This Dungeon Grew Mushrooms – Chapter 237

The hastily erected campfire crackled and popped, its dancing flames illuminating four satisfied faces as they shared the most succulent, tender portions of the wild boar, fat dripping and aromatic vapors rising.

While Vera chewed, his gaze couldn’t help but drift toward Sirian beside him.

After their frank encounter, Vera had no choice but to acknowledge the other’s masculine identity.

He pondered privately: when the other’s flat chest had been so obvious, how had he initially assumed with such certainty that this was a female?

Was it that voice like a crystal spring flowing?

Or was it that exquisite face that blurred the boundaries of gender?

Vera thought helplessly that even if he could do it over again, he’d probably still make the same mistake…

Though elves rarely remained active within the United Kingdom for extended periods—human territories contained far too many things that elves found distasteful—Vera and his companions had encountered several half-elves before.

Though each had been remarkably handsome, none had reached Sirian’s level of beauty.

“Sirian!” Feilin, eating with oil streaming down her chin, suddenly remembered something and asked curiously, “I’ve heard that elves can make barren land grow wheat and dead trees bear fruit, never lacking for food. Is that true?”

Sirian was concentrating on the roasted meat in his hands when he heard this, hurriedly chewing and swallowing several bites, nearly choking: “Cough, cough… What kind of legend is that? Far too exaggerated!”

“But you really do have lots of food!” Feilin insisted.

The elf pondered for a moment, his gaze sweeping over a fruit tree at the camp’s edge whose leaves had already begun turning slightly yellow.

“Seeing is believing, then.” He stood and walked toward the tree.

Sirian clasped his hands before his chest in a reverent prayer posture and closed his eyes.

Low, ancient-rhythmed Elvish flowed from his lips like whispers in the forest.

As he chanted, points of emerald magical light began to emerge from his palms—at first like fireflies, then gathering into gentle jade-colored radiance that seemed alive as it wound around his slender fingers, then drifted thread by thread toward the fruit tree.

Fourth-tier Nature Magic—Song of Abundance.

Vera couldn’t understand the lyrics, only feeling that the song was ethereal and pure, like morning sunlight or evening drizzle, cleansing the soul and bringing strange tranquility.

Beside them, Feyin opened her eyes wide, staring intently at Sirian without blinking. This method of guiding magical power through chanting, rather than the magical node spell construction she was familiar with, filled her with novelty.

As the song gradually ceased, the magical aura seeped into the trunk, and a miracle occurred!

The fruit tree was now laden with heavy, fully ripened fruit, weighing down the branches until they bent slightly.

“So amazing!” Feilin exclaimed, then scrambled up like an agile squirrel, climbing the trunk in a few steps and plucking the largest, reddest fruit with a satisfying “crunch” as she took a big bite.

Sweet juice immediately overflowed.

“So sweet! Perfectly ripe!” she called out indistinctly, then picked several more to toss down to her companions below.

Vera caught a fruit and, after taking a bite, couldn’t help but press further: “Isn’t this exactly making dead trees bear fruit? Why did you say it was exaggerated?”

“Look more carefully at the tree itself,” Sirian reminded them calmly.

At his words, everyone’s gaze shifted from the tempting fruit to the branches and leaves supporting them.

The leaves that had only been yellowing at the edges moments before had now completely withered and were even beginning to fall. The entire tree seemed to have had its life force instantly drained away—except for those magically induced fruits, it had already entered premature decline.

Sirian’s voice carried a note of solemnity: “Nature magic does not create something from nothing. This ‘Song of Abundance’ merely forces the life energy, nutrients, and magical power hidden deep within this tree to manifest as the fruit before us, at the cost of mortgaging its future.”

“Even so, it’s still incredible!” Feilin slid down from the tree. “Elves living in forests, using this kind of forced ripening—no wonder food is abundant.”

But Sirian slowly shook his head, his gaze passing over the prematurely withered tree toward the east: “No, in elven forests, we ourselves rarely employ such magic lightly. Not only does it damage plants at their foundation, making it difficult for them to bear fruit again the following year, but more critically…”

He paused, showing the interior of the fruit in his hand to the others—there were no seeds inside.

“These artificially ripened fruits are sweet and delicious, but they’ve lost the ability to nurture new life. They cannot continue life’s cycle. If used recklessly, while seeming to achieve temporary abundance, it actually mortgages the future and will ultimately lead to the forest’s weeping and ecological imbalance.”

The twins listened with rapt attention—this was the first time they had so tangibly understood a druid’s reverence for nature.

Vera, however, said joyfully: “I see! Though it can’t be used often, everyone in camp will surely be delighted to eat these fresh fruits!”

With that, he called to Feilin: “Come on, let’s pick all the fruit and pack it up!”

After packing the fruit along with the remaining pork, the group headed down the mountain.

…

Dusk was gathering, and the camp’s wooden palisade gate came into view, with the mixed sounds of human voices and campfire smoke drifting out, tinged with a sense of oppression.

The two guards at the gate had originally been leaning on their spears, huddled wearily behind a crude windbreak, but perked up when they saw the distant glow of illumination magic.

“Vera?” One guard recognized the leading figure, his voice carrying surprise, then his gaze fixed on the wild boar on Vera’s back. “You actually went into the mountains? And killed a boar! We thought you’d gone to Norweide too!”

Without many words, he merely gestured to Feilin, who immediately pulled two plump fruits from her bulging cloth bundle and tossed them accurately toward the guards.

“Catch! There’s fruit too!” Feilin’s voice carried a hint of small pride.

“The camp hasn’t run into any trouble, has it?” Vera asked.

The guard who had recognized Vera bit fiercely into the fruit in his hand, sweet juice instantly filling his mouth.

He swallowed almost greedily, then leaned closer to Vera, saying with slight worry: “No real troubles yet, but… today dozens more refugees poured in, saying they’re from the same village down south. To settle them, we had to distribute even more grain… now many people are already complaining that the porridge is thinner than a few days ago. Who knows if the higher-ups actually have any solutions?”

“Sigh…”

Bidding farewell to the guards, Vera’s group carried their harvest toward the camp kitchen.

Along the way, countless pairs of eyes from crude tent gaps and shadows beside campfires projected toward them, clinging tightly to the wild boar on Vera’s back.

Those gazes held naked longing, yet ultimately maintained restraint.

Feilin couldn’t help but mutter quietly with a trace of unwillingness: “Isn’t there anything that could be force-ripened with that magic without worrying about consequences?”

Her words sparked Vera’s thoughts. Without stopping, he turned his gaze toward the elf Sirian beside him, pondering for several seconds before speaking with a note of uncertainty: “Sirian… could your ‘Song of Abundance’ work on mushrooms?”