This Dungeon Grew Mushrooms

The western coast of the kingdom, the fallen zone.

Amid the broken walls and ruins, a tall pigman struggled to prop himself up. His coarse bristles were caked with sand and dried blood. He was the leader of a small pigman squad of more than ten.

In this fallen zone, many unorganized demon squads like his were wandering about.

They weren’t part of any regular army. They were merely taking advantage of the chaos after the human defensive line collapsed, hoping to abduct prisoners and loot what they could.

Without a demon army backing them up, this line of work was naturally extremely dangerous.

Those who dared step into this place were either confident enough in their strength and wits—or, like him, had no other choice.

The pigman duke Xenophen had died on the battlefield, dealing a heavy blow to the pigman faction within the empire.

Moreover, Xenophen himself had committed serious mistakes during the war. After his death, aside from a small personal holding, the rest of his fiefs were either reclaimed by the emperor or carved up and swallowed by neighboring lords.

Countless pigmen lost their patron overnight and were forced to fend for themselves.

He was unwilling to follow some of his kin and seek refuge under other lords, becoming hopeless cannon fodder. So he gathered a group of pigmen willing to follow him and came to the western coast, hoping to build up some capital through this knife-edge trade.

But he had failed.

The last image in his memory was of several scorching fireballs launched from the ruined buildings on both sides of the road as they were escorting prisoners back to the port, sealing off every path of escape.

The pigman shook his heavy head. As his vision gradually cleared, what he saw were prison carts surrounded by iron bars. He quickly recognized them—these were the very carts he had used to transport human captives.

His first thought was confusion. Why hadn’t the humans killed him on the spot? Why capture him instead?

Humans didn’t take demon prisoners.

But when his gaze collided with the neighboring cage, he didn’t see his pigman subordinates.

Instead, he saw the very human captives he had personally abducted just days ago.

They hadn’t been released. They were still shackled.

One thin man met his eyes, the corner of his mouth slowly splitting into a smile.

It wasn’t the joy of being saved, but a twisted grin born from soaking in despair and finally tasting the pleasure of revenge.

The pigman forced himself upright, looking past the edge of the prison cart, finally seeing the true appearance of the escorting force.

A line of silent black-robed figures walked through the ruins, their faces hidden beneath hoods.

Yet even so, the pigman recognized demonic features on several of them at a glance.

A mixed group of humans and demons?!

What shocked him even more was that he saw a familiar figure.

In an instant, he understood. The ambush on his squad had not been an accident.

“Tagu!” he roared from deep in his throat. “It was you! You lured the enemy here?!”

That figure stiffened slightly, then slowly turned around and raised a hand to pull down his hood.

A young pigman’s face was revealed—the scout from his squad.

Tagu’s gaze was eerily calm. “It was me, Captain.”

“Why?!” The pigman captain leaned forward madly, the iron bars creaking as saliva sprayed from his mouth. “Why betray our own kind?! Why the hell would you do this?!”

“For redemption, Captain. For all of us—to obtain true happiness in the next life.”

Tagu’s eyes held a clarity close to reverence. His answer sent a chill down the pigman captain’s spine.

“The next life? The Hand of Crossing Death?!” Even within the empire, the Hand of Crossing Death was infamous.

After all, even Ellinor—who cruelly bred blood livestock—did so out of profit and logic.

But the Hand of Crossing Death was different. These lunatics babbled about happiness in the next life while committing horrifying massacres, purely to offer sacrifices to their god.

Even demons wanted nothing to do with such madmen.

Realizing what he had fallen into, the pigman captain struggled violently.

Bones thudded and muscles tore as his already massive body swelled further. Veins bulged beneath his thick hide like writhing worms. His tusks pierced his lower lip, blood dripping down as the prison cage began to warp under his berserk strength.

With a furious roar, the iron bars burst apart. The pigman captain stepped out of the shattered cage and slapped Tagu hard across the face with a backhand.

The young pigman flew like a broken kite, smashing into a tree and sliding limply to the ground.

The pigman captain didn’t spare him another glance. His bloodshot eyes swept toward the other prison carts as his massive hands tore at the bars.

Whether the cages held trembling human captives or agitated pigman kin, they were ripped open one by one under his brute force.

Screams, cries, and curses exploded at once, plunging the scene into chaos.

He wasn’t acting out of mercy. He knew only greater chaos could disrupt these black-robed lunatics and give him a slim chance to escape.

Some prisoners lunged at the cultists in revenge. Others fled in panic toward the forest.

Just as the chaos reached its peak and the pigman captain prepared to run—

“Be quiet.”

A girl’s voice rang out.

It wasn’t loud—one might even call it gentle—yet it instantly suppressed all noise.

Those captives who had been crying, fleeing, or resisting seemed to have their souls yanked out at the same time. Their eyes went blank, and they collapsed softly to the ground, falling into deep sleep.

The pigman captain felt his mind sink as if struck by a heavy blow. His huge body swayed violently, his forward momentum cut off. He stumbled a few steps before crashing to the ground, his heavy breathing rasping with dizziness.

His muddled mind tried to understand what had just happened.

A sonic attack?

No.

The cultists hadn’t been affected at all.

Taking advantage of the pigman captain’s collapse, they pounced on him and pinned him firmly to the ground.

The girl who had spoken earlier walked slowly toward him. Her slender, pale fingers pulled down her hood.

A human girl’s face was revealed—still carrying a hint of childishness.

Her eyes were unnaturally bright, as though reflecting the blue moon in the sky.

Every black-robed cultist present, human or demon alike, looked at her with fervent devotion.

“High Priestess,” they whispered.

The girl crouched down and calmly looked at the pigman captain pinned to the ground.

She raised both hands and gently cradled his face—caked with blood, grime, and twisted with ferocity. Her touch was so tender it was as if she were handling a fragile treasure.

“Shh… poor child, a soul lost among the thorns of life…”

Her voice was ethereal, carrying a strange rhythm.

“Why struggle? This coarse shell, these endless desires and rage, this pain of separation and loss… they are nothing but heavy baggage on the road of reincarnation.”

The pigman captain fought his way out of the lingering mental shock and let out a furious roar. “If you’re going to kill me, then do it! Stop trying to brainwash me, you damn lunatics!”

He jerked his head forward and bit down on half of the girl’s hand. It was so fragile—he barely needed any force to bite it clean off. The stench of blood instantly filled his mouth.

Yet the girl seemed not to feel pain at all. Her gaze grew even gentler.

“See? You’re so tired,” she said softly.

“Fighting, plundering, fear, betrayal… the living carry so much dust upon themselves, trudging pointlessly through an endless cycle.”

Her tone gradually slowed, like a lullaby.

“Death is not the end, but a new beginning. There, there is no difference of race, no distinction between strong and weak, no entanglement of pain and joy… only pure ‘nothingness.’”

As she whispered and caressed him, something strange spread through him.

The pigman captain’s rage, fear, and even the intense pain in his body ebbed away like a receding tide.

A deep, irresistible weariness welled up, as if he had walked the thorny road for a thousand years and finally glimpsed a soft bed upon which he could lie down.

The girl’s prayer reached its end. Her voice grew ever softer, almost merging with the night wind.

“…Thus, we of the Hand of Crossing Death guide the lost souls.

Break free of this world’s shackles and return to rest.

When the bell of reincarnation rings once more… you will have a lighter journey.”

The final syllable fell.

The pigman captain’s blood-red eyes lost all focus, becoming hollow and serene.

His heavy breathing ceased. His tense muscles fully relaxed. His ferocious face smoothed into an expression peaceful as that of a sleeping infant.

His massive head was cradled in the girl’s blood-soaked hand. His chest rose one last time—then fell silent forever.

The girl withdrew her hand. With the intact fingertips of her other hand, she gently tapped his closed eyelids once, like the imprint of a blessing.

She stood up, her black robe fluttering in the wind, her gaze sweeping over the sleeping sacrifices on the ground.

“Prepare the ritual,” she commanded.

“In order to hear the Lord’s oracle once more, we must save more people!”

…

At the same time, in Mordu.

There was also a cult here, conducting an evil ritual—people praying to a puji.

There were no formal prayers. They simply muttered about how wonderful puji were, speaking to themselves.

After the prayers, Julia—the earliest leader of the Puji Worship Cult—lifted the ordinary puji down from the platform and let it run off on its own.

Then Julia brought out a large pot of glowing mushroom soup she had cooked herself, blew out the candles in the room, and shared the soup with everyone by its bioluminescent light.

During the “communion,” one believer suggested that perhaps they should find a real mushroomfolk to worship.

Julia agreed with the idea, but the problem was that all known mushroomfolk were under the kingdom’s control, and no one knew where to find wild ones.

Everyone offered their thoughts—some suggested searching in the dungeon, others proposed praying to the fungal carpet and asking the Puji God to bestow a mushroomfolk upon them. One bold proposal even suggested risking attention and directly contacting the kingdom’s known mushroomfolk.

To those who worshipped puji, mushroomfolk were surely the divine messengers of the Puji God. Gaining their recognition was crucial for strengthening the cult’s internal cohesion.

They excitedly fantasized about a future led by mushroomfolk. Even if it was still only a dream, it thrilled them.

However, just as the discussion reached its peak, a set of orderly footsteps sounded outside the house.