spent a lifetime studying pathology, journeying far only to arrive in a land where no disease existed.
The thief considered himself quite fortunate. There was certainly no need to abandon this path and press on. After all, his current commission merely involved assisting the paladin and inflicting as much damage on the aberrations as possible.
Since there was likely no treasure here, after the satisfying puzzle challenge, he would take the trapmaker's head as his reward for this journey.
The trapdoor could be triggered with a dagger, but it couldn't be dismantled with just that. The thief reached into his cloak, where he kept the deposit he'd received from the northern military. It was one of the key reasons the "Circus" had accepted the job, and he considered spending it here well worth it.
The thief pulled out the flat metal object, mouse-sized and disc-shaped. Gripping its head, he twisted it once, and the single eye on the flat face glowed red.
A chilling sound emanated from within.
It possessed an opaque shell, concealing its inner workings. One could only hear the rustling sounds inside—waves upon waves, like countless feet stirring in the darkness. They sounded small, numerous, dense, perhaps even covered in thick, dense fur. Then you saw it.
Beneath the metal object's head, a slit opened in the center of its disc-shaped body. Eight legs emerged from the gap. The sharp, dark-glinting metal feet swept through the air in unison, like a long-crouched creature finally stretching. The thing stood up on the thief's hands, supporting its body as its head twisted a full 180 degrees and snapped toward the trapdoor.
The ghost lunged at the metal object, but the thief remained rooted to the spot. His indifference momentarily robbed Tashar of the resolve to take him down with him. The metal shell bore markings resembling a red hound. Moving it proved as difficult as moving a professional, the dungeon's power shifting it only a trivial, insignificant distance. What exactly was this mechanical contraption? Was it worth wasting the ghost here?
That moment's hesitation cost them the chance to stop it. Suddenly, eight elongated legs wrapped around the trapdoor's frame before retracting.
"Tick-tock."
A faint startup sound preceded a silent wave of sound crashing toward them.
Behind the door, the artisan dwarves huddled, clutching their heads. Eyes wide, they stared at the magnified metal feet through the peephole, feeling both headache-inducing and bewildered. They hadn't heard a thing—the sonic waves emitted by the eight-legged discs were imperceptible to ordinary humans and artisan dwarves alike, more akin to ultrasonic frequencies. The trapdoor twisted under the vibrations. Though its sturdy body remained intact, the relatively fragile hinge sections shattered under this bizarre assault.
The trapdoor fell heavily to the ground. The thief kicked it aside with a sideways kick, sending the small round door rolling away.
Behind it lay a hollow cavern.
Artisan dwarves could craft periscope-like devices with multiple refractions, even hiding a hidden compartment between the exterior and the peephole view. The thief surveyed what appeared to be an abandoned cavern, likely a failed architectural experiment, without a trace of disappointment.
The octopus-like disc had detached naturally. Its head lights extinguished, and its eight legs retracted, reverting to an ordinary, grotesque plate. The thief picked it up and tucked it away. He drew two long poles from his boots, assembled them, and tightened them into a suitable walking stick for probing. He began tapping the walls of the cavern with the stick.
The thief began to smile. The cunning rogue knew that an "abandoned cavern" was not a dead end—quite the opposite, it was the enemy's last resort.
The tapping revealed subtle variations—distinctions so faint they would betray the location to the most skilled expert. The thief's specialized pole, designed for detecting traps, deflected a volley of crossbow bolts, carefully disengaged a spear trap on the floor, and finally located what he sought in the right spot. When mimicking a natural cavern, trapdoors shouldn't be placed consecutively. Finding a hidden yet vulnerable secret passage...
He rolled suddenly on the ground, retreating at top speed along his original route. Nothing happened behind him, but that didn't mean he could let his guard down. The specter that had been watching him was now nowhere to be seen, vanishing into thin air at some unknown moment, ready to emerge from any corner.
The thief's response was to enter stealth the moment he regained his footing.
His presence dropped to its lowest threshold as the skill activated. The dungeon provided excellent cover, especially in this section disguised as an abandoned space where dim exterior lights couldn't penetrate. The thief's form blended into the vast shadows, his movements slowed by several degrees compared to normal, yet his footsteps remained utterly silent.
He shifted positions without pause. Novice rogues would seek cover immediately after entering stealth, while veterans chose to keep moving. The combination of concealment and mobility made him exceptionally deadly. Every sense was heightened to its peak. Eyes adapted to the darkness fixed intently on everything ahead, ears straining for the slightest sound. Even his skin, every nerve, was on alert—the faintest air current could reveal a gap. His body tensed, ready to strike. Now!
The long pole flew in the opposite direction, its thud against the rock wall echoing like a thunderclap in the silent chamber. Simultaneously, the rogue lunged forward with his dagger, the sharp blade piercing the stone. He twisted it, and with a clang, the hinge of the hidden door was dislodged.
The ghost materialized abruptly, circling him—a development that held no surprise. As the paladin had warned, the dungeon ghost revealed its ability to see through stealth upon appearing. Yet its decision to materialize right beside the rogue revealed something else: not all dungeon dwellers were immune to stealth. The ghost sacrificed its own concealment to mark the rogue. Trading its own stealth for the enemy's exposure—a fair exchange.
The trapdoor fell open. The rogue grabbed it and held it before him. Heavy and thick enough, it served perfectly as a shield against any attack from the chamber beyond. He squinted, peering inside. Closing one eye helped avoid the glare that might assault him from within. In that single glance, the thief caught sight of the crowd and their weapons. Ah, the usual welcome—neither crossbow bolts nor other projectiles could pierce the trapdoor they'd crafted themselves.
Wait...?!
The thief's eyes widened in horror as he stared at the group of dwarves inside, huddled around something terrifying.
The silver-gray colossus possessed a stocky frame, a long pole planted firmly before it. This immense creature filled most of the space beyond the door. It was unmistakable. The thief, who had long studied such matters, recognized the famed "Purifying Blade" instantly. Its bizarre shape immediately connected with the rumors he'd heard, especially since he'd worked with the military on multiple occasions. In that instant, rumors he'd dismissed as nonsense surged into his mind. He recalled them saying: intact Purification Blades had fallen into alien hands.
He'd always scoffed at such claims. The more he learned about arcane weapons, the less he believed a weapon of the Purification Blade's caliber could survive intact in enemy hands. Unless destroyed or depleted of energy, they couldn't be captured on the battlefield. And once silenced, how could their captors possibly repair them or replenish their power?
But here, there were dwarves.
He saw the white light flare deep within the barrel.
There was no time to think. The thief knew full well that flesh and blood couldn't survive a direct cannon blast. He had no time to ponder how these people could repair a magic cannon, or why a repaired one wouldn't be deployed on the battlefield. All his strength went into propelling himself forward. Faster! Faster! He mustered a sliver of energy to watch for the persistent ghosts, and even less attention for the dwarves ahead. They looked weak—close enough, and he could take them down one by one...
The thief stumbled and fell.
Agonizing pain radiated from his legs as iron traps snapped shut around his ankles just before he left range. The white light from the cannon barrel grew blinding. Desperate, the thief lunged forward—snap!
Several man-tall iron thorns erupted from the ground. He had thrown himself into the spike trap.
He still stared at the cannon barrel, viewing it as the greatest threat—how else could he have fallen victim to these easily avoidable traps in his final moments? With eyes wide in his dying moments, the thief cursed and hoped the entire dungeon would be reduced to ashes by the cannon's fire. He saw the white light finally explode from the muzzle. With a dull thud, the magic cannon shattered into countless pieces.
The dungeon's salvaged magic cannon was little more than wreckage, barely a step away from becoming scrap metal. The artisan dwarves could only restore its outward form, crafting a paper tiger. Tashan had intended to use it as a battlefield scarecrow but never found the right moment—until now. True to form, it proved far too fragile. The moment the flash device was activated inside the barrel, the entire cannon body disintegrated completely.
Under the threat of the magic cannon's imminent fire and driven by the specters, the desperate thief charged headlong into the death zone the Artisan Dwarves had set up at their base camp.
The thief exhaled his final breath, dying with eyes wide open.
Outside, the sky was darkening.
The bitter stalemate dragged on, both sides gritting their teeth in endurance. Wounded soldiers streamed into the infirmary; stored potions were exhausted, relying entirely on Mavis's on-site brewing. Samuel resumed his duties as a medic, humming Saloth's prayers as he bandaged wounds—a measure better than none. Saroth's divine magic specialized in combating evil, with an adapted version targeting all non-human entities: wounds inflicted by non-human races or malevolent spells healed instantly under its power, yet injuries caused by human weapons showed little response, proving less effective than potions.
The Sarran priest was never part of the Tarsan army. He'd initially taken the invisibility-granting candlestick simply to defect northward—to overthrow the alien rule in the southeast and liberate the people. He was the sort whose resolve remained unshaken by the army's atmosphere. Upon exiting, he witnessed the savior from the north setting fires everywhere to halt the impending slaughter. He tried to cross the battlefield heading north but found it utterly impassable. Samuel had never seen so much blood, so many struggling wounded, and so many dead.
The Holy Son of Saro was deeply shaken, yet he couldn't abandon the suffering before him, like a terrified lifesaving dog unable to defy its instincts. He wandered aimlessly for a while, utterly lost, until he encountered a logistics soldier secretly escorting the wounded underground. He followed.
Samuel had already descended to the ground several times with the Distant Starlight Candlestick. Shielded by the artifact's protection, he'd secretly brought down several wounded for treatment. Now gasping for breath, he lacked the strength to continue this dangerous task and could only work as a medic below. He bandaged blood-soaked wounds and assisted Mavis. Samuel had no desire to associate with the alien species, but here he was one of the few with professional medical training. Now even children were helping. Moving among the growing number of casualties, he felt like he was fighting a hopeless battle—exhausted yet unable to stop, racing against death itself.
"Doctor..." moaned the figure on the stretcher in agony. "My leg... where's my leg?"
It was a human soldier who had once bought Samuel a drink. Now, just awakened from shock, his severed leg had been amputated, and his eyes were bandaged, the dressings soaked through with blood. His condition was dire; death could come at any moment. Samuel, gripped by the soldier's fingers clutching his coat, couldn't find the words to respond, his lips trembling.
"I'm so thirsty..." the wounded man repeated.
"I'll get you water!" Samuel answered urgently. He pulled the soldier's hand away and dashed toward the rear, his steps abruptly halting. He saw the other artifact he had brought—the Cup of the Flowing Moon, shimmering with a faint glow.
The priest of Saro recalled the legend of the Holy Grail, childhood tales now jumbled in his mind. Wasn't that right? The cup of the Moon Goddess? He strained to remember the legend of the Grail's water, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. Yes, that was it—the cup of the Moon Goddess! Her mercy would transform the water held within into an elixir of life, capable of healing any wound!
Samuel snatched the Cup of the Flowing Moon as if clutching a lifeline. He hobbled to fetch water for the Holy Grail, then raced back to the wounded soldier's bedside. "Water's here!" he exclaimed, his joy impossible to contain. "Drink this, and you'll be fine!"
The Holy Son of Salo cradled the soldier's blood-soaked head and fed him water from the cup—if one could strip away the chaotic backdrop, the filth clinging to the Son himself, and erase the fear and unease in his eyes, it might have made a decent religious painting. The liquid flowed from the rim of the cup into the soldier's mouth, down his throat.
"How is it?" Samuel asked hopefully.
Before the soldier could answer, Samuel heard a faint crack.
The priest of Salo looked down in horror. A crack appeared on the chalice, spreading at a terrifying speed. He tried to cover it with his hand, but it was useless. Water spilled out through the fissure, soaking his hands. When the first drop spilled from Samuel's palm onto the ground, the Cup of the Waning Moon shattered.
Samuel's mind went blank. He crouched to gather the fragments of the moon goddess's artifact, but they crumbled further at his touch, leaving only cuts across his hands. The pain stirred distant memories—he vaguely recalled the Holy Grail healed "the devout."
"If an impious villain drinks it," the old nurse had warned, "the panacea becomes a poison that tears through the bowels!"
There were no other followers of Saros here but him.
Samuel sprang to his feet, trying twice before he could speak. "Are you all right?" he stammered. "Hey?"
The soldier did not answer.
Someone came to check on him, shook his head, and signaled others to carry him away, making room for new casualties. Samuel stood rooted to the spot, feeling a chill run through his entire body. Mavis, entering the ward, saw his face and dragged him out, pulling him all the way to the sparsely populated pharmacy.
She paid him little attention, merely shoving a cup of hot drink into his hands—the apothecary was too busy. Samuel numbly cradled the steaming cup, thinking of the shattered Cup of the Waning Moon and the man who had died in tatters. He wasn't a bad man, Samuel thought.
He thought of the ward still bustling with activity. He had to hurry back to help; self-punishment could wait. He thought of the battlefield, wondering how many wounded hadn't been brought back yet, how many had died there outright. Then he thought of the other side—the north must have just as many wounded and dead. How many were dying every moment? Double the casualties, double the suffering, double the blood. At this thought, the Son of Saro broke down.
"Why?" he sobbed, burying his face in his bloodstained palms. "They were... they were all people..."
The Quarter-Elf sighed and stroked his head.
The sky was darkening.
Marion shook another corpse from her mouth, leaping out of the crowd to gasp for air. Not a single spot on the white wolf remained clean; the blood of others and her own had stained her pure white fur in shades of reddish-brown. Marion looked up at the sky. Yes, it was darkening. The sun hadn't set; it was merely clouds.
Clouds were flowing in from all directions.
The battlefield was no longer as chaotic as it had been at the start. The warriors' throats were hoarse, and even the clash of weapons lacked the crisp force of earlier. Now the war had reached a stalemate, yet neither side would retreat. They waited for the northerners' morale to collapse, while the northerners waited for their strength to fail. All gritted their teeth, enduring while eyeing the other side hungrily. The first to falter would always be bitten.
From afar... was that singing?
Marion's ears twitched, pricking up to catch the distinct melody in the wind. She couldn't make out the words, but recognized the sound of a group singing. Who could it be? Who still had the energy to sing now?
Those below ground didn't know. Those on the battlefield didn't know. Perhaps only Tasha witnessed what was unfolding, aside from the participants themselves.
They were a group coming from the north.
The battlefield lay beyond the sentry post. As the fighting grew chaotic, the blockade proved useless. This band of peasant-clad figures slipped through the confusion, peering cautiously as they jogged along. The little brat in front even clutched a potted plant—who knew what they were up to? The combatants, locked in fierce battle, had no time to spare for them. Tasha had no energy left to spare for them either. Yet, across the battlefield, the Old Oak suddenly widened his eyes.
His branches spread wide, pointing skyward, leaves unfurling. He puffed out his cheeks, drew a deep breath, and blew—
Oak leaves began to flutter through the air, somewhat reminiscent of when Old Oak had used leaves to attack his pursuers earlier. But this time, the soft, fluffy leaves carried no lethal force. They simply drifted through the sky, floating over the battlefield and toward the group of farmers. They caught the leaves, gazed at the blank, wordless oak leaves, and suddenly began to laugh and cry, jumping and shouting. Then, as if reaching some shared understanding, they all ran together to an empty hillside not far from the battlefield.
As they ran, they grabbed each other—men, women, elders, and children all clasped hands, leaves clinging to their joined palms. Upon reaching their destination, everyone linked arms, forming a large circle.
They slowly turned in a circle, stepping to an odd dance rhythm while singing.
The essence of nature surged through the air. Tasha sensed something subtle flowing between the Oak Elder, the visitors, and the Withered Zone. The sky darkened, the wind grew fiercer. Clouds were swept toward them, coalescing into a churning mass of blackness.
It began to rain.
The downpour lashed the ground like whips, the sky thick as ink. You could barely discern direction, let alone find an enemy to fight. The battle lasted less than half a minute before the storm swept across the field, rendering combat impossible. Signal flares from the northern barracks guided the way, while the dungeon lit its unquenchable slime blue lamps. Warriors locked in stalemate scattered in a rush, each returning to their own quarters.
Fires across Red Eucalyptus County were extinguished, and evildoers were left dazed and rooted to the spot by the downpour. The goblin battle in the dungeon concluded. After binding the rider and singer, Tasha freed her hands to deal with them.
The Wolf-Headed One's body had completely collapsed. Her corpse and the paladin's could be dealt with later. Once the rogue was dealt with, the ghost over there could be repurposed. The group who summoned the storm, hand-in-hand, moved toward the oak. Before the ghost could warn them, one slipped in the wind and rain, tumbling down the slope into the dungeon. Like dumplings in boiling water, the rest followed in a cascade.
"They've come," the Old Oak said, weary yet content. "Thank you."
On the hillside where the druid had danced, the first wild grass of spring broke through the soil in the rain.