This Dungeon Grew Mushrooms

Number Four was conflicted.

The pink puji hadn’t hugged it for three whole days.

And all of this was because of the treasured trophy it had collected—a head taken from a cultist.

That group of cultists they had run into shortly after leaving the Scarecrow Abyss had not been a coincidence.

With the continent in turmoil, the Hand of Crossing Death had taken the opportunity to stir up trouble everywhere. The buffer zones along the borders of various nations were precisely where they were most active.

Along the way, they had repeatedly detected traces of the Hand of Crossing Death. Some were vague rumors, while others were unmistakable tragedies.

Refugee civilians vanishing without a trace, adventurers’ corpses discovered in remote caves, already gnawed beyond recognition by monsters, with remnants of sacrificial rituals still left beside them…

Whenever they caught the scent of a lead, Fourteen would always insist on investigating.

Because of this, their journey had been delayed quite a bit.

If Number Ten were still around, he would probably already be arguing fiercely with Fourteen.

But the ones present now were Number Four, who didn’t particularly care, and Inanna, who showed near-limitless indulgence toward the puji.

The delegation’s steward, Ronan, had plenty of complaints about this, but it was obvious he had no authority over Fourteen.

Every time, Number Four followed along. That head was the one it had personally chopped off, kept as proof of honor.

Unfortunately, the pink puji didn’t seem to appreciate that honor at all.

On one side was the trophy it planned to bring back to show off to the other mushroomfolk.

On the other side was the pink puji’s warm, soft, full-set kneading service.

It struggled for a very, very long time…

“No… Little Four, even if you stuff that head into your stomach, I still won’t hug you…”

“And really, that head has already started to stink. You need a bath.”

With its belly bulging, Number Four drooped its cap in deep dejection.

It slowly shuffled to the roadside and, with immense reluctance, took out the shriveled, darkened head. With great solemnity, it placed it on the branch of a short tree and performed a final farewell.

After that, Inanna personally cast magic to carefully wash it from head to toe.

As the delegation entered the mountainous region, the cultists’ traces finally disappeared.

The road began to change. No longer dirt paths through forests and plains, but neatly carved stone roads cut along mountain ridges.

The roadway was narrow, at times clinging tightly to sheer cliffs, with mist-filled ravines yawning on the outer side.

The mountains stretched endlessly, their exposed rock faces tinted iron-gray or dark red. Hardy trees with blade-like leaves and clusters of thorny bushes grew stubbornly from the stone.

Farther away, higher peaks were capped with snow that never melted year-round, gleaming with a cold, silvery light under the thin sunlight.

To allow the carriages to travel on such roads, the delegation had been forced to replace the fine horses they brought from the kingdom with high-horned goats before entering the mountains.

High-horned goats were adept at mountain paths and had excellent endurance, though in terms of appearance, they were far inferior to horses.

A day later, a city appeared at the end of their sightline.

It was not built at the foot or the summit of the mountain, but embedded halfway up the slope—a medium-sized fortress: Ashfurnace City.

From afar, the city looked as though it had grown out from within the mountain itself. Massive, heavy bronze-colored rock formed its foundation and outer walls, with tall ramparts rising and falling along the mountain’s contours.

Several square towers protruded from behind the walls. Their tops were not spires but flat watch platforms, where the silhouettes of heavily armored dwarf sentries could be faintly seen.

Even more eye-catching was the middle section of the city, where several broad, open-air terraces had been carved out. On the largest of these terraces, a dark red glow flickered faintly—even in daylight it was clearly visible. That was the dwarves’ never-extinguished public forge.

Several thick columns of smoke rose slowly from openings in different parts of the mountainside, ascending straight into the clouds.

The final stretch of road leading to the city gate was a steep zigzag slope. On the rock walls to either side were carved huge reliefs with rough, bold lines, depicting hammer-wielding warriors fighting alongside their greatest companions, griffons.

Unfortunately, with the current numbers of griffons, only the royal family could afford to maintain a griffon knight order.

A border city like Ashfurnace City—especially one facing allied territory—could only carve a statue or two as a symbolic gesture.

At last, the delegation arrived beneath the city.

The heavy black iron gates were tightly shut, their surfaces studded with rivets and bearing the dull sheen left by years of smoke and rain. At the gate checkpoint, a squad of dwarven warriors clad in chainmail and holding battle axes coldly observed the delegation’s arrival.

A dwarf with a thick beard braided into coarse plaits and a captain’s insignia carved into his pauldron stepped forward, his voice deep and resonant.

“Who goes there? And for what purpose?”

Ronan’s brow immediately furrowed. As an experienced delegation steward, he had dispatched swift messengers days ago to give advance notice.

Under normal circumstances, even without a grand welcoming ceremony, the gates should have been open by now, with at least the appropriate ceremonial officials waiting here.

No welcome, instead tightly closed gates and strict questioning—could it be that the messengers had met with misfortune on the way?

Suppressing his doubts, he stepped forward and offered a proper salute.

“We represent the United Kingdom, here to discuss a new alliance treaty with our dwarven allies. Lady Inanna, daughter of Duke Arama and hero of the Battle of Dragonroar Valley, is also present with the delegation.”

He expected the mention of Inanna’s name to change their attitude.

However, the dwarven captain merely listened with an expressionless face and replied curtly, “Understood. I’ll report it.”

He then turned and left, actually abandoning the entire delegation outside the closed gates, on the frigid mountain road.

This went far beyond mere negligence or ignorance.

Ronan’s expression darkened. It seemed the problem wasn’t with the messengers at all, but that the dwarves here were deliberately being dismissive—perhaps even intentionally obstructive.

Time passed slowly in silence. Mountain winds swept over the cliffs, carrying with them the distant thunder of forges.

Only after a long while did the massive black iron gates finally emit a heavy, grating sound as they opened inward, revealing a narrow gap just wide enough for carts and mounts to pass.

The group was finally allowed inside. Beyond the gates lay a world filled with even thicker smoke, firelight, and metallic echoes. The streets were narrow and steep, with warm yellow light glowing from the window openings of stone houses on either side.

At that moment, Number Four—who had been resting peacefully in Inanna’s arms, enjoying long-awaited kneading services—suddenly filed a little report through the fungal network:

“Just now, that… shorter person, the one only a little taller than me, was secretly calling them ‘treacherous oath-breakers’ behind their backs.”

By “them,” Number Four meant the humans in the delegation. After all, it and the pink puji were both puji—they definitely shouldn’t be lumped in with the ones being cursed.

Inanna turned her head back and happened to meet the dwarven captain’s look of disgust.

That left her puzzled. Had they done something to offend the dwarves?

…

At the highest point of the city, within a tower built of massive stone and bronze, the dwarven lord Bardley Deepfurnace leaned on his runed battle axe, gazing down at the delegation slowly entering the city below.

The mountain wind outside the tower stirred his thick, iron-gray beard. The metal rings at the ends of his beard braids knocked against each other, producing faint sounds.

“Allies? A new alliance treaty?” Bardley snorted disdainfully. “A bunch of crafty humans—what scheme are they trying to drag us into this time?”