The people following the soldiers witnessed the nature of their work.
Groups of soldiers marched in formation to the ruins of Angaso Forest. Outside the forest, piles of tools lay scattered—shovels, rakes, wheelbarrows, and more. Under the officers' commands, they dispersed, clearing away large chunks of deadwood and shoveling aside rubble and fallen branches.
The fallen trees on the ground were mere skeletal frames now. Dehydrated, the dead wood felt as light as the loose cork in a wine bottle. Trunks thick enough to require two hands to encircle could be lifted from the ground by just two men—one lifting with his head, the other with his feet—a sight that was quite astonishing. These hollowed-out shells weighed scarcely more than a man. Some were shriveled like dried radishes, others hollowed out as if eaten by insects. Many rain-soaked trunks proved impossible to lift; attempts to pry them loose shattered the wood into segments. In the end, soldiers resorted to smashing the logs with shovels, then shoveling the fragments into wheelbarrows for removal.
The accompanying carpenter was deeply disappointed. None of this rotten wood, worse than termite-eaten, was salvageable.
The Angaso Forest was vast. The large force carrying the magic cannons hadn't managed to clear much in a day or two, and the scattered troops now couldn't hope to clear much more in a single day either. By the end of the day's work, they had cleared an area roughly half the size of a small square. The captain stood atop the piled timber, waving a bottle to signal the soldiers and onlookers to focus on him.
Everyone had seen the captain take a palm-sized water bottle after his meal, but none of the soldiers had ever received anything besides food from the stall in front of the hut. They hadn't pressed the matter, dismissing it as a special privilege for their commander. Now Captain Harriet raised the bottle and proclaimed loudly, "Starting tomorrow, you too will use the potion inside to purify the land! But no one is to drink this stuff—there's no cure if you do!"
The crowd nodded in agreement, but the captain wasn't finished. He waved to his side, and his aide brought forward a cage filled with large rats. On the captain's orders, the aide had deliberately paraded the rats around the perimeter of the crowd, showcasing how lively and energetic these nearby-caught house rats were.
After circling the field, the rats were placed into the captain's hands. Captain Harriet unscrewed the cap, tilted the bottle slightly, and poured a small amount onto the cage.
Those in the front rows could see the bottle dispensing a liquid of terrifying color—a moldy octopus ink, purple tinged with green, green flecked with black. No one in their right mind would want to drink it. But those in the front rows also immediately understood why the captain had made a point of saying it. Upon opening the cap, the bottle released a fragrance that wafted out, smelling particularly enticing, causing soldiers who had worked all day to swallow hard. The rats clearly agreed. Several large house rats scrambled upright, jostling to lap at the liquid on the cage's top. After a few licks, they collapsed belly-up within seconds.
When the adjutant held the cage filled with dead rats under everyone's noses, those who saw the gruesome state of the rats would never entertain any thoughts about the liquid in the bottle again.
"This is a special agent provided by our allies," Captain Harriet explained in simpler terms. "It's poison to living creatures, but it counteracts the toxins in the contaminated soil, allowing the land to gradually return to its former state. Starting tomorrow, we'll apply this agent to the appropriate locations—just like this!"
Colonel Harriet evenly sprinkled the remaining liquid from the bottle onto the pile of dead wood at her feet. Onlookers stared wide-eyed as the treated branches and leaves began to quiver and crackle, as if ignited by fire. They watched in astonishment as the strange liquid and strange wood produced an equally strange reaction, their eyes fixed on the scene until the commotion subsided and all returned to stillness.
The pile showed no further change, leaving both soldiers and civilians with looks of unfulfilled anticipation. Having witnessed that miraculous reaction, they all anticipated something more dramatic—like the wood turning white, bursting into flames (oh, and the captain would have to jump down first, of course), or evaporating into thin air... things like that. This half-baked outcome, like a magic trick cut short mid-performance, left those prepared to witness alien sorcery feeling somewhat disappointed.
The captain paid no heed. He leaped down and ordered his aide to burn the pile of dead wood. Addressing the soldiers, he declared, "Specific assignments will be given tomorrow. Just remember: do not eat it. After emptying the bottles, return them. Understood?" Receiving affirmative responses, he began organizing the retreat.
Soldiers and onlookers alike kept glancing back at the forest behind them, though none could say what they sought. The captain had said the creatures remained nearby—this remote area would make an ideal habitat. And since the rumored creatures only appeared at night, with the sun about to set, people couldn't help but look around, scanning the forest with eyes that held either fear or anticipation. Naturally, they found nothing.
The forest remained untamed, its former inhabitants now dwelling beneath its canopy.
The two teams setting up stalls in Red Eucalyptus County and Antler Town closed shop for the day, leaving behind a constant stream of onlookers whispering among themselves—debating whether the newly erected hut would be too cramped for four people to sleep in. "Don't they need to wash up?" someone remarked. "How many beds will they need?" another asked. People outside gestured at the hut's dimensions, estimating there'd be little room to move after placing a four-person bed—especially since the builders hadn't brought any beds when they arrived. This led to talk about the food they'd produced from nowhere, with speculation that perhaps humans could be stuffed into the same magical space used for storing provisions.
"No matter how human-like they appear, they're not human," the crowd finally concluded. "This is alien sorcery."
With that explanation, everything suddenly made perfect sense.
Neither the Amazons nor the Artisan Dwarves possessed the ability to create spatial pockets, nor did the Tassas. The dungeon was a convenient cheat code. The dungeon spread beneath the town, and the huts existed solely to obscure the view. Hidden behind wooden planks, the empty huts contained only a passageway that could be sealed again after their return. The goblins' skilled craftsmanship ensured the ground remained perfectly level, leaving not a trace for even the boldest thief to discover.
The two patrol squads returned today, their loved ones waiting along the path home with lavish dinners and warm embraces. The chorus of greetings and replies was too loud to follow every word—except, of course, for Tasha, who possessed omniscience here. She cleared several channels, listening to the dungeon dwellers converse with their loved ones while also tuning into the ghostcasts of surface dwellers discussing the event. She found it rather amusing. It was like when a research team pointed and whispered about a herd of zebras in a nature reserve, only to have those zebras discussing the new arrival of bipeds.
Who knew which side was the zebra?
Doreen, the Amazon warrior running a stall in Antler Town, sounded downright furious. She complained to her sister about being forced to spend the entire day under the gaze of a bunch of idiots, wasting time meant for training. Tarsha had deliberately selected Amazons whose loved ones hadn't perished in the recent battles with humans, but Doreen clearly wasn't cut out for this. She sounded like she'd draw her sword if she had to endure another day. Her twin sister tried to comfort her, suggesting Doreen sneak off for a shift swap whenever she couldn't take it anymore.
The older warrior remained relatively composed. An Amazon named Carol reported to the queen on the approximate population of each city she visited, estimating the number of people of fighting age. "Not worth mentioning," she said contemptuously. "They don't even dare meet my gaze."— —Now Tasha was certain she was deliberately glaring. A shop attendant intimidating/taunting every potential customer with her gaze? Very Amazonian indeed. Her tone brimmed with eager responsibility, utterly convinced this market stall was merely a Trojan horse, ready to spring into battle at any moment.
The male Amazonians discussed their first sight of a human town, talking about people's clothes, the nearby shops, and their way of life. "Those people are so rude," one shook his head. "They stare like we're some kind of rare animal, as if we wouldn't mind." Another nodded in agreement, adding, "At least they didn't attack us. And their shoes look pretty good."
"Next time, I'll remember to cut off the enemy's feet," his friend, a young warrior, said, propping his chin on his hand.
"Don't be so disgusting!" he grimaced, making a gagging face. "I'd never wear dead man's shoes!"
"Then you can make them take them off if they want food," the female warrior shrugged. "Those bastards destroyed our homes. They owe us."
Many Amazonians wore expressions of agreement.
The atmosphere on the other side was far more lively. Nearly all the artisan dwarves crowded into their great hall, surrounding the four returning members like heroes. These short folk, raised in the Wanderers' Camp, had never visited human towns—small villages were manageable, but towns risked encountering patrolling garrisons. Thus, a county seat seemed as mysterious to them as a castle. What did a county seat look like? Did it have a castle? Did people ride horses? Were all the people soldiers? Were there many red hounds roaming the streets? Were humans fierce? ... A hundred thousand questions swarmed the surrounded figures from all directions, their voices buzzing like a swarm of restless bees. Tasha watched the questioned dwarves nod and shake their heads in turn, doubting whether these Artisan Dwarves could even hear the questions, or if the questioners knew which gesture was meant for them.
Two teams finished their tasks, but Tasha's work continued.
She kept busy in the kitchen, tossing unwashed greens into a large pot, sprinkling in some salt, bringing it to a boil, and serving it out. [Add a spoonful of sugar] This skill had to be completed through cooking, but "cooking" itself allowed for shortcuts—after all, preparing an elaborate banquet or boiling instant noodles both counted as cooking. After numerous experiments, Tasha had perfected this soup recipe—the fastest to prepare, consuming the least magic, and thus the most economical purification potion.
Marion assisted nearby, part of her training regimen. She diluted the soup to the proper consistency, added coloring (a new kitchen ingredient—raspberries—whose oxidized juice turned a disgusting hue, making it useful for preventing accidental consumption), then carefully bottled it without spilling a drop. This patient work also served as part of Marion's emotional control training. Tashar, buried in her task, pretended not to notice the ears that perked up and fell back down, or the silent growl that escaped when another vial was accidentally knocked over. A furry tail darted out from beneath her skirt, lashing out impatiently.
The other assistant here bore equal responsibility for Marion's irritability.
"I won't eat anything you make!" Samuel, the Holy Son of Salo, reiterated. "And I didn't make a deal with you! I simply couldn't bear to see the land endure that wicked curse any longer—that's all!"
"Very well. Would you like some milk?" Mavis asked kindly.
"...Half a cup, thanks," Samuel muttered, his voice rising. "I'm not thanking a foreigner like you! I only say 'thank you' because the Saro teachings tell us to be polite!"
Marion crushed the bottle in her hand. The low growl rolling in her throat made Samuel's hand holding the cup tremble, nearly spilling the milk.
It was unavoidable. With the potion to clear negative states only able to be crafted by Tashar herself, diluting the potion was the only way to increase efficiency beyond simple cooking. The more diluted the medicinal sugar solution became, the smaller the area it could purify. Beyond a critical point, it would even become ineffective. Therefore, determining the precise ratio to divide a single batch of potion to purify the largest possible area of land required not only exact calculations but also accurate measurements.
Tasha could sense curses and purification, but it remained a vague perception. Salo's Holy Child, with eyes that could see evil, served as a high-precision measuring instrument here. He was responsible for collaborating on experiments to develop the optimal formula and subsequently inspecting each bottle to ensure proper dilution.
Having Marion and Samuel work together? Well, it's like trying to walk a dog and a cat that can't stand each other at the same time.
Plus, there's another troublemaker.
"Ooh, your little dog's transforming! Guess if she'll get all fired up and bite through the Holy Son of Saro's throat?"
"Tsk, she backed off. Coward."
"That priest pulled out the Sunbeam Staff! Does this idiot actually plan to beat an orc to death with a stick? ...Abyss, this is even more ridiculous than I imagined! He actually wants to purify an orc with the Sunbeam Staff? Is this guy here for laughs?"
"The pup's furious. Orcs act before they think. If something really happens, what are you gonna do? Make her stand guard next to the Holy Son's corpse holding a sign that says 'Sorry, I'm a bad dog who bites people'?"
"The priest is praying. Watch out—Saro's brain-dead cultists always do this before suicide attacks. If you get bitten by one of those kindly released flies, I'll mock you for at least fifty years."
"Hahahahahahahaha?? Help! He's trying to purify the orc with the Sunbeam Staff... Hahahahaha... Purify the elf? Why not purify a unicorn? (choking laughter)"
If Victor's commentary were publicly screened, there'd be a fifty percent chance it'd incite the werewolf girl and Pastor Saro to immediately start beating each other up. The other fifty percent chance would see them temporarily set aside their grudges, join forces, and first give Victor a thorough thrashing. Tasha thought: If all demons were like him, then the Abyss becoming the scapegoat king and "peace ambassador" for all races of Eryan was entirely their own doing.
Demons courting death will still meet their end.
Tasha didn't mind this background noise. It felt like cooking with the TV on, listening to a comedy for amusement. She chuckled a few times, grateful for her current bony face—any expression could look profoundly mysterious, cool, and commanding.
Besides, it wouldn't actually come to blows.
Tasha watched Mavis step between Samuel and Marion like a heat shield, ignoring the intense stares from both sides. "Tap tap! Snack time!" " She cheerfully pressed a tray into Marion's hands. A small plate held an upside-down pudding topped with jam, shaped into an adorable wolf's head. Marion ate the pudding's ears, her tail beneath her skirt swishing excitedly. Mavis muttered to herself again, "What to do? There seems to be an extra smoked fish in the kitchen. Should I throw it away?"
"Saro teaches us not to waste!" Samuel declared solemnly. "I shall dispose of this delicacy destined for waste... ahem, I mean leftovers!"
Thank you, esteemed Kindergarten Director Mavis. Tasha felt this gratitude from the bottom of her heart.
The next day, soldiers heading to the Angaroth Forest discovered others had arrived ahead of them.
They appeared ordinary, yet their uniformed attire starkly contrasted with locals. Unease rippled through the ranks: Captain's forces had never clashed directly with the Amazons, but survivors from the battle involving the mage cannon had been incorporated into his unit. The soldiers gasped at the familiar faces, realizing that the ruthless enemies who had slaughtered countless lives in the previous Angaroth Forest battle—those female warriors who wielded bows with godlike precision—now stood mere meters away, glaring at them with hostile eyes.
The officers in the unit reprimanded these men, removing some overly agitated soldiers from the ranks. Today, the captain once again led the team. He exchanged a few brief words with the woman wearing the headdress—the leader of those people—then guided his group to an area not overlapping with theirs, announcing the start of the cleanup.
A tense atmosphere hung between the two construction teams, neither acknowledging the other as they worked diligently. Occasional glances across the divide held no warmth, and the hushed conversations within each group carried a threat—were they overheard, they might spark minor altercations. Fortunately, the area designated by Tashan was precisely sized: both sides could not ignore each other, yet could not hear each other either.
The soldier who had screamed earlier was released after undergoing ideological education and reassurance. Following the captain's speech and repeated admonitions from officers at all levels, the soldiers were now mentally prepared to cooperate with their former enemies. The Amazonians, obeying their queen's command, also understood that this particular group of soldiers, at least, had not directly shed their blood. Thus, for the time being, the two sides could coexist without encroaching on each other's territory.
Beyond this, a "third party" made their appearance.
As a section of the forest was cleared, a figure clad in robes emerged. Crowned and staff in hand, the golden patterns on his white robe shimmered in the morning sun. The priest of Saro held his head high, adorned in attire his ancestors had concealed for centuries. His fingers trembled slightly with excitement, yet his steps were steadier and more resolute than ever. The saints who had heard the divine word centuries ago stood with him. The faithful who had hidden for centuries, preserving the sacred texts in darkness, stood with him. This moment deserved to be recorded in history. At last, the priests of the sun stood once more beneath the sunlight.
An inexplicable force halted most people in their tasks. They turned their heads, gazing at the young Son of the Sun bathed in daylight. His face was enveloped in a halo of sanctity—that radiance of the faithful left most speechless. Who could utter disrespect to such a figure at this moment? Finally, a soldier with nerves of steel couldn't hold back and called out.
"Doctor!" he bellowed. "Why are you dressed like a giant rabbit?"
Samuel's serene expression shattered instantly. After a moment of suppressed fury, he roared, "This is the vestments of Saro!!"
The Saros Cult had once swept across Erian, and its clergy attire perfectly aligned with human aesthetics—solemn, majestic, holy, and beautiful. The ornate patterns on the ceremonial robes remained as bright as new, even after centuries of inheritance. The golden crown, adorned with priceless gems and gold-foil tassels, inspired Tashar to respect these Saros devotees—so destitute they wouldn't dismantle this attire for cash. Yet the robes, though subtly luxurious with their golden patterns, appeared pure white at first glance. Two pristine, rounded fabric panels extended from the front of the crown, cascading down either side of the Saros Son's cheeks and draping over his shoulders. They were strikingly conspicuous, adorning him like a giant lop-eared rabbit.
Victor laughed himself silly in Tashan's mind. Those big eyes in the book might have even shed tears of laughter. Between fits of uncontrollable laughter, he gasped, " That priest put the crown on backwards, hahahaha..."
What to do? It was almost too pitiful to laugh at. The Salo priest's attire was incredibly complex; a minor issue with putting it on was entirely understandable. Tasha looked at the Salo Son with pity—a figure who likely only got to wear this full regalia once every few centuries—and decided to tell him about it later.
Though the entrance was a failure, the job still had to be done. Samuel was here to direct the field segmentation. His task was to monitor the coverage of the purifying potion, mark out the grid, and fill in any gaps after everyone had finished pouring from their bottles. Wearing this full regalia was likely for missionary purposes. His little scheme was obvious, and Tasha had no intention of stopping him, no matter how alarmist Victor had been earlier.
If the Saros Cult were truly as dangerous as a pyramid scheme, how had its legacy fallen into such disrepair?
Samuel's presence not only aided the Angaroth Forest purification effort but also lightened the mood—laughter rippled through both sides of the crowd as he earnestly insisted those weren't rabbit ears. Like a competent priest, he had indeed defused the tense situation, though not quite as he'd intended.
He seemed oblivious to this, however.
By the fourth day, soldiers began heckling him during breaks. "Priest! Mr. Priest of Saro!" they chanted. "Come on! Show us the glory of Saro!"
"Is the glory of Saro something to be summoned with mere words?" Samuel declared solemnly.
"Praise Saro!"
The crowd echoed knowingly, mimicking his awkward prayer. Samuel smiled with restrained satisfaction, his face radiant with missionary triumph, and raised the Sun Staff.
As the Sun Staff blazed brilliantly in his hand, the soldiers applauded, and the Amazons relaxed.
Later that week, a soldier offered a cigarette to a curious Amazon boy. Though the boy coughed incessantly, his mother scolded him and snatched the cigarette away, the next morning he tossed a wooden flute to the soldier from a distance as thanks for the smoke.
By the latter half of the second week, lunch featured a fragrant chicken soup. One particularly hungry Amazon warrior pushed too far forward in line, forgetting to maintain the "half-meter camp distance" (a lunch queue rule that seemed to Tarsha as childish as the 38th Parallel). She craned her neck eagerly to peek ahead when the person in front suddenly exclaimed, Smells amazing. I bet they added vanilla beans."
Only then did the Amazonian realize she was too close, but Amazonians never back down. So she pretended nothing was wrong and gave a vague "Mm-hmm."
"Man, I love vanilla beans. How did they get them? They're sold out in town. Those bastards blocked the northern road—can't even buy them now. Damn Northerners." The soldier continued without turning his head.
The Amazonian wrestled with herself for a full thirty seconds, because she loved vanilla beans too—her parents and sisters didn't. Well, what harm could one word do? He'd already said so much; if anyone was going to lose face, it would be him. With that thought, she replied as nonchalantly as possible, "Vanilla beans are nice."
The soldier whipped his head around in surprise, clearly realizing for the first time that the figure behind him wasn't a comrade. He recalled the boasts he and his buddies shared over drinks—how these soldiers, when drunk, loved to brag about how brave they'd be facing terrifying Amazon women, how they'd use humanity's brilliant eloquence to drive them mad. But this felt different. He meant during lunch breaks, when they'd randomly insult fellow vanilla bean enthusiasts for no reason. The soldier scratched his scalp in frustration, opening his mouth, closing it, opening it again...
"What exactly are you trying to say?" The woman behind him folded her arms, eyeing him suspiciously. "Just spit it out!"
In the midday sun, she was as beautiful as a drawn sword.
"Um," the soldier stammered, "Vanilla beans are awesome."