This Dungeon Grew Mushrooms

The platform below fell into dead silence at first. Then, a buzzing wave of discussion spread outward like a tide.

“What just happened?”

“Young Master Bardley… how did he suddenly…”

Most of the dwarves hadn’t seen the process at all. To them, it looked like this: the lord announced the start, young Bardley took a single step forward, and then his armor fell apart, his axe blade dropped to the ground, and that valiant young master stood there almost naked, frozen stiff on the platform.

But within the crowd, a small number of sharp-eyed warriors and veteran adventurers—those standing at just the right angles—wore expressions of utter disbelief.

“It was that puji,” an old dwarf with graying beard said hoarsely, explaining to a stunned companion beside him. “The instant the fight started, it flipped over Young Master Bardley’s head. One tentacle was holding a dagger… couldn’t see the exact movements, but every single connection point on the young master’s armor was cut open almost at the same time!”

“Bullshit!” a blacksmith next to him immediately shot back, pointing at the scattered armor plates on the platform. “That’s enchanted, tempered heavy armor! A normal dagger leaving a scratch would already be impressive, cutting through it? Cutting all the fastenings at once? You think that stuff’s made of paper?”

But Bardley’s axe really had been chopped clean in half…

Common sense clashed violently with what their own eyes had seen. The crowd instantly fell into confused arguments and heated debate, the noise growing louder and louder.

However, not everyone was fixated on the details of the fight.

Some of the younger dwarves and children had already had their attention stolen by the entirely different spectacle on the platform.

They stared at the once-mighty young Bardley, now standing there almost bare like a fool, his ridiculous and miserable appearance far too entertaining.

“Pfft!”

No one knew who lost control first, letting out a short burst of laughter.

Immediately after, several other places broke into suppressed chuckles.

These laughs weren’t especially loud amid the arguing, but they were painfully sharp, cutting deeply into young Bardley’s pride.

Shame, rage, and an overwhelming sense of disbelief shattered his remaining composure. He threw away the absurd half-axe handle, let out a roar like a wounded beast, his eyes bloodshot as he spun around and swung a fist packed with battle energy toward the puji behind him.

“Stop!”

Old Bardley caught his son’s full-force punch with one hand. The gust of force blew his graying beard straight back.

“Father?!” young Bardley cried out in shock.

“The duel is over,” old Bardley declared in a deep voice. “You lost.”

Lost?

Young Bardley hadn’t even fully processed those words when he suddenly felt a chill at his chin.

The carefully braided beard he took such pride in had been silently cut off right down the middle.

And directly in front of his neck—where his beard had just been—an icy metallic glint was slowly withdrawing. It was the tip of a dagger, held in place by the Sword Saint Puji’s fungal tentacle.

If it had moved forward even half an inch, it would have pierced straight into his throat.

Only at this moment did young Bardley truly realize how close death had been. Cold sweat poured down his back.

In truth, the Sword Saint had never intended to kill him.

Just a kid in his thirties. If a half-year-old puji like himself truly took him seriously, that would be beneath him.

Still, if old Bardley hadn’t stepped in to stop things, the Sword Saint wouldn’t have minded shaving the rest of young Bardley’s beard clean—and maybe even stripping off that last pair of shorts for good measure.

Down below, there were no more voices of doubt.

They had finally realized that it wasn’t the puji whose movements were unclear—it was their own eyes that couldn’t keep up.

But almost immediately, a new question seized everyone’s thoughts.

They all knew young Bardley’s strength. With that enchanted heavy armor, he could even trade blows with a sanctum-level opponent.

And yet this puji had dispatched him so effortlessly.

Just what level was it?

A servant hurried up the stone platform holding clothes, about to hand them to the half-naked young master, but old Bardley raised a hand to stop him.

Looking at his bare-chested son, old Bardley said, “You lost. According to the agreement, go apologize. Like this.”

“Father… I…” Bardley’s face flickered with struggle and humiliation.

But under his father’s unwavering gaze, he ultimately took a deep breath, turned around, and walked down the platform step by step. In front of Inanna, he lowered his head.

“It was my offense… I will honor all agreements. Please forgive me…”

He didn’t even resist when Four brushed away the rest of his beard with a tentacle.

Old Bardley then stepped forward and gave a slight nod to Inanna and Ronan.

“The delegation may depart at any time. Ashfurnace City will provide the necessary supplies and assign guides familiar with the mountain paths.”

His tone was steady, betraying little emotion.

There was no intention of reneging.

Honor duels were ancient and sacred law. With so many witnesses, even as a lord, he had to abide by the outcome. To violate it would invite universal scorn and stain the clan’s reputation.

Besides…

Old Bardley glanced back at the Sword Saint Puji, who was calmly re-hanging the four swords onto himself.

The strength that puji had shown was something even he wasn’t confident he could defeat.

Mushroomfolk… previous intelligence had emphasized their ability to summon tides of puji, marking them as a force of immense strategic value.

But who could have imagined that their individual combat power could reach such heights?

This needed to be reported within the clan. Their assessment of, and strategy toward, the Mushroomfolk would have to be revised.

With matters settled, old Bardley said no more. He turned and left with his son—now draped in an outer garment, still looking dazed and hollow—disappearing quickly into the parting and then closing crowd.

As soon as they were gone, Inanna immediately set Four down and happily hugged the Sword Saint Puji instead, her fingers gently kneading its smooth, rounded mushroom body, her admiration completely unhidden.

Knowing that it wouldn’t be receiving attention from the pink puji for a while, Four quietly climbed onto the stone platform and used its fungal tentacles to pick up the neatly severed piece of beard.

Although this was technically Fourteen’s trophy, it was also proof of Mushroomfolk glory and needed to be brought back for display.

This gave it an idea.

Heads were too much, but maybe in future victories, cutting off a small piece as proof would work?

That way, the pink puji wouldn’t be put off, and there’d still be evidence of the achievement.

But what to cut, exactly?

Not everyone had something as iconic as a dwarf’s magnificent beard…

…

While everyone’s attention was fixed on the honor duel, no one except Inanna noticed that the third puji in the delegation hadn’t appeared at the scene at all.

At the edge of Ashfurnace City, inside a quiet stone house far from the noisy plaza, the light was dim. More than a dozen young dwarves knelt uneasily on the floor, rough hands clasped together in nervous tension.

Standing before them was the knight puji, the one absent from the duel.

“Is… is this really true?” a young dwarf with soot-stained cheeks asked, staring at the words on the ground, his voice trembling with disbelief and longing.

These young dwarves shared similar circumstances. They were all junior blacksmiths who had barely made it through talent and sweat, yet lacked both clan backing and wealthy patrons.

The mountains were rich in minerals, but nearly all high-quality veins were tightly controlled by the major clans. Every piece of ore had a predetermined destination.

For junior craftsmen like them, advancing to intermediate or senior ranks—or even dreaming of becoming legendary smiths—what they lacked wasn’t effort or sweat, but massive, even extravagant opportunities to practice.

Under normal circumstances, they could only work as assistants in clan or merchant forges, day after day shaping rough blanks and pumping bellows, occasionally earning the right to hammer out a few simple pieces.

It would take five or six years, or even longer, slowly accumulating meager experience and savings before they might touch the threshold of the next level.

And now, a puji that could communicate through writing had painted them a picture that felt almost dreamlike.

Go to a certain place, and there would be endless minerals and unlimited forging opportunities.

They could swing their hammers freely, experiment as much as they wanted, until their skills truly reached a bottleneck with nowhere left to advance.

It was a “paradise” every blacksmith dreamed of.

Yearning burned in their eyes like blazing forge fires, but doubt followed close behind.

After all, the location this thing mentioned was a little too close to the demon border…

The knight puji didn’t write any further explanation. Instead, it simply pulled something from its body and tossed it onto the ground.

Thud.

A dull, heavy sound.

There, lying on the floor, was an A-grade magic crystal the size of an adult’s fist.

A crystal of that size was worth more than what they could earn in over a decade of backbreaking labor.

It lay there quietly, radiating a purple glow. The dwarves’ pupils shrank, their breathing growing heavy.

After the puji left, several clear gulping sounds echoed through the room.

Some dwarves had their eyes glued to the crystal, greed filling their gazes as they eagerly whispered with companions about how to divide this staggering windfall.

But others stared blankly at the doorway the puji had exited through, then lowered their eyes to the shimmering crystal on the ground, the promise of that “blacksmith’s paradise” echoing again and again in their minds.