By the third week of the circus caravan's arrival, everything seemed to have settled back into routine.
During the first week, the sheer volume of work had kept all outsiders occupied at their posts. They hadn't received any special orders targeting them—it was simply the market economy at work.
To put it bluntly: money.
That nephew could stay with his uncle, but most hadn't found relatives. Pointing to a solitary grave and claiming kin buried there? Without a will or proof, the grave owner's residence couldn't be transferred as inheritance. Inns were meant for outsiders, moonlighting as taverns. Now that the north was sealed off, customers were scarce. Raising prices a bit was perfectly reasonable. Want to sleep in a wagon? Sorry. While we've waived customs duties on circus wagons out of sympathy for your homesickness, what about parking fees? What about feeding and sheltering the horses? If you plan to build a house, I'm afraid all trees in this area are off-limits for felling.
This winter, the aftermath of the Withered Plague has left most wilderness barren. Remaining trees and natural grasslands are protected, with fines far exceeding the cost of ready-made timber or fodder from the exchange. With forests vanished and horses unable to graze freely, people must gather—or more accurately, join the foreign mercenary trading system to survive the winter. Tashan needn't target these outsiders specifically—simply withholding preferential treatment suffices. Residents found the alien race remarkably generous, at least initially, willing even to extend credit to newcomers.
To the current residents of the southeast corner, the dungeon resembles a large foreign corporation occupying a poor nation, with the aliens as its employees. Some liked them, actively seeking employment; others disliked them, stubbornly clinging to conspiracy theories. Yet whether liked or disliked, everyone's lives were intimately tied to the underground city. The existence of Tashan held a vague concept in these residents' minds. They knew different alien factions shared a common leader—not as formal or conspicuous as Erian's chieftain, but more like the behind-the-scenes boss of a merchant guild.
This understanding suited them well, sparing them from stirring up pointless animosity.
Incidentally, as communication deepened, Tasha discovered the civilization here was surprisingly advanced. Red Gum County boasted several schools, the oldest dating back centuries. The belief that knowledge elevates one's social standing was widely embraced. Literacy commanded respect, and families of means sent their children to school. Hong'an County boasts a literacy rate of 15%, a remarkable figure for a county without industrialization.
Tasha had glanced through history textbooks in the schools—mostly glorifying human history, with credibility comparable to that of the Chao○ regime's historical texts. Future ideological/history curricula would inevitably need revision. With the paper mill's raw materials dependent on her side, controlling textbook printing would be straightforward.
With the northern humans' support, the Dungeon quietly extended its influence into every corner of the town. A shared enemy and the looming threat of resource depletion accelerated the integration between surface and underground dwellers. Under the guise of wartime emergency measures, the Dungeon Corporation and the Captain's military secured monopolistic and political power. The latter even successfully expanded its ranks, now surpassing its former size. Strong woodcutters and hunters who lost their jobs eagerly sought better welfare, while young adults skeptical of the alien race believed joining the military would aid in fighting them. Competition fueled enthusiasm—it felt like manipulating two political parties from behind the scenes, where no matter who others voted for, Tasha always came out on top.
Another advantage emerged: through experimentation, Tasha discovered that Captain Harriet's [Military Morale] skill (which subconsciously inclines recipients toward obedience when commands are delivered with loud slogans or precise, concise language. Effectiveness diminishes with the recipient's willpower, the duration since the command was issued, the command's objectionability, and repeated use within the same group) gained a certain degree of amplification within the military.
She applied the [Military Atmosphere] skill to the soldier's manual every recruit must study. This effectively inclined newcomers to obey orders from the outset, eliminating resistance to collaborating with non-human races. Getting started is always the hardest part. Once they settled into their roles, inertia and the collective atmosphere alone sustained this compliance. The army gradually transformed into a reliable force under Tashar's command. She deemed it perfectly appropriate to deploy the most potent initial suggestion here.
Controlling a human territory felt like maintaining a gas-guzzling machine, and Tasha's magic reserves grew only slowly. Yet she deemed this expenditure worthwhile—a long-term investment.
But enough digressions. Back to the outsider.
That day's meeting with Douglas ended fruitlessly. The rider offered only vague, slippery answers, like an elusive loach. Since he showed no sincerity in pledging allegiance, Tasha saw no harm in playing coy.
"Is that all?" she remarked meaningfully as they parted. "Finding another chance to talk won't be easy."
"An extraordinary lady like yourself is always quite busy," Douglas said, tipping his hat with a charming smile. "I only hope my performance tonight wasn't too dreadful, so I might have another chance to seek your favor."
"I'm not busy," Tasha replied. "But you will be."
The next day, when a hefty bill landed on Douglas's desk, he finally understood what Tasha meant.
Douglas was an excellent rider. He kept a horse named Joey, a horse that suited his taste—spirited and wild. When not riding, Douglas let Joey roam free, allowing the horse to wander as it pleased. When needed, his distinctive whistle would summon Joey from nearby.
This trick was quite spectacular, playing a key role in Douglas's many romantic escapades—imagine it: a handsome rider whistles, a sleek, powerful horse emerges from the woods, and the knight leaps aboard, extending his hand to you... It was pure chivalric romance, never failing to win hearts for Douglas while sparing him the hassle of securing the horse each time—and Joey enjoyed it too. So, one really couldn't blame him for not tying the horse securely this time either.
The wild plants in this area were protected. Residents, having experienced the consequences of natural decay, had voluntarily treated the nearby grasslands as communal property.
Douglas's desk was piled high with bills: compensation for Joey's illegal turf chewing, fines for resisting arrest and assaulting an officer when warned, penalties for escaping and devouring fruit from an innocent resident's hand, hay costs during detention, and bail money to reclaim the horse. The last item bore a note in parentheses: should Douglas neither redeem Joey nor consent to his confiscation for farm labor, he would be liable for daily feed, grooming, and boarding fees. Fine print politely informed the rider that given his horse's "exceptional liveliness," future veterinary expenses for attendants might also apply.
The usually carefree rider scanned the pages one by one, counting the zeros trailing the figures. Cigarette ash fell from his trembling fingers.
Douglas picked up the cigarette from the floor and took a deep drag. For a long time to come, his budget would not include money for cigarettes.
Earning money through circus performances remained a distant fantasy. The ringmaster had mentioned disbanding one troupe only to recruit another, yet the current roster was insufficient for a full show. Douglas attempted solo performances but was informed by patrol officers that street acts required a business license—he could either post a substantial bond or work locally for a year to obtain residency. "Just one year of work for citizenship is already a generous offer," the official said with a friendly smile. "Conditions will likely get tougher in the future—maybe requiring property purchase here."
If lodging in inns was merely expensive and long-term rentals somewhat affordable, the money needed to buy property here was simply impossible to save in a year or two. The most troublesome issue was that Erian currency was extremely cheap here, with its exchange rate continuously falling. Residents rushed to exchange their Dwarf coins at the local bank the moment it opened, and people disliked using Erian currency in their transactions. Even wealthy outsiders arriving here had to start working from scratch to earn Dwarf coins.
"Actually, you could take out a loan," the city government staff member added. "The relevant regulations are posted on the wall behind me."
Douglas looked up at the posted guidelines, feeling a flicker of relief after a string of shocks. The loan interest rates weren't exorbitant. They even offered collateral loans here—food could be purchased on credit at extremely low interest rates. Essentially, as long as one worked, starvation wasn't a threat.
"It's not all that brutal..." Douglas murmured, almost moved by this unexpected kindness.
"Mr. Douglas, this is the version for local residents," the clerk waved him off, gesturing to the other side. "For outsiders without residency registration, these are the current applicable rules."
Douglas turned his head and saw a starkly different, terrifyingly high interest rate.
Are you bandits?! he silently screamed inside.
"Wait, this..." Douglas said weakly, "I didn't see this when I came yesterday?"
"Due to the Northern blockade, Red Gum County has endured a series of upheavals. With everything now in need of rebuilding, regulations suited to the current situation may be introduced from time to time," the staff member replied mechanically.
This was definitely just made up, right? Just for us?! Douglas thought bitterly.
"Please don't worry, Mr. Douglas," the staff member explained sympathetically. "Considering the tremendous sacrifices you've made in your search for family, we offer numerous benefits for migrant workers here. For able-bodied individuals between eighteen and sixty who accept our provided positions, automatic citizenship after one year and full loan interest forgiveness are guaranteed. Many of these roles offer generous salaries with room and board included—local residents are quite envious of these opportunities!"
Indeed, the county offered high-welfare jobs to outsiders. Beyond the attractive pay and accommodations, these positions shared common traits: long hours and constant on-call availability.
Those genuinely wishing to settle here will never struggle to survive. Regardless of their sincerity, as long as they wish to live, their first year will be dominated by work occupying the vast majority of their time. Work hours are fragmented across the day, preventing excessive fatigue, yet leaving insufficient free time for aimless wandering. Through this system, Tasha ensured all outsiders spent the bulk of their time under the watchful eyes of others and the watchtower. They possessed neither the time nor space to cause trouble, nor the energy to do so.
Children under eighteen—like Jacqueline, the young girl among the outsiders—were required to attend school to receive free room and board. This arrangement served essentially the same purpose as round-the-clock surveillance. When Jacqueline showed significant distress at the idea of "sharing a classroom with teachers and classmates," Tasha canceled her classes and replaced them with Mavis's personal care—the quarter-elf volunteered to look after her.
Mavis and Jacqueline got along well, though the latter still refused to speak. Tasha even witnessed Mavis lifting Jacqueline. The taciturn girl was exceptionally small, pitifully thin, her eyes startlingly large on her tiny face. Mavis held her as if cradling a malnourished kitten. Jacqueline let her aunt carry her, still clutching her harp, her expression half-tense, half-lost in thought.
"She's a lovely child," Mavis said tenderly, preparing a drink for the girl as she spoke to Tasha. A cinnamon stick stirred a mixture of berry and ginger tea, maple syrup added last to give the sweet liquid a cherry-like translucent red. Mavis poured it into a round-bottom flask, corked it shut, and it looked oddly charming. This apothecary often mixed utensils for food and medicine—a bottle of meatballs alongside a dish of cold medicine wasn't an uncommon sight. Then again, the lines between her potions and food were blurred too; this sweet drink, for instance, could just as easily clear heat and soothe a cough.
Unfortunately, it never reached Jacqueline's hands.
Among this group, another who didn't need to work was the elderly man named Alexander. He leaned on a large walking stick, its weight matching his heavy footsteps—lightly tapped, it could produce the sound effect of someone in armor. Alexander called himself a veteran, and he looked every bit the stern old man who'd raise his children with military discipline. The story of "a son who couldn't take the discipline, ran away to join another army, and died in battle" fit him perfectly. Officers instinctively snapped to attention when he passed by, only laughing at their reflexes afterward.
Tasha had witnessed a priest from Saro rush to see this old man. Samuel entered his room full of hope, only to emerge utterly disheartened. The priest, whose emotions were written plainly on his face, inadvertently ruled out the possibility of Alexander being a follower of Saro. Victor suggested the wooden staff could belong to a monk, a Templar, or some self-defense tool from recent centuries—a range so broad it was useless. Tashar arranged a nursing home for this sturdy, white-bearded elder, but he insisted on staying put, even if it meant working to pay rent.
As Jacqueline's temporary guardian, the busy outsiders—including Douglas—agreed the least occupied adult should care for the girl. Jacqueline didn't object. She spent days with Mavis and nights with Alexander, including the evening Mavis offered the drink. The little girl clumsily cradled her harp and flask, trotting to keep pace with Alexander. The old man strode ahead as always, his face set—he was always like that, whether with Mavis or Jacqueline. Tasha had never seen him smile.
Midway, he slowed and held out his hand to the girl. Jacqueline slowly handed over the flask. Alexander took it, didn't open the stopper, and tossed it straight into the nearby ditch.
Jacqueline glanced at the ditch but said nothing. When Mavis later asked if she wanted to stay here instead of going back, she still shook her head and followed Alexander with her eyes downcast.
The following week, someone finally lost patience and made their move.
One of the circus's later recruits—the one-eyed man—had been stalking Mavis and attempted to attack her. He was among those who roamed at night in cloaks, and this attempt was equally stealthy yet conspicuous. The stealth lay in his skilled tracking; the conspicuousness in his lack of spirit-warding runes and failure to avoid the watchtower, making him laughably obvious to Tashan's eyes.
Marion descended from the sky the instant the one-eyed man moved, snatching his knife, countering his strike, and pinning the assassin firmly to the ground. The one-eyed man looked stunned, seemingly unable to comprehend how the werewolf girl had suddenly closed the distance. While his counter-surveillance skills were indeed good, Marion had the Tower Sand guiding her through her ears, allowing her to track his movements even through walls.
The one-eyed man had surrendered the moment interrogation began, showing not a shred of resolve to fight to the end. "My bad luck!" he said. "I knew..."
What did he know? Tasha would never learn the answer.
The word "knew" barely left his lips before convulsions seized the One-Eyed Bandit's body. Soldiers pried open his jaws as Mavis uncorked a vial and poured its contents down his throat—but it was too late. The convulsions weren't the beginning of anything; they were the outward manifestation of sudden death. His expression froze in terror and agony, his remaining eye staring fixedly at the ceiling as he passed away.
The interrogation room fell silent as the interrogators exchanged glances. They had thoroughly searched the prisoner from the start—under his clothes, inside his mouth—finding nothing. His death had been so sudden.
The capture of the spy had been made public, but his death had not. The one-eyed man had been paraded as bait, yet no one had come to silence him or rescue him. That night, someone sprinted toward the northern outpost—now rebuilt—where crossbow bolts pierced the breacher.
"They were just temporary recruits," said Frank, the circus ringmaster. "When you're desperate for manpower, screening can't be too precise. I regret this incident and hope it won't tarnish your view of us."
The trail ended there, the restless souls vanishing without a trace.
By the third week, everything seemed back on track. Things appeared to improve day by day, each passing day strengthening the dungeon's power.
This night was as quiet as any other.
Someone leapt silently from a window, moving through the shadows where even moonlight failed to catch his form.
He moved along the edge of the street, tiptoeing, slow and stealthy. This went beyond mere evasion; he didn't seem to hide within the shadows, but rather merge with them, carrying the night itself forward. A patrolling guard passed within two paces, raising his lantern and sweeping it casually toward a nearby corner, finding nothing. The guard moved on.
Had Tashar been able to see this man's face, she would likely have been astonished. He wasn't the smooth-talking star rider, nor the burly, difficult veteran, nor the enigmatic ringmaster. He was an ordinary member of the troupe, a quiet, diligent worker. Tashar had never seen him prying into others' affairs, nor had she ever encountered him in the wrong place at the wrong time.
What was his name? Billy? Mike? Or something else? He was so ordinary he could be forgotten. Even Tasha would have to strain to match this man with a specific name.
He had a common name, an average build neither tall nor short, neither fat nor thin, and an unremarkable face neither handsome nor ugly, free of scars or acne. He never led the pack nor brought up the rear. When others laughed, he laughed; when they shouted, he echoed. His voice could make a crowd mistake him for some distant acquaintance. He was the sort nobody particularly liked or disliked. Classmates would forget to invite him to gatherings; no one noticed when he arrived late or left early. Put him anywhere on Earth, and you could tell that joke about the guy who walks up to a store and the sensor door doesn't open.
To be so ordinary, so unremarkable, so utterly invisible—that was a skill in itself.
It truly was a skill.
Mr. Ordinary walked through the night of Red Eucalyptus County. The lookout tower failed to detect his presence, just as it had on previous occasions. It was a suitable night for this: the snow had melted, no rain fell, and the ground bore no puddles. Thus, with careful steps, Mr. Ordinary left no trace.
Of course, when has Ordinary ever been careless?
He walked north to the outpost, passed through, did what needed doing, then returned. Carrying his newly acquired package, he strolled through the Amazonian patrol zone, letting his gaze drift past each person. Both the keen-sighted beasts and the warriors might catch his glance—simple-minded creatures are such a hassle. Mr. Ordinary thought, what rotten luck to waste so much time here.
The misfortune began from the start. The situation in the southeast corner was a world apart from their predictions. The alien species here coexisted peacefully with the residents, not locked in confrontation. The lieutenant colonel had sworn up and down that beyond the wall lay rivers of blood and fields of starving corpses. And what did they find? Food wasn't scarce, order was relatively stable, the military had mutinied and was colluding with the alien creatures who somehow conjured grain from nowhere, and they were scrutinizing every outsider who arrived. A bad hand.
Mr. Ordinary couldn't care less about defections or alien species, but the orderly chaos gave him a headache. If only more people died, he thought. That would make things so much easier. With bodies piled so high they couldn't be distinguished, they could effortlessly find relatives "lost in the chaos." Unlike now, where they could only claim kinship with soldiers killed in battle—a claim so unconvincing it drew stares.
At first, he couldn't help but grumble about this. Major Benson was a fool—he shouldn't have crammed in other mercenaries. Even with contracts signed, outsiders remained unreliable, barely useful for diverting attention. He couldn't believe his brother let him run things so recklessly! After all their collaborations with the Governor, he still managed to pull off such pointless nonsense. Sigh. Should've known military men are forever ignorant and arrogant.
Mr. Ordinary was more cautious than those haughty lords; otherwise, he wouldn't have lived this long. He was also better at taking advice. Even though he couldn't stand the old knight who'd been forced into the group, he'd still consider the man's suggestions. After all, when it came to fighting "that thing," knights had more experience than thieves.
"You can't go down," the old man had warned. "Once you enter the underground, they'll see you."
On several occasions, Mr. Ordinary had tailed them so closely he could almost slip beneath the ground behind those creatures, but he abandoned the chance because of the old man's words.
Fine, he wouldn't go. Mr. Ordinary thought. Tomorrow would be the day