Inside Scarlet Spire.
“How’s it feel, my lord?” Evil mage Margas and an alchemist nervously watched Sigmund rouse from his chair.
Sigmund’s gaze flicked to the empty Dreambloom Potion bottle on the table, recalling how it trapped the mysterious enemy in a dream haze. He growled, “It works. I need more Dreambloom! Send people to buy it, whatever the cost—gold’s no issue!”
The alchemist hesitated. “My lord, even at high prices, Dreambloom’s scarce. We might only get…”
“How long?” Sigmund cut in.
“Maybe… less than a month’s worth.”
“Margas,” Sigmund turned to the wilted mage, his low voice carrying a rare, almost soothing edge, “I started the ‘Strange Dream’ plan, so this mess isn’t on you. You’ve got half a month to fix it. My promise still stands.”
In other words, fail, and you’re done.
If Margas couldn’t crack it, Sigmund—looking incompetent—would have to beg the emperor for help.
“Yes, my lord!” Margas, down two strength levels and paying a steep price, had no choice but to seize this last shot.
Meanwhile, to pressure the demons, Duke Alama took a risk, pulling some less mobile heavy infantry and key mage units from Highfort Bastion’s defenses.
Target: Duchess Eleanor’s camp.
The fight was a slaughter.
Eleanor’s troops weren’t weak individually, but Alama’s crushing command shredded them. Ironthorn Knights spun like death’s whirlwind, hunting and cutting down fleeing stragglers.
Pity, Eleanor’s stealth and speed were top-notch. Even Alama couldn’t pin down the fleeing vampire duchess in the chaos.
Clad in heavy mana armor, Alama reined in his warhorse amid the wrecked battlefield. His gaze cut through scattered demons and burning tents, locking on the silent Scarlet Spire.
“Not even a token rescue this time?”
Another win, but Alama felt a chill.
He was sure now: Eleanor was bait to draw his fire and stall.
Inside Scarlet Spire, Sigmund was brewing something dangerous!
Maybe a fort-destroying super spell or a twisted beast summoned by bloody sacrifice.
No way Alama would let that plan succeed.
Whatever the cost, he had to act!
Even if it was tough, he’d need to hit the Scarlet Spire itself next.
Only that would force Sigmund out to face him.
Still, something felt off: “Why’s it feel like I’m invading the empire?”
Under Mushroom Capital’s towering gates, a long line of entrants snaked.
In the crowd, Horn happily counted fresh silver coins, their metallic touch curling his mycelium-laced lips into a grin.
He and his team had just nailed an escort job, smooth and easy, cash in hand.
“Enough with those coins already! Jingle-jangle’s driving me nuts,” Old Hammer, the dwarf, grumbled, hefting his signature warhammer.
Horn chuckled, tucking the coins into his bulging pouch, deliberately shaking it for more clinks.
He knew Old Hammer envied his extra cut.
“Old Hammer,” Horn leaned down, arm slinging over the dwarf’s stout shoulder plate, “seriously, why not become a Puffshroom Master? Tons of perks!”
“What’re you blabbing about?!” Old Hammer shook him off like a cat with a stepped-on tail. “Why would I let some thing infest me?!”
“Tch, infest? That’s harsh! It’s symbiosis—using Puffshroom power!” Horn smirked, nodding at Noah and Aime behind them. “Those ladies, with faces worth half a life, got reasons to worry about marks. But you, a scruffy dwarf who can’t braid his beard, care about a few face lines?”
“I told you, it’s not bad braiding! It’s Zafa clan tradition!” Old Hammer huffed, beard bristling.
“Sure, sure, tradition,” Horn waved off, leaning closer, voice low and tempting. “But Puffshroom Master gig? Think about it. More coins—tempting, right?”
Old Hammer’s beard twitched, a hint of wavering. Horn, sensing it, pushed harder.
Not that he cared about Old Hammer’s cash, but deep down, Horn wanted more “kin” around to feel less like an oddball.
Amid his chatter, the four, plus Horn’s dozen round Puffshrooms, passed inspection and crossed the massive gate.
But a few steps in, a staffer with a “Puffshroom Master Guild” badge stopped them.
“Sir, hold up,” the staffer said, polite but firm. “You can’t walk city streets with all those Puffshrooms.”
“What’s that mean?” Horn blinked, confused.
“Per Mushroom Capital’s new street ordinance,” the staffer explained smoothly, “a Puffshroom Master can carry only two Puffshrooms in public areas. More than that causes congestion or disturbs citizens, and you’ll face a fine.”
“But… what about my other Puffshrooms? I can’t just ditch them outside!” Horn gaped, pointing at his crew.
“Over there,” the staffer gestured to a multi-story building coated in thick mycelium. “Store extras at the ‘Puffshroom Depot.’ It’s got dedicated mycelium to keep Puffshrooms powered all day, with staff for care and registration. Any issues, the guild covers damages—safe and reliable!”
Horn’s jaw dropped, speechless. Mushroom Capital was moving too fast—he couldn’t keep up.
Grudgingly, he headed to the odd depot.
Per the staff’s rundown, he booked two storage slots.
Each slot held ten Puffshrooms, costing one copper daily.
Cheap, sure, but extra daily costs felt like a loss.
Horn left the depot grumpy, only two Puffshrooms at his feet, hearing Noah and Aime’s stifled giggles behind him. Thinking of the guild’s restrictions, he muttered, “Too many damn rules…”
He planned to hit Rotten Willow Tavern for gossip on new weird rules, but a crowd drew him. Two guards stood by a huge official notice board.
Horn, like other Puffshroom Masters, hoisted his two Puffshrooms onto his head to avoid squashing.
Squeezing in, he read the board:
[Puffshroom Master Military Draft]
(End of Chapter)
Horn🤣🤣🤣