This Dungeon Grew Mushrooms – Chapter 18

Mute Wind Town, a remote settlement located at the southernmost edge of the United Kingdom, had attracted vast numbers of adventurers and traveling merchants thanks to its proximity to the Amethyst Dungeon. Its prosperity rivaled that of certain mid-sized cities.

The Adventurers’ Guild had even established a regional branch here.

The dungeon’s resources had given rise to countless local specialties.

Yet when it came to Mute Wind Town’s most distinctive landmark, it was neither the precious high-purity magic crystals nor the diverse magical beast materials, but rather the Rotten Willow Tavern’s signature brew—a turbid liquid notorious throughout the land.

Even adventurers who had never set foot in this place had surely heard of this foul-smelling, moldy concoction that was said to be potent enough to kill walking mushrooms with a mere splash.

Despite its wretched quality, the proprietor still watered it down with more liquid than the actual alcohol content.

However, at just one copper coin per cup, this pricing strategy made it the irreplaceable drink of choice for bottom-tier adventurers.

Naturally, the Rotten Willow Tavern had become the gathering place for all the dregs of the adventuring world.

In Mute Wind Town, you could randomly stop any passerby—they might not know where the Adventurers’ Guild office was located, but they would certainly know the way to the Rotten Willow Tavern.

Today, as usual, the Rotten Willow Tavern was packed with all manner of riffraff.

They gulped down the vile liquor while loudly discussing recent gossip.

Such as the Hermit Empire’s increasingly frequent minor provocations along the border.

Or how three months ago, the Silver Thorn party had ventured into the dungeon’s deep layers to rescue a duke’s daughter, earning an extraordinarily rare and astronomical reward—an entire city.

The words “Silver Thorn” had now become a legendary benchmark in the adventuring trade, and in the eyes of every patron raising their cups in toast to them burned a desire for fame and fortune.

When a weary man with disheveled stubble pushed open the tavern’s wooden door, no one spared him an extra glance—such figures were commonplace in the establishment.

The man surveyed the room before walking directly toward a fat man sitting alone in a corner. The latter held a wooden cup, sipping the inferior brew in small mouthfuls as if it were some fine vintage.

Upon seeing the man sit across from him, the fat man called out his name:

“Dylan, it’s been many years. Didn’t you retire? What do you want with me? Please don’t tell me you missed this old comrade—I’d vomit.”

“Fatty, are you still in that business?”

The fat man’s nickname was simply “Fatty.” Dylan showed no pretense with him, stating his purpose directly, causing Fatty’s eyelids to twitch in alarm.

He hastily glanced around, and only after confirming no one was paying attention to their corner did he lower his voice in anger:

“What are you doing? You nearly said that word outright—are you trying to get me killed?”

Seeing Fatty’s fury, Dylan actually became more excited.

“So you are still doing it. Quick, give me three portions.”

He reached into his coat and pushed a money pouch across the table, containing twenty-seven silver coins.

Fatty narrowed his eyes but didn’t touch the pouch. Instead, he carefully examined the man before him.

Compared to seven years ago, Dylan had aged considerably. His body wasn’t as robust as before, and the calluses on his hands had nearly disappeared entirely.

“Sorry Dylan, I can’t sell to you. From your appearance, you’ve clearly let your old skills rust away. We have history together, and I can’t watch you go to your death.”

Dylan suddenly grabbed Fatty’s collar, his bloodshot eyes revealing the madness of a man driven to desperation.

But Fatty merely looked quietly into his eyes.

After a long moment, Dylan released his grip, his entire body going limp as he pleaded in a low voice:

“Fatty, please, I beg you. My daughter was poisoned with blood toxin during a border mission. I need money—a lot of money. I don’t know any other way besides this… please…”

Fatty fell silent.

Blood toxin—the most vicious technique of vampires.

Those afflicted with blood toxin wouldn’t die immediately, but would slowly and painfully transform into blood ghouls.

These monsters, converted from humans, retained their pre-transformation memories yet couldn’t suppress their bloodthirsty urges. They would tearfully devour even their closest relatives.

Only when facing vampires would they become completely obedient slaves.

Treatment methods did exist, with two being most commonly known: the Church’s blessing or an anti-life potion.

Either could save the infected before complete transformation.

However, both were beyond the reach of common folk.

The former required several days of personal purification by someone of bishop rank or higher, while the latter demanded the astronomical price of fifty gold coins.

Even with money, one might not be able to establish connections with bishop-level figures. Dylan’s target was clearly the latter option.

So how could Dylan—who had only been a Silver-ranked adventurer at his peak and whose abilities had severely deteriorated—earn fifty gold coins in such a short time?

There were essentially two types of quick money: the dangerous kind and the illegal kind.

And naturally, the fastest money combined both.

On the fifth floor of the Amethyst Dungeon grew a notorious magical plant—the Parasitic Tree.

True to its name, it would capture living people and forcibly feed them tree seeds, transforming them into new trunks. Those who became trunks would serve as the trees’ mobile legs.

During this process, the victim’s brain would be irreversibly damaged. Even if rescued, they would be nothing more than a living shell, which was why these plants were so reviled.

However, few knew that the seeds of Parasitic Trees were excellent materials for mental potions.

Due to their utterly inhumane method of production, they had been classified as contraband by the United Kingdom, restricting both circulation and the spread of this knowledge.

But the more something was forbidden, the higher its value became.

And where there was profit, someone would inevitably engage in it secretly.

The substance Fatty possessed, called Drowsy Powder, was essential equipment for harvesting Parasitic Tree fruit—and exactly what Dylan wanted to buy.

However, harvesting Parasitic Tree fruit wasn’t as simple as running over, grabbing it, and returning.

The Parasitic Trees weren’t high-level but existed in vast numbers, concentrated in the swampland terrain of the fifth floor.

Most troublesome was their ability to use the skills and magic of those they had parasitized.

Imagine being surrounded by dozens of Parasitic Trees, each wielding different skills and spells. Even high-level adventurers could perish if they weren’t careful.

Then they too would become new, stronger Parasitic Trees.

This was a magical plant whose danger far exceeded its level classification.

From Dylan’s appearance, Fatty knew he would definitely go alone to maximize his earnings.

Of course, in his current state, even if he wanted to form a party for this endeavor, no one would accept him.

Fatty was almost certain Dylan would die down there.

But… Fatty had gained a daughter in recent years, and she was the apple of his eye.

He understood that watching one’s only daughter slowly transform into a blood ghoul would probably be more agonizing and despairing than death itself.

“Sigh—” Fatty let out a long breath, pocketed the money pouch, and discreetly passed Dylan five small bags.

“Five portions!?”

“This stuff has gotten much cheaper than it used to be. Plus, I won’t take any profit from an old friend. If your luck holds out… this trip should be enough.”

“Thank you… thank you…” Dylan clutched the bags tightly as if grasping hope itself, then hurriedly left the tavern.

Fatty picked up his cup of inferior liquor and resumed his small sips.

“Tsk, that’s a loss of seventy-three silver. Being this soft-hearted shows I’m getting old—not suited for this line of work anymore. Maybe I should retire and return to my hometown soon…”