Dylan felt like he had already entered semi-retirement.

Every morning, after climbing out of his mycelium coffin, he would cook himself a bowl of mushroom soup.

All the mushrooms came from the forest. The boss had said before: all gray mushrooms were safe to eat.

Still, as a man who had become half-mushroom himself, eating mushrooms always gave him a strange sense of dissonance…

And the soup always carried that faint earthy stench. He had to sprinkle a few grains of rock salt just to coax out some taste.

Maybe it was because he once complained to the boss about how dark the floor was—lately, all the mushrooms had begun glowing.

The lighting problem was solved, sure. But glowing soup? That was unsettling. It felt like drinking some witch’s potion.

Still, work was easy. Other than surface trips, the boss rarely gave him tasks.

Sometimes adventurers left behind gear or tools, and Dylan was asked to assess their value. Most of the time, he had nothing to do.

He even used the free time to go hunting on the upper floors, bringing back edible monsters.

After all, one couldn’t live on mushrooms alone.

The last time he mentioned wanting monster meat, the boss had sent him a few mutilated Pujis. At that moment, Dylan realized he’d better hunt for himself if he wanted real food.

No matter what, eating one’s coworkers was just… too much.

Luckily, the boss didn’t oppose his hunting trips—actually, he encouraged them. He only reminded Dylan to toss the monster remains into the swamp afterward.

So, to improve life on the fifth floor, Dylan had even applied for a plot of land on the edge and started building himself a wooden hut.

Unfortunately, work came knocking before he got far.

The boss had asked him about some sort of mana… fluctuation? But how would a front-line fighter like him know anything about mana?

And just like that, he was immediately assigned to gather news from the surface. The boss seemed urgent.

Not daring to delay, Dylan climbed to the surface in half a day, as smoothly as if he’d done it a hundred times.

And then he ran right into three Guild officials stationed at the dungeon entrance.

He recognized the man leading them—Marshal, a middle-aged adventurer who had been active in Yafeng Town ten years ago.

But Marshal was a gold-rank adventurer. Ever since he joined the Guild, he had stopped entering the dungeon.

Seeing the entrance blocked, Dylan broke into a cold sweat.

What happened? Why was the entrance sealed? Would they search him and see through his disguise?

He swallowed hard but forced himself to straighten up and walk forward.

Luckily, the Guild men only gave him a glance before letting him pass.

It was the group of four adventurers behind him who were stopped.

The red-armored warrior slammed his sword hilt into the stone.

“Why aren’t we allowed in?”

His words sparked like flint, but Marshal stood calmly with arms crossed.

Adventurers were always like this—loud first, reason later. He was used to it.

“Demon Tide warning. The Guild has ordered the dungeon sealed.”

The moment those two words—Demon Tide—were spoken, all protest vanished.

Most adventurers had never experienced one, since they came only once every ten-plus years. But no one in the Guild was ignorant of its reputation: the dungeon’s greatest calamity.

And sealing the dungeon because of a Demon Tide? No one could argue with that.

The four huddled together, whispering, before one asked nervously:

“How long will it stay sealed? What about timed quests? We can’t just fail them, can we?”

Timed quests often required deposits. If the quest failed, the money was gone.

But the Guild was prepared for such concerns.

“Go to the Guild counter. Apply for an extension or cancellation. As for the seal—it stays until the Demon Tide is over.”

Marshal waved them off, signaling them to leave.

The adventurers left. Dylan, though, rubbed his hands and stepped up.

“I’ve got some things stashed on the second floor. Can I just go grab them? Won’t take long!”

“No.” Marshal didn’t even think before shutting him down. Other people’s lost gear was none of his business.

Dylan stepped closer, slipping a shiny gold coin into view.

Marshal’s throat bobbed, his eyes flicking toward the two colleagues behind him.

But they weren’t people he knew. Who knew if they’d report him? Not worth the risk for one coin.

“Rules are rules!”

He shoved Dylan away with a look of righteous sternness.

Dylan scratched his head helplessly. What now?

The news was easy enough to hear—but how was he supposed to send it back?

Maybe the boss really needed a high-level stealth scout for jobs like this, not him…

Sighing, he decided to head to the tavern.

———

The moldy wooden door creaked open, and a blast of sour liquor fumes drove Dylan back half a step.

The Rotten Willow Tavern was packed to bursting.

All the adventurers who couldn’t enter the dungeon had decided to drown themselves in alcohol.

When Dylan stepped inside, he found not a single empty seat. Drunken bodies filled every corner.

If the boss’s three Exploding Pujis were here right now…

Dylan shook his head hard. Why was he even thinking such things?

“One drink.” He tapped the counter.

The innkeeper ladled half a bowl of brown liquid from a barrel. The rim was crusted with suspicious grime.

The bowl held less than a mug. Crooked old swindler.

Finding a spot to lean against, Dylan pricked up his ears at the chatter around him.

As expected, everyone was talking about the Demon Tide.

Some young adventurer, ignorant of its danger, was grumbling about going broke without dungeon runs.

The response was mocking laughter.

“Kid, you like breathing?”

“Going into the dungeon now? You planning to feed yourself to monsters?”

As the laughter rolled, an old retired adventurer with graying beard finally shared something useful.

“Don’t worry about work drying up.

Give it a few days, the Guild’ll post assistance quests.

You’ll have monsters swarming the dungeon entrance—plenty to kill. Even beasts from the deep layers might crawl up.

As long as you don’t mind risking your hide, there’ll be gold aplenty.”

The moment he mentioned money, half the tavern perked up.

The old man only shook his head at their eager faces.

Across the room, Veyra thanked him excitedly. If they went ten days without income, she and her team would’ve had to pawn their gear…

Dylan was surprised. He knew monsters would pour out during a Demon Tide—but ones from the deep layers, too? That was news.

If deep-layer monsters reached the surface, the inside of the dungeon would be even worse…

It was the first time he’d thought about it in such terms.

He also remembered hearing that after every Demon Tide, the dungeon’s ecology on each floor changed.

Now he couldn’t help but worry.

Wouldn’t the boss… end up as one of the things changed away?