Lin Jun’s impression of this demonkin tribe was quite good.
Perhaps because they had long dwelled in the bitter cold of the far north, far from the conflicts of the continent, these demonkin’s minds seemed far more straightforward than others.
Like this time, when it came to redeeming the magic cores, Shou suggested that the contribution points of those present should be pooled together.
If this were among humans, someone would almost certainly jump out to question it: “Why don’t those who aren’t here have to contribute?”
But the demonkin didn’t.
Most of them carried an awareness that the tribe was greater than the individual. Perhaps it was exactly this awareness that allowed them to survive in the far north.
At the same time, the harsh environment had forged a nature that was both easily satisfied yet unyieldingly resilient.
To them, being able to eat their fill of mushrooms was already a good day. To be linked with the Mycelium Carpet, to feel that magical warmth coursing through them, was an immense blessing. And now, to even have the chance to retrieve the magic cores of their departed kin—this was fortune upon fortune!
As for labor, whether it was taking Pujis deep into the mines to dig out magic crystals, or patrolling in the slightly stifling caves to sweep out monsters, they carried out these dull and tiring tasks without complaint, even with a steady sense of fulfillment.
Simply put: low labor cost, hardworking, resilient, and with excellent individual qualities—in Lin Jun’s eyes, they were perfect… employees.Right now, Lin Jun was in what could be called a honeymoon period with the demonkin. With the successful redemption of the first magic core, this harmony had advanced another step.
Currently, about one-sixth of the tribe had already connected to the Spore Network, becoming Lin Jun’s “formal employees.”
And within Lin Jun’s secret treasure vault, thirty-two magic cores of the departed demonkin still lay quietly, and this number was one he had disclosed from the very start.
To redeem all of them, at the current rate of contribution point accumulation, they would either have to save for a year or two, or bring more tribesmen into “work.”
But regardless of the path chosen, the end was clear: the entire tribe would ultimately be integrated fully into Lin Jun’s system.
The only difference was the process.
Thus, even though the demonkin still cautiously guarded their final line, deliberately avoiding mention of their tribe’s most central “Cradle,” Lin Jun was in no rush at all.
The demonkin needed time to digest and accept this inevitable future.
And the more harmonious their relations became, the less of a shock it would be to their hearts when they finally accepted it.
Lin Jun had nothing but patience.
In the past, he had been driven in circles by the survival crises of the Dungeon, spinning like a top that could never stop.
Now that he had seized control of the Dungeon, with a stable rear base, his mentality had grown ever more composed.
The outcome was already set. Whether the demonkin accepted it sooner or later—it was all the same. Whatever made them happy.
——
While Lin Jun was calm and unhurried, not far from the Amethyst Dungeon, there were those already consumed with anxiety.
It had been eleven days since the humans withdrew.
The camp was pitched in the wasteland twelve li from the Dungeon. Most of the town residents and wealthy adventurers had fled to nearby cities. Those who remained were mostly gaunt, hollow-eyed refugees.
“How’s the Dungeon holding up?” Inside a makeshift tent, Fahl asked Aedin, who was holding a scrying crystal.
“It hasn’t collapsed yet, but I checked the first floor—spatial rifts are everywhere.” Aedin replied wearily.
“You’ve been working hard lately.”
“Just my duty.”
Only after Aedin’s figure vanished through the tent flap did Fahl let out a long sigh. He turned toward Mirabelle, who wore the same furrowed brow as he did. “How long can our provisions hold out?”
Mirabelle pulled a bitter face. “At the current scale, enough for seven days. But more refugees join the camp every day. Four days might be our limit…”
So many refugees gathered in one place—suddenly cutting off food supplies would be a disaster, far worse than letting them starve scattered elsewhere!
“Can’t we… ask the Guild Headquarters for aid?” Mirabelle asked tentatively, her voice as faint as a mosquito’s buzz.
Fahl shot her a glance, and she fell silent at once.
He slid a letter across the table toward her. “I already asked. But they can’t spare food either.”
Mirabelle scanned the letter quickly, then gasped in a whisper: “War? The army requisitioned the supplies first?! Then what are we supposed to do?”
Liliane said nothing, only quietly massaged Fahl’s temples, where veins bulged.
Fahl closed his eyes, thinking for a long time. “Three days… If the Dungeon hasn’t collapsed by then, we’ll take the risk. Send people inside to gather mushrooms.”
After making his decision, he dismissed the worried Mirabelle, then wearily picked up the bowl of porridge on the table, cold long ago.
He gulped it all down and smacked his lips.
“So bad…”
——
Deep in the mountains beside the temporary camp.
An arrow shot through the forest, piercing a wild boar’s neck with precision.
“Yes! Meat tonight!” Phylline lifted her bow, whispering in excitement, but her joy spilled out nonetheless.
Everyone could see that the camp’s food shortage was worsening. Veyra had decided to hunt in the mountains to help feed the refugees—or at least lighten the burden on the camp.
Her gaze unconsciously flicked to the elf beside her. Ever since leaving the Dungeon area, this elf hadn’t hurried back to the forest but had simply remained naturally with their group.
“Sirian,” Veyra asked hesitantly, “I heard druids… don’t really like people eating meat?”
“That’s just a rumor…” Fein quickly whispered a reminder.
The elf’s lips curved as he calmly waved it off. “Indeed, just a rumor. Not only do we not dislike it, druids eat meat too. To be honest, I haven’t had any in days—I can barely stand! What we oppose is senseless killing beyond what survival requires.”
“I see!” Veyra and Phylline exchanged a look—new knowledge unlocked.
With the boar down, they didn’t descend the mountain right away, but kept climbing until they reached a clear mountain stream pooling into a quiet pond among the rocks.
Veyra pointed at the water. “Here. Bathing here beats squeezing into that muddy lake by the camp.”
Sirian surveyed the spot, nodding in agreement. Compared to the camp’s lake, teeming with people and filthy besides, this mountain spring was far superior.
Veyra hefted the heavy boar. “You three wash first. I’ll deal with this guy downstream.”
Phylline and Fein cheered and eagerly began unfastening the gear they’d worn for over half a month, caked in sweat and dust.
“Hm?” Veyra paused, surprised. “You’re not going to wash?”
“Of course I am.” Sirian answered crisply.
“Then… why not with them?” Veyra tilted her chin toward the pond, where the twins were already barefoot, testing the water.
The elf looked troubled. “Even if we’re different races, bathing with the opposite sex is still…”
Veyra studied his delicate face. “Huh?”