This Dungeon Grew Mushrooms

“Syrian! Syrian!”

Syrian’s eyelids drooped, his gaze vacant as he stared at the cracked patterns on the ground.

It wasn’t until Veyra reached out and gently shook his shoulder that the handsome elf suddenly came back to himself.

“Sorry, Veyra…” Syrian rubbed his ear. “I got a little distracted.”

“It’s my fault for arranging things poorly.” Veyra’s voice carried a trace of apology. “You’ve been casting spells all day. You should be resting. Let me take the next watch.”

Their voices were soft—low enough not to wake Phylline and Fein, the sisters sleeping in the back.

Syrian didn’t argue. He walked over to the corner of the room and lay down on the heap of dry grass.

Veyra’s party was currently stationed in the ruins of a small town north of Golden Valley City.

The town had long been reduced to ashes in an earlier demonic raid. The building they occupied was the most intact one left—though half its wall was gone, it still managed to keep out most of the wind and rain.

Previously, they had accompanied the convoy transporting Pujis into the ravaged western regions, their first stop being Fort Wimble.

The demon raiding forces had halted their southward advance there, sparing the towns behind it from further devastation.

Veyra’s group had witnessed the horror of that fortress firsthand—broken walls hastily patched with rubble, timber, and dirt; maimed soldiers limping through the streets; and beyond the gates, a newly dug mass grave holding over three thousand corpses…

Every adventurer, Veyra included, had been deeply shaken by the sight. This was not adventure—it was war, a kind far bloodier and crueler than any quest they had ever known.

Before arriving at Golden Valley City, they had already braced themselves for something even worse.

After all, Fort Wimble lay far to the south, in what was technically the rear lines. Many demonic raiding parties never made it that deep—one of the few reasons the fortress had survived at all.

In terms of fortification and troop numbers, Fort Wimble only barely ranked among the top five in the west.

And yet, because of its safer location, it had become the only surviving fortress of those five.

Which now, ironically, made it the strongest fortress left standing in the west.

By contrast, Golden Valley City was right in the heart of the demons’ path of destruction. As a city, its walls could never compare to a true fortress.

That it had not been overrun was, frankly, a miracle.

They expected a city saved by mountains of corpses and rivers of blood.

But when they finally arrived, the truth was… not what they imagined.

It wasn’t that there were no traces of battle—there were sword gouges and scorch marks all along the walls, rubble and bloodstains yet to be cleared from the streets—but compared to the horror at Fort Wimble, Golden Valley’s condition was almost too good to be true.

The walls, though damaged, remained largely intact. The wounded soldiers were few, and none showed the deep exhaustion of a long siege. Even stranger, they saw no mass graves outside the city—none at all.

It was as if the demons had been repelled with ease. Unbelievable.

And something else puzzled them even more.

The four of them could hardly believe their eyes—Golden Valley City was full of Pujis handlers! For the first time outside of the Mushroom Capital, they saw so many Pujis Masters gathered in one place.

Originally, Veyra’s team had planned to help eliminate the remaining scattered demons nearby. But when they arrived, they found that task already done—cleared out by the city’s official and freelance Pujis Masters alike.

Instead, another urgent task was demanding more manpower—purifying Death Plague.

All around the fallen towns and villages, countless corpses lay rotting under the sun. As the temperature rose, the bodies began to breed Death Plague, poisoning the soil and water.

That was where Syrian’s talents were needed most—he was an expert in purification magic.

That was how the team ended up here, spending two full days cleansing this ruined town until the miasma was completely gone.

After another long day’s trek, the four finally trudged back into Golden Valley City, dusty and exhausted.

At the city lord’s manor, they finished their mission report. Then Phylline came out holding a new commission slip. “The next site’s a city to the south, about three days away. Two priests are already working there, but the workload seems… overwhelming. They need reinforcements.”

Veyra glanced at Syrian. “Let’s rest for a day before heading out.”

“Good idea. I could use a bath too. That stench got into my clothes,” Phylline said, tugging at her sleeve and sniffing it. Fein quickly nodded in agreement.

“But before that,” Veyra reminded them, “we should get dinner. Miss the timing, and there won’t be any left.”

These days, Golden Valley City served two free meals of mushroom stew daily. Refugees and adventurers alike could come collect them.

It wasn’t that Veyra’s group disliked the food—it was just that, at the moment, mushrooms were nearly the only ingredient available in the entire city.

So if it was all mushrooms anyway, the free one was naturally better.

Food distribution took place in the city square.

By the time Veyra’s team arrived, many people were already seated at the edges, sipping the faintly glowing stew from wooden bowls.

Just as Veyra stepped forward to line up, a wooden bowl came spinning through the air and clattered to the ground at his feet. The luminous broth splashed across his leg armor, leaving streaks that shimmered faintly in the dim light.

“Ah—sorry, sorry.”

The voice came from two men in City Guard uniforms. One of them still had his foot raised mid-swing—clearly, he was the one who had kicked the bowl.

Veyra glanced down at his greaves and waved it off. “It’s fine. They were dirty anyway.”

He certainly wasn’t the type to make a scene over something so trivial.

But as the two guards turned to leave, Phylline called out sharply, “Hey! Shouldn’t you be apologizing to her?”

She pointed to a raggedly dressed woman sitting between two groups. The bowl had belonged to her.

“Her? She doesn’t mind,” one guard said, nudging the woman’s leg lightly with the toe of his boot. “Right?”

“I–It was my fault… I wasn’t holding it properly…” the woman murmured, voice barely above a whisper, head bowed even lower.

The guard shrugged and started to walk away.

“Stop right there!” Phylline’s voice was tight with anger.

“Tch!” The soldier clicked his tongue and turned around, irritated. “She already admitted it was her fault. Don’t you think you’re meddling a bit too much… adventurer?”

The people eating nearby fell silent. Many of the guards present turned their unfriendly gazes toward Veyra’s group.