As the two construction teams in Angasso Forest gradually began communicating with each other, the situation in Red Gum County and Antler Town was also shifting.
New varieties of food appeared at the stalls.
Alongside milk, bread, grilled meat, and white melons, fresh additions graced the stalls each day. Yesterday, small boxes held rows of gleaming white eggs, each twice the size of chicken eggs. Today, they laid out plump, prepared fish fillets on the cutting board—the skin glistening fresh and tempting, the cross-section revealing tender, pink flesh. The short man lifted the board with the fish displayed atop it. His hands and body were so small that, like a child holding a fish, it made the creature appear enormous.
Many watched with mouths watering. Since the forest had been sealed off, the fish that used to swim downstream were trapped in the past. Though the southeastern corner of Erian bordered the sea, the coastline just over ten kilometers away was steep and treacherous. Fishing boats tossed into those waters would shatter on hidden reefs. Even the most skilled swimmers couldn't guarantee a safe return every time, let alone contend with the sea eagles nesting near the rocks, who were decidedly unfriendly to any competitors. In the past, the ocean had never been a reliable source of fish for this region.
Within Angaso Forest lay a lake, a wetland where people could fish, gather bird eggs, and harvest wild greens and aquatic plants. A river flowed through the forest, its waters murmuring even in the dry season. Each year, as summer gave way to autumn, a species of red-spotted trout would swim upstream during the river's fullest flow. They leapt from the sea, scaled waterfalls made less daunting by the rising tide, and journeyed back to their birthplace to spawn. For the brown bears and humans along the way, it was an annual feast.
Those days are gone.
The wetlands have merged with other ruins. Though the season for feasting remains, the river vanished along with the Angars Forest. Alternating bombardments from magic cannons and the Wither Curse utterly destroyed the stream that had survived countless droughts. Bears preparing for hibernation along its banks are doomed to starve—if they haven't already perished in the war. The red-spotted trout lost their migration paths. Adult fish, their bellies full of roe, had nowhere to return. Fry that had matured in distant rivers could not find their way home. At least recently, at least in this region, this delicious fish species that sustained so many lives vanished without a trace.
Only at the alien vendor's magical stall could one still find such a thing.
People restrained their steps toward the exchange with stubborn distrust. By the next day, the fish had vanished, prompting many to sigh regretfully. The daily additions to the food selection varied, repeating in an irregular cycle. This sense of "limited-time offerings" only made the craving more unbearable. When fish finally reappeared after much anticipation, a look of struggle spread across many faces. Just like during a big sale, the feeling was that not buying would be a loss.
But the alien stall didn't accept human currency.
They only took something called "short coins," all issued by them when settling soldiers' labor. Residents who'd borrowed some from soldiers noticed these metal coins were fingernail-sized, each intricately engraved with complex patterns—like peculiar crafts that defied replication. Those tempted to trade were halted by the fact that "money couldn't buy it." They were willing to pay, yet still hesitant or reluctant to join the alien laborers in their work.
By the end of the week, the soldiers working alongside the alien creatures remained unscathed. Those already engaged in physical labor watched them move things from afar, thinking they could handle it too. Then the food at the stalls changed again. What had been basic staples and ingredients before was replaced when a plump cook rolled up her sleeves and arrived at the stall.
Residents of Red Eucalyptus County testified that the cook strode confidently into the stall from outside. She wore the typical chef's robe, an apron, and sleeve guards, with a housewife's cooking cap on her head—the kind that completely encloses the hair to prevent strands from falling into the food. Plump and friendly-faced like a neighbor you'd never spoken to, the cook slipped through the crowd muttering "Excuse me" without drawing much attention—let alone provoking any strong reactions. As she neared the alien stall, some even kindly tried to call her back.
Under the startled stares of onlookers, the cook ducked low and slipped into the stall, greeting the alien workers there. The crowd murmured in astonishment. "She looks just like a human!" they grumbled. "You can't tell at all! She acts like a real chef!"
But she truly was a cook.
She washed her hands in a nearby basin, dried them off, and calmly began preparing food amidst the murmurs.
Cooking could be a delightful affair, provided the chef possessed skill.
Her fingers were plump like dough, yet her knife work was precise. With two swift strokes, she removed the inedible parts from the vegetables. Then came horizontal cuts, vertical slices, a deft wipe, and into the pot—all within a second or two. She glided lightly between the long countertops lined with various kitchen tools, moving the pot, adjusting the flame, stirring the soup—like a butterfly that occasionally alights. Before she began cooking, you would never have imagined associating a butterfly with a 200-pound middle-aged woman.
Flames licked the bottom of the iron pot as ingredients danced within, emitting enticing sounds. Fat seeped from chunks of meat, staining the vibrant green leaves. Potatoes and radishes required only a few appropriately sized chunks, while seasoning spices demanded precise chopping. The rhythmic clatter of the cleaver against the cutting board merged into a continuous hum. The unnamed dark root vegetables transformed magically into wafer-thin slices, only separating into amber-hued flakes once the cook withdrew her knife. She sprinkled the spices evenly across several pots working simultaneously, then flipped a massive iron wok upward. The ingredients and broth traced an arc through the air before landing precisely back inside.
Someone clapped enthusiastically, forgetting themselves. Others, though not quite so carried away, watched intently, forgetting to cast strange glances at the one applauding this alien creature. Below, someone warned which side was about to burn, more anxious than the cook herself; another, confident in their own culinary skills, pointed and gestured, declaring a step wrong, the timing off. Both groups fell silent as the cook's subsequent movements flowed with effortless grace. An edge of the egg mixture sizzled and curled in the nearby skillet. With a deft flick of her wrist during a pan flip, she slid the omelet onto a plate beside it. She seemed to have eyes in the back of her head, never missing a single moment.
The soup pot began bubbling vigorously, the sweet aroma of melting cream blending with the fragrances of other dishes to make mouths water. The visually appealing, aromatic dishes were served onto large platters and bowls sufficient for several people. To those of high rank or great wealth, such fare might seem unrefined, but the common folk present simply found the generous portions satisfying and the flavors doubly delicious. They watched intently as the cook finished garnishing a soup with mint leaves. The steaming bowls, their aroma wafting far and wide, drew yet another wave of onlookers drawn by the culinary display.
"Anyone want a bowl?" the cook called out warmly, tapping the pot with her ladle. That clinking sound, signaling lunch was ready, would for a long time afterward make residents in the neighborhood reflexively swallow. She blew on the steam rising from the dishes and said, "This needs to be eaten hot! I just can't bear to see it get cold."
She wasn't exaggerating. While the onlookers wrestled with the usual dilemma of waiting for the food to cool, the cook had already begun eating herself. She ladled a bowl of soup, blew on it, slurped a large mouthful, and wore a look of pure bliss. That was just the beginning. The onlookers watched in horror as all the aliens picked up their utensils.
Two short figures cheered as they grabbed plates, boldly scooping large chunks from the exquisitely arranged dishes—drawing frowns from many onlookers. The residents of Red Eucalyptus County watched helplessly as one after another stepped forward, the portions shrinking rapidly. The woman at the end of the line, however, possessed an appetite that bore no relation to her slender frame. She grabbed an enormous bowl and wielded a spoon that resembled a shovel. As she scooped, many grimaced as if the spoon were picking their pockets. By the time the woman-in-disguise-devourer left the table, the feast was nearly gone.
"Anyone else?" the cook asked again.
The peculiar effect of the limited-edition dish once more enveloped everyone, their faces contorted with almost tangible struggle. Yet within half a minute of her question, she nodded swiftly. A short man hurriedly sorted all the dishes into containers and carried them into the back room.
Wait, wasn't it supposed to be displayed to tempt us? Sighs echoed throughout the crowd. This defiance of convention nearly provoked anger among the residents. Aren't demons in stories supposed to prepare mountains of delicious food and distribute it freely to lure people into corruption? Is this a market stall or a cooking show?
Tasha, watching the disappointed faces, could finally grasp why culinary skills were portrayed as so compelling in various films and shows.
On the second day of the cooking demonstration, a hunter who'd reached his limit approached the stall.
Blaming it all on the allure of food was too simplistic. Such dramatic scenarios only happened in the world of Chinese ○ Master Chef. The daily wafting aromas were merely one contributing factor. The primary issue was that this hunter was destitute, nearly out of rice to cook.
The closure of Angaso Forest dealt a devastating blow to hunters. Woodcutters could still fell nearby trees for emergency supplies, but hunters couldn't scavenge rats for sustenance. They merely clung to meager subsidies, hoping the forest would reopen before their dwindling reserves ran out. Then the ban lifted, and the forest was gone.
Old Hunter Hunt was in his prime, a confirmed bachelor. Like many single hunters, he suffered from the common delusion that he could bag game anytime, justifying his lavish spending and hedonistic lifestyle. With no savings, he'd been planning to make a big push before winter. Now, life grew harder by the day. Working as a laborer barely covered his expenses, especially since news of the northern blockade and the Withered World drove grain prices sky-high.
Hunter hadn't had a proper meal in ages, surviving on one meal a day, spending every penny on food. That day, his wallet was empty and his stomach even emptier. The scent of food drew him to the central square, where he stopped before an alien vendor's stall. Watching the aliens share their satisfying meal, rage boiled within him, fueling a dark resolve: Why should they feast with grease dripping from their chins while I starve? Fuck it! If I'm gonna die, I'll die full!
Hunter Hunter was the first crack in the dam.
In the isolated southeast corner of Erian, people's stored grain wouldn't last through winter. It was still early autumn—the harvest shouldn't have run dry yet. But that assumption treated everyone as one collective entity. You're still a millionaire if you average your wealth with Jack Ma's—but life doesn't work by averages. Villagers, panicked by withering fields, refused to sell their remaining grain to townspeople or county buyers. Relatively wealthy landowners and merchants swiftly hoarded supplies, driving up prices as they schemed to profit from the crisis. Captain Harriet turned a blind eye, telling complainers that if they couldn't afford grain, they could trade with their neighbors—after all, the army was eating theirs.
Hunter Hunter was the first to reach his breaking point, but he wasn't the only one, nor would he be the last.
Like a dam with a hole, once the first civilian joined, more and more people fell into line to trade labor for food. Those still hesitant didn't stand on moral high ground condemning others for compromising with the alien race this time. They needed to leave themselves a way out, lest they join these people later and be slapped in the face by their own past words.
The human settlement isolated in the southeast corner had not developed a complete, self-sufficient system.
Small artisans faced production disruptions: some raw materials dried up, while others sat with finished goods they couldn't sell. Merchants from the north no longer came, and nearby villages, towns, and counties couldn't absorb the surplus. On one hand, no one wanted to buy their crafts; on the other, they couldn't lower prices, lest they have even less money to buy expensive grain. Prices soared daily. Under these conditions, human currency rapidly depreciated, while the dwarf coins used by the alien species became a stable safeguard—highly valued but scarce.
Soon, the stalls in the central square were packed to the brim. New problems began to surface: the forest grid had finite capacity, the number of people who could work simultaneously was limited, tools were not infinite, and thus, jobs were scarce. This realization ignited unprecedented fervor in the job market. Those who had been watching from the sidelines now realized with shock that positions would soon be in short supply.
At that moment, the cook removed her hat after finishing her work.
The crowd erupted in a murmur. All eyes fixed on the ears revealed beneath the hat. They sat in the same position as human ears, yet their sharp points made it clear they belonged to no human.
"A demon!" someone cried in terror.
"An elf," the cook explained calmly, even smiling. "A half-elf, to be precise. My grandfather was a forest elf."
This concept was too difficult for the residents of Erian's frontier to grasp. Though they'd once called them "half-breeds" in name, deep down they'd always seen them as ordinary humans wearing a label. Now, with pointed ears thrust before their eyes—a feature far more distinctive than mere short stature—the queue scattered in panic. A stampede ensued, and without the army maintaining order, the scene would have grown far uglier.
"She messed up," Victor said. "You messed up. You told her it was okay not to hide with magic."
"It was okay," Tasha replied.
"Oh, really? Look at those fools running scared of a half-blood forest elf. Seems like weeks of your work just went down the drain," Victor sneered, watching the cursing crowd flee.
"They'll be back," Tasha said calmly. "Soon."
Soon. Very soon.
By the next day, half the crowd had reformed the line. Some who had sworn yesterday never to return now exchanged awkward glances and forced smiles. Many had indeed spent the night in taverns ranting about Erian's suffering, human dignity, and how the otherworldly deserved to die. But once home, they couldn't help but wonder: If I don't go, what happens when the food runs out? If everyone else has already compromised, won't I be left with no place and starve to death? They also thought: If others don't go, won't I be ahead tomorrow? Perhaps as the sole remaining willing trader, I could even get a good price...
And so, the cottage remained bustling with visitors.
"That's how it is when there's no choice, but I still don't think it's 'fine,'" Victor said. "You've seen how xenophobic humans are now. If we just claim we're not aliens, that it was all a misunderstanding, and then turn their leaders into puppets, things would become very simple. Lately, you've been choosing the most laborious and thankless solutions."
"I know exactly what I'm doing," Tasha replied.
She understood what Victor meant, and she understood what she was doing.
Using magic to transform food and hiring humans to clear the forest accelerated the restoration process, but it consumed a significant amount of mana. From the perspective of mere dungeon survival, caring for these humans or setting up stalls was actually an unprofitable endeavor.
But Tashan's goal had never been mere survival.
"I still feel it's not quite enough," she said.
Victor soon learned what she meant by "not quite enough."
Within less than a week, the job-seeking crowd swelled back to its previous size. Most able-bodied young men and women had arrived at the Angaso Forest cleanup site. Many who weren't suited for physical labor had signed up too, but now with an oversupply of workers and a buyer's market, frail artisans, women without support, and children were easily turned away. Then, a new notice offered salvation to those on the brink of collapse.
The announcement stated that starting tomorrow, foreign tribes would arrive at the market for border trade, using Dwarf coins as currency. An appendix included suggested pricing in Dwarf coins.
The market, which had been on the verge of collapse, perked up. Those unable or unwilling to trade labor for food were all energized. County magistrates and town mayors sensed something amiss in the foreigners' promotion of their monetary system. Yet even if they recognized the long-term ambitions lurking behind it, what could they do? They had no control over local prices, their authority steadily eroding. In the Chaos Lands, power belonged to whoever held the troops—and the soldiers were already colluding with those who controlled the grain. They could only plod through their bureaucratic duties, watching the populace flock to the new currency like moths to a flame.
The dungeon's first merchant caravan—or more bluntly, the cash-spending squad—arrived at the market the following morning. Merchants lined the streets to welcome them, each hawker shouting his heart out, desperate to lure these hard-currency-wielding customers to his stall. The dungeon dwellers, summoned here at Tashan's insistence, were startled by such warmth. Having never ventured aboveground before, they'd only heard tales of cold reception from relatives and friends, expecting weeks to break the ice.
Even the Amazons, who'd approached this venture with the bleakest outlook, reluctantly began browsing goods. In the end, each bought a pile of items amid the lively atmosphere—after all, the dungeon lord would cover their first shopping spree. Dwarf coins, one of the items craftable in workshops, had been deliberately promoted underground by Tashar shortly after the Amazons settled in the dungeon. Now that prices had stabilized underground, it was time to spread this currency above ground.
The first shopping trip concluded swiftly and successfully, and word spread among more artisans and merchants. By the next day, the market crowd prepared what they believed would be the most appealing goods for the foreign race, eagerly awaiting their neighbors' arrival.
The shopping team had no membership restrictions—anyone who signed up could join. Thus, a new batch of dungeon dwellers emerged above ground, feeling a bit intimidated by the wolf-like stares of the crowd. Even the artisan dwarves were getting flustered. The residents of the Wanderers' Camp had never encountered so many humans greeting them with smiles. Some Amazonians suspected this was a trap hiding malicious intent—how could humans be so friendly? Under the eager gazes of the merchants, the dwarves huddled together in discussion, feeling these people looked quite different from the humans they remembered.
"I remember them all looking like this," the artisan dwarf said, pulling his face into a fierce grimace.
The members of the Wanderers' Camp lived in seclusion. The humans they encountered were invariably soldiers sent to exterminate heretics—men who looked utterly vicious, snarling and clawing, fierce and terrifying. What expression did you expect soldiers on the battlefield to show their enemies? The Artisan Dwarves scanned their surroundings, comparing these faces to their memories. They speculated these humans either had two faces or belonged to two distinct types—like male mosquitoes sipping nectar while females bit people. Ah, best not let the Amazonians hear that; if they thought it was a jab, they'd likely beat you up.
"Maybe this is just what ordinary humans look like?" The most optimistic speculated, "The fierce ones are the variants."
Regardless, trade commenced and gradually became routine.
Human-made garments surpassed those crafted from hemp or animal hides. Some clever tailors invited customers for custom orders. These dexterous, experienced dressmakers could produce exceptionally short pants and shirts, or sew Amazonian traditional attire to specification. One exceptionally dexterous seamstress even won the Amazonians' friendship—after all, one couldn't remain silent while discussing garment details, and the Amazonians remained remarkably tolerant of fragile foreign women.
A cylindrical toy combining glass panels and colored paper shards (which Tashan found strikingly similar to a kaleidoscope) became wildly popular. When it came to play, the elusive alien race proved far less reserved than the humans living peacefully within the town. Amazonian children adored these toys, while most artisan dwarves retained a childlike spirit. They purchased various toys, dismantled them, and crafted superior versions, adding a lengthy list of children's playthings to the workshop's production catalog.
When Tashar lifted restrictions on surface population, increasing numbers of dungeon dwellers emerged above ground. Friction arose frequently, yet no bloodshed occurred.
Such smooth progress owed much to favorable luck. The army that had suffered a crushing defeat against the Amazonians earlier wasn't native to these lands. Their casualties didn't stir much shared resentment among the locals. That force, equipped with magic cannons, had its commander slain by Tashan. Most of the scattered remnants were incorporated into the northern lieutenant colonel's ranks, with only a handful joining Captain Halit's army. Consequently, the surviving forces in the southeast corner bore no deep blood feud with the Amazonians. Moreover, the Amazonians' unique culture instilled a deep respect for combat and opponents, even viewing death in battle as an honor. They would pursue captors across vast distances to avenge their kin, yet rarely sought revenge for fallen comrades.
As alien races mingled among human neighborhoods, humans crowded around alien stalls, and construction crews from different species inevitably collaborated on projects, maintaining clear boundaries grew increasingly difficult.