Staring at the cascade of upgrade notifications, Chris felt the investment had been well worth it. Not only had the number of ordinary goblins doubled, but she'd also unlocked two powerful new monster types.
As the system panel faded, the dungeon trembled violently. Mist-shrouded areas cleared; cracks split the ground. A Cave Spider Mother—massive as two oxen—burst from below, followed by a swarm of palm-sized Cave Sub-spiders.
"Esteemed Dungeon Master, noble Dragon Queen," a goblin in a gray priestly robe intoned, human-teeth necklace clinking around his neck. His bone staff glowed faintly as he bowed. "Shaman Great Shaman offers you his most devout respect."
Chris's eyes lit up. "You speak the common tongue?"
The shaman straightened proudly. "Of course. We goblins were once among the intelligent races."
"That's perfect!" Chris exhaled in relief. "Can you manage your kin and stop them from doing… those disgusting things?"
Great Shaman turned, chattered sharply at the crowd, then faced her with a complicated look. "Your Majesty… forgive my boldness. Do you usually provide them with food?"
Chris blinked. "What? They need to eat?"
"…"
No wonder she'd been puzzled. Early on, she'd considered their diet—but after days of watching them work tirelessly without meals, she'd assumed system-spawned creatures, like game NPCs, didn't require sustenance.
Now, through Great Shaman's explanation, she learned these energy-condensed lifeforms still needed food to sustain their forms.
Unable to communicate with her, the goblins had survived on the paralyzing mushrooms that periodically spawned in the dungeon. The mushrooms filled their bellies but carried strong hallucinogens—leaving them dazed, erratic, and bizarre all day. Only direct orders from Chris triggered the system's compulsion, temporarily clearing their minds.
No proper food, forced to forage hallucinogenic fungi, dizzy-headed labor every day—and still disliked by their master. Hearing Great Shaman's tale, Chris felt a twinge of guilt. She'd been downright cruel.
"My oversight," she admitted, clearing her throat awkwardly. "From now on, I'll provide regular food. What do you normally eat?"
"We can digest human food," Great Shaman grinned, showing uneven, sharp teeth. "Though if there's none… humans themselves are quite acceptable."
At the mention of eating humans, the goblins stirred excitedly; even the Cave Spider Mother rubbed her forelegs with anticipation. Chris fought the urge to rub her temples and snapped sternly:
"I'll arrange deliveries. Now, clear a secluded area in the dungeon for a dining hall." Her eyes narrowed, voice chilling. "All eating happens there. I don't want to see any… unseemly scenes. Understood?"
"As you command, my Master!" Great Shaman bowed deeply; his necklace clinked sharply.
With dungeon affairs settled, Chris used **Key of the Door** to return to the outside world and headed straight to the second floor of the Rose Inn.
The guest-room door still lay in splinters from the firefight. She stepped over the debris. Raven slumped on the window-side sofa, a cigarette dangling from his lips. His face remained a mess of bruises, but his posture had relaxed.
Victoria stood by the window. At Chris's entrance, she gave a subtle nod. Jakar moved a mostly intact high-backed chair from the corner and placed it directly in front of Raven.
Chris sat gracefully, hands folded in her lap.
"It seems my aunt has already spoken with you." Her voice was eerily calm, emotionless. "You understand your situation."
Raven took a long drag, exhaled a slow smoke ring, and nodded—wincing as the motion tugged his split lip.
"Your brother stole my moonshine and shot my cousin." Chris leaned forward slightly. "Now you're in our hands. We're even. If you want to negotiate, fine—but not on your turf. Change the location to Wild Bull Town." Her fingertips tapped the armrest lightly. "Call your brother. Tell him to bring his people here to talk. That shouldn't be difficult, right?"
Raven stubbed his cigarette on the coffee table and gave a bitter laugh. "I'll pass the message. Whether he shows… that's not up to me."
"Good." Chris glanced at Conrad by the door. The lionkin youth stepped forward with Jakar; together they flanked Raven and escorted him to the town post office to make the call.
Only when their footsteps faded down the stairs did Chris turn to Victoria. "Aunt, the ritual went smoothly—but I still need special materials." She lowered her voice. "Have someone collect the Holt subordinates' bodies and transport them by carriage to the back door of the general store."
Victoria nodded crisply. "Done. Sheep Intestine Valley is already prepared. Mokham arrived with the goods you requested an hour ago."
Chris glanced at the setting sun outside. "We move as soon as Raven finishes the call."
Meanwhile, outside the House of Wolf tavern in Strawberry Town, tension crackled.
To counter the Sylvania retaliation, the Holt brothers had rallied every Graymane subordinate and hired a band of high-tier demihuman muscle for a hefty price. Over a hundred armed fighters stood ready in the open square before the tavern.
In a private room deep inside, Holt Graymane paced anxiously, rubbing the ugly scar across his neck.
Unlike the rough werewolves outside, the gang leader had an unexpectedly refined face. Were it not for the hideous scar running from chin to collarbone—nearly fatal years ago—he might have passed for a scholar. The wound had left his voice permanently hoarse and rasping.
"Is the intel solid? The Sylvanias really coming to Strawberry Town?"
Garm wiped sweat from his brow and nodded. "Certain. Our informants outside Sylvania Manor report hourly. Since last night, old bear Baruch's been rounding up people…" He swallowed. "They've got over fifty assembled. An hour ago, they were definitely heading our way."
Holt paced, leather boots thudding dully on wood. Everything seemed on track—yet unease gnawed deeper.
"Holt, what are you so worried about?" Kari finally burst out, waving a thick arm. "The Sylvanias aren't the dragonkin powerhouse they once were! They barely scrape by because Victoria beds high-tier demihumans for support. It took them a whole day to muster fifty. If it comes to blows, we might win. Why not wipe them out while we have the chance…?"
"Idiot!" Holt whirled, scar flushing red with rage. His rasping voice grated like a torn bellows. "You think the three supreme high-tier titles are just decoration?"
He seized Kari's shoulder hard enough to make him wince. "Sure, the high nobles mock their own kind's fall and kick them when down—but if a werewolf clan actually destroys the Sylvanias…"
Holt released him with a sneer. "Tomorrow we'd face a joint punitive force from dragonkin, bloodkin, and half-elves. They can feud among themselves, but they'll never let a lower race challenge high-tier authority!"
Garm stepped in to ease the tension, but Kari still jutted his chin defiantly. "So when the Sylvanias arrive, we just roll over?"
Holt slammed the table; glasses jumped. "Forcing a high-tier noble to the negotiating table is victory in itself!"
Seeing Kari's unconvinced scowl, Holt sighed and decided to reveal more.
He lowered his voice, hoarse tone carrying a conspiratorial edge. "You think I provoked the Sylvanias just for a few barrels of moonshine?" He sneered. "With Prohibition, every state in New Albion is desperate for liquor. The market's massive. You think I'd risk angering dragonkin over pocket change?"
"Then what's the real goal?" Kari asked, confused.
Holt glanced at the sealed doors and windows, then spoke slowly: "This is a condition from the Malkato bloodkin family. Complete this task, and the Holt Gang becomes their vassal house. They promised: force the Sylvanias to kneel, and they'll supply bloodkin elixirs—giving us a shot at breaking the sixth bloodline awakening limit!"
(End of Chapter 7)