“Treants!” Veyra tensed slightly at the figures approaching.
Only slightly, because the three of them had lived through the sixth floor and knew—ever since the treants had entered symbiosis with the Pujis, they would sometimes emerge from the secret grove, yet like the Pujis, they never attacked unprovoked.
But now they were walking straight toward them with clear intent, and Veyra’s fingers instinctively tightened on his hilt.
To his surprise, Sirian stepped forward eagerly, green eyes alight with wonder.
“Treants here too? And… they have mushrooms growing on their bark, not moss?”
One of the taller treants extended a gnarled branch, gently wrapping it around Sirian’s wrist, as if probing.
Veyra’s heart skipped. “Hey, is that safe?”
“It’s fine,” Sirian soothed, closing his eyes. His lashes quivered, and the faintest green glow shimmered around him. After a moment, he opened them again, glancing at his tense companions. “They’re asking for help.”
“Druids can… talk with monsters like this?” Phylline gasped.
“It’s a talent born of our elven bloodline,” Sirian explained. “If both sides open their hearts, we can just barely sense simple emotions.”Once the treants finished their “contact,” they slowly turned away. Sirian followed without hesitation. “Shall we see what they want?”
“Could be a trap…” Veyra muttered, but his feet already moved. No way was he letting Sirian go alone.
“I sense no malice,” Sirian said. “But caution is wise. Keep sharp.”
Guided by the treants, they crossed the cursed wasteland and reached the surviving half of the sixth floor.
Through a shaded, overgrown path, they arrived at their destination.
Standing at the grove’s entrance, Veyra eyed the thick roots and their fungal coatings with awe. “So the rumors were true—the sixth floor holds a treant grove. No wonder the entrance was hidden so deep!”
Inside, they hadn’t gone far before the treants stopped. Their branches pointed ahead, and without words, the group understood why they had been brought: several treants on the brink of death.
Sirian frowned, scanning the roots wrapped in damp soil, the freshly overturned earth. Coupling it with the wasteland outside, he guessed the truth.
“The transplantation was too rough…” he murmured.
He said no more, placing his palms against the sick treant’s trunk. Green light flowed from his hands into its veins.
Where the glow passed, the grayness of the bark peeled back, and a hint of hidden vitality glimmered through.
Sirian smiled, seeing results.
Veyra, however, wore a complicated look. His eyes drifted from the healing treant to the others in the grove, then beyond—to the wasteland outside.
Wasn’t their workload… multiplying again?
——
Everything in the sixth floor fell within the senses of one blue mushroom.
Lin Jun’s biggest impression: Nature Magic was a treasure!
Acceleration, healing—and it worked especially well with mushrooms. It felt more compatible with his system than any other element!
But so far, he had never seen a human with Nature Magic. Was it elf-exclusive? He’d have to ask Aedin.
To wield it himself, he needed first to acquire the skill by decomposition, and second to learn the spells.
But from what he observed, every one of the elf’s spells required chanting!
So… vocal Pujis?
And in Elvish, no less—a language Lin Jun didn’t understand. He’d need to study another tongue?
He made a mental note, slotting it into his long “to-do list.” Alongside Nature Magic, Abyss Magic also tempted him.
But since that fleeting glimpse at the port, he’d never encountered another user. It seemed extremely rare.
Research never ceased. Lin Jun had already finished a dozen magic books, skimming through their spells.
Mostly low-level, not too difficult. He had dabbled in all of them. Aside from Mire Spell, which he could cast reliably, the rest were only at “usable” level.
Still, unlike a mage, he wouldn’t die if his casting lagged. At worst, he’d just swap in a magic Puji.
…
Days passed. Veyra’s group now spent every day running between two tasks.
First, helping restore treants. Then, venturing into the cursed wasteland to coax life back into the earth. All of it rested on Sirian’s shoulders.
Fein’s acceleration magic was useful on the road, but Veyra and Phylline could only watch helplessly.
Feeling guilty, the two began handling “logistics” instead—hunting boars in the sixth floor’s intact areas, or gathering nectar from plant monsters, to improve their meals.
They lived in the treant grove now, safe and sound. Food came from the Pujis—endless mushroom soup—but variety was up to them.
While they worked below, the surface world shifted.
——
Fahl, pressed by reality, could no longer wait for the Dungeon’s collapse. With no choice, he sent teams to the entrance—to monitor the Dungeon and gather mushrooms.
But when the Guild’s collectors arrived, they were stunned.
The mushrooms were already in high demand!
The first bold adventurers had hauled baskets of mushrooms to market, making fortunes. The rumor spread like wildfire, igniting greed everywhere.
Who cared if the Dungeon was near collapse?
They weren’t going in, only picking at the edge. At the first sign of trouble, they could run.
Besides, maybe collapse would strike others, not them. They might harvest today, sell for gold, and only then would disaster strike.
Invisible risks, versus tangible coin? Easy choice.
“Fortune favors the bold!”—the frenzy spread. Adventurers swarmed like sharks scenting blood, joining the mushroom gold rush.
And not only adventurers. In a famine-stricken age, refugees too joined in, families with baskets in hand.
So when the Guild’s team arrived, all they saw was chaos—and mycelium trampled bare.
Not a mature mushroom in sight. Even tiny sprouts the size of fingertips had been plucked clean.
The Guild scrambled to add manpower, even bartering away warehouse supplies in exchange for mushrooms.
Two months ago such trades would have been charity. Now Fahl could only grit his teeth and send Mirabelle to negotiate.
Adventurers, though making less, still saved time compared to city trips, so they mostly agreed.
But this was no long-term fix.
Inside the Guild tent, Fahl solemnly handed a sealed letter to Aedin. “Sorry. This time… I must ask you to be our envoy.”
Aedin accepted it, already knowing its contents.
Everywhere was starving. With war against the demons, all grain went first to the army. No noble would open his granaries for refugees.
The mushrooms at the Dungeon were their last hope.
But letting refugees harvest freely would turn the place into a hell of survival of the fittest.
Even now, adventurers and a few refugees had already trampled parts of the mycelium, reducing yield.
Fahl lacked the authority to enforce order.
So he needed the St. Clair family.
The Dungeon wasn’t theirs, but Yafeng(Silentwind) Town—the land around the entrance—was.
By law, its output belonged to the duke.
Normally no lord would invoke such an unpopular right. But this was no normal time. And with Lady Inanna herself bonded to the King of Pujis, the claim had weight.
If Aedin could win Inanna’s support, and through her the duke’s, then Fahl could gain authority to regulate harvests and distribution, easing the crisis.
But Fahl remembered Inanna disliked him. Aedin, with his friendship and quick wit, was his only hope.
That’s why he apologized. This was no pleasant mission.
Success meant saving refugees—people of little worth in society’s eyes. Failure would make enemies of adventurers whose profits were cut.
In famine, culling “excess” poor was a cold but effective strategy.
Asking Aedin to plead for such a cause was harsh.
But Aedin simply nodded.
Fahl had already done everything possible for strangers.
Aedin himself would never go so far. At best he’d help a beggar on the road—but never shoulder this burden.
Yet seeing Fahl’s resolve, he felt respect. Everyone wished for more “good men” around them.
With the letter in hand, he mounted his horse and left.
Not for the duke’s estate, not yet. He turned instead toward an area touched faintly by mycelium.
He needed to report to his boss first…
——
Huh?
A message rippled through Lin Jun’s awareness, interrupting his thoughts.
Management of mycelium? Saving refugees?
Aedin’s report made him pause. But he let him go deliver the letter.
Lin Jun himself was indifferent to who managed the harvest. In famine, the mycelium would spread regardless.
But saving refugees—that struck home.
Mostly because the blue mushroom was softhearted.
Sure, refugees were blank slates, easier to mold, perhaps useful long-term… but those were minor.
What mattered was saving lives.
Their goals aligned—why not help? Even if Fahl had crossed him before.
Shifting his view, Lin Jun peered through the Knight Puji at the duke’s estate.
As always, Inanna had it at her side.
In the steamy bathhouse, she sat by the pool, hugging a dirt-smeared Puji, gently scrubbing it with a sponge, trying to restore its white sheen.
Beside her sat a row of freshly cleaned Pujis. On her other side, a line of muddy ones waited for her “service.”
She’d taken them hunting today—every last one had come back a mudball.
They could have drowned if she hadn’t learned not all had [Underwater Adaptation]. The first time, she lost one (revived later), so now she bathed them one by one herself.
Servant work, but she enjoyed it.
Suddenly, her hand froze mid-scrub. She tilted her head, wet hair clinging to her cheek.
Did she just… hear the Boss?
“Inanna!” Lin Jun’s voice came again through the bond.
“It is the Boss!” Her face lit up with joy—then confusion. “Boss, how are you talking to me? There’s no mycelium here!” She glanced around at the misty bath.
“I’m speaking through the Knight Puji. But listen, Aedin—remember him? He’s coming soon…” Lin Jun explained quickly, about the refugees and the letter.
But Inanna’s thoughts were already astray. She stared dazedly at the Puji in her lap.
If the Boss could talk through the Knight Puji all along… then why had he stayed silent all this time? Why?