This Dungeon Grew Mushrooms

Recently, Arama had, at last, gained a bit of leisure.

It was not that there was nothing to do. Rather, compared to the past decade and more—when he had been forced to remain year-round at Highcastle Fortress, facing the demon vanguard head-on—the situation had changed.

Highcastle Fortress had fallen into other hands. The human army had withdrawn to a more rearward defensive line, and a vast buffer zone now lay between the two sides.

The extended frontline and the new stalemate had, somewhat unexpectedly, granted the Duke a measure of time he could allocate freely.

Only because of that could he temporarily leave the front and come to Mordu to see the daughter who was forever bringing him “surprises.”

“So this is that so-called Binding Ring?” Arama’s attention was quickly drawn to the ancient-looking ring on Inanna’s hand, faintly glowing with runes. “Why are there two?”

As he spoke, he curiously extended a finger, intending to touch the ring for a closer look.

“Remove your filthy hand, human!”

A burst of flame erupted from the ring, sweeping across Arama’s chest—instantly evaporating the moisture left from the earlier ice—and even slightly singeing the tips of his black-and-white hair into faint curls.

“Little Flame! He’s my father!” Inanna scolded the ring with some irritation.

“This lord knows that!” a thunderous voice rumbled from within the ring, clearly displeased. “Otherwise he’d already be a medium-rare roast! And don’t call this lord ‘Little Flame’!”

“I’m not talking to you today!” Inanna huffed, then stepped in front of Arama with concern. “Old man, you’re not burned, are you? Sorry—Little Flame just got beaten by Little Ice earlier, so he’s in a bad mood.”

“Who got beaten? Who got beaten! Call it out again—right here—let’s fight another round!”

Tongues of flame kept flaring from the ring, accidentally setting a nearby wooden table alight. Inanna hurriedly doused it with a water orb, and in the end had to activate the runes on the ring to temporarily confine the Fire Elemental Lord. Only then did things quiet down.

Having just endured “a baptism of ice and fire,” Arama instinctively leaned back slightly when his daughter approached again.

Fortunately, the control honed over years on the battlefield allowed him to steady himself at the last moment, though his shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly.

This time, at least, no “defensive mechanism” was triggered.

Hearing his daughter refer to the Fire Elemental Lord—described in reports as having “unleashed elemental chaos and destroyed an entire city”—in the tone of someone coaxing a child as “Little Flame,” Arama could not stop the corner of his eye from twitching.

He stroked his still faintly singed beard and gave a dry laugh.

“Good, good… My daughter has grown up. More capable by the day. That’s good. Very good.”

As he spoke, his voice softened unconsciously, his gaze following her face. The hardened lines carved by years on the battlefield now relaxed.

He mentioned celebrations he had missed during her childhood, asked what foods she liked now, whether her diplomatic journey had gone smoothly. He even awkwardly suggested redecorating her room at the ducal estate—his words carrying a careful attempt to make up for years of absence.

Unfortunately, some things were simply too late to mend.

Inanna was no longer the little girl starved for affection. The puji had filled her heart to the brim.

She smiled and responded to Arama’s words just as a proper noble lady should. Arama saw it all and felt a quiet helplessness in his heart.

Some things, once missed, could never be reclaimed—and Arama had never truly had a choice.

Fortunately, though their relationship could never grow truly intimate, neither was it hostile. There was genuine familial affection between them.

As father and daughter chatted about ordinary matters, Number Four—utterly unable to comprehend the atmosphere—hopped onto the sofa on its own and burrowed into Inanna’s arms.

And Inanna, quite naturally and without hesitation before Arama, began rubbing the puji in her lap.

Arama’s eye twitched again.

He even had the urge to bring up the topic of her lifelong affairs once more.

Inanna was already eighteen. At her age, being unmarried—give it another two years, and she would be considered an old maid.

Arama did not want others laughing behind his daughter’s back.

But for now, there were more pressing matters.

Unknowingly, their conversation shifted from household matters to the war.

“The Church of Light… has paid too high a price,” he said slowly. “Precisely because of that, the Kingdom needs stability. Lately, new sects have been sprouting everywhere, stirring unrest among the people…”

His words paused, and his gaze seemed to drift—almost casually—toward Julia in the distance.

Inanna’s hand, still kneading Number Four, paused briefly.

“Old man,” she lifted her head, pink eyes reflecting the firelight from the hearth, “the Mushroom Worship Sect is different.”

Arama met his daughter’s gaze. Within it was a stubborn innocence he knew well—exactly like her mother’s in years past.

He sighed.

“Inanna, my child, how can you be certain they are different? Many things are not as they appear. The Church of Light has been rooted in the Kingdom for centuries. It has always been the pillar of faith and order. That Archbishop who sacrificed himself—his blood proved the weight of that orthodoxy. You are my daughter, a member of House Saint Claire. In feeling and in reason, you ought to… stand on the side that preserves that orthodoxy.”

But Inanna shook her head firmly.

“Those who love puji—and are loved by puji—how could they be bad people?”

But were puji themselves necessarily “good”?

Arama wanted to say so—but he could not simply voice it.

And he suspected that, given Inanna’s current dependence on puji, even if he did say it, it would be useless.

And the truth was, the reason his daughter had become as she was now ultimately lay with him.

In the end, he could only sigh again and stare up at the ceiling in silence.

Yes. On a personal level, he owed the puji far too much.

If not for his negligence years ago, Inanna would not have fallen into mortal peril. It was those tiny puji who had saved her life.

In the brutal battle at Dragonroar Valley, it had been the power of the puji that dragged him back from the gates of death.

As a man of flesh and blood, he felt gratitude—even a certain closeness toward these extraordinary beings.

But he was not merely Inanna’s father.

He was a Duke of the United Kingdom, one of those who bore responsibility for humanity’s survival.

Puji were steadily integrating into the Kingdom. The proportion of puji tamers was rising. Yet as scholars from the Relic Association continued their research, previously unknown details were coming to light.

For instance, those who grew mycelium upon their bodies would naturally feel affinity toward puji. And there was something called the fungal network—a large-scale mental communication ability.

How many unknown secrets still lay hidden within that mycelium?

Sometimes he even wondered—if they truly defeated the Empire with the help of puji, then in the end, who would be the real victor? Humans—or puji?

As a Duke, he had to prepare for the worst possibility—even if it made him appear ungrateful.

Just as, when forced to choose between humanity and his debt to puji, he would choose humanity.

But Inanna…

He looked at his daughter’s delighted expression as she played with Number Four. If the day ever came when a choice was unavoidable, she would likely stand on the side of the puji.

How could that not leave him helpless?

He had no good solution. It was far more difficult than leading troops into battle.

Compared to that, whether to release the organizer of some minor emerging sect was trivial.

Perhaps after Inanna married, things might change. Perhaps her focus would shift from puji to family?

Arama pondered this possibility to himself, planning to consult Lorenzo later. Both of Lorenzo’s sons were married—he had experience.

In the end, unable to persuade his daughter, Arama rose to leave, a trace of gloom in his expression.

He waved a hand and said, “Very well… I will explain things to the Church.”

After stepping outside, he noticed another member of the mushroom folk standing there, carrying four swords on its back. He knew its name—Fourteen.

Fourteen extended a tentacle and patted Arama on the shoulder, then went “puji puji” as it entered the room.

Arama stood there for a moment, the soft sensation still lingering on his shoulder.

He looked back at the closed door, confusion surfacing on his face.

What did that mean?

Surely that puji wasn’t trying to comfort him?