Mashan Outpost sat atop a granite hill shaped like a steamed bun with three bulging sides.
Stairs had been carved into the rocky hills, allowing travelers to zigzag up the mountain path to the entrance.
It was still the familiar concrete block building: a tavern on the first floor, and offices for Tribunal agents and the Undying Corps on the second.
At a glance, Eunice sported a neat ear-length bob with a wavy purple lock of longer hair on her forehead. Her lips were painted a glossy orange-red, like ripe raspberries.
She had grown prettier than in her childhood, but her vicious gaze remained unchanged, and the slight upward tilt of her eyes only accentuated her ferocity.
Vitik was a stern middle-aged man whose jaw protruded like a bulldog’s, with prominent cheekbones that curved into crescents toward his ears.
Both wore fur mountain caps and high-collared trench coats suited for long treks in the cold, with bolt-action rifles slung on their backs, revolvers at their hips, and melee weapons.
Vitik carried a crescent cleaver, somewhat like a sickle with a gentler curve, while Eunice had a wakizashi and a tanto, both with leather-wrapped black-lacquered scabbards that gave her a ninja-like air.
When Ashley appeared, the girl’s subconscious blared an alarm at full volume, and her slender fingers tightened around her teacup.
Vitik had no real impression of the Blue-Haired Loli and merely sized her up with a scrutinizing gaze.
Their acquaintance was shallow, so there was no reminiscing. The four restocked their canteens and compressed rations, along with tobacco, liquor, ointments, fuel, and other sundries.
Ashley mounted her swift pony and noticed Eunice’s ride: a fluffy Camelback Spider, a living creature rather than a Cadaver.
Two humps rose from its back, perfectly spaced for a rider.
Covered in thick, dense fur that was soft and plush, it was incredibly comfortable and stable. The insect’s jointed legs provided natural hydraulic shock absorption, and one could even nap sprawled over the front hump.
In the center of its eight legs was a turret-shaped abdomen, fitted with a custom saddle that allowed for a ring of supplies to be hung around it.
Ashley and Moracha both rode nimble swift ponies, while Vitik’s mount was a Steam-Snout Horse coated in black organic polymer.
West of Mashan Outpost, there were no more roads. They followed gullies between pale, bone-white granite hills, the ground blanketed in dust and fallen leaves. Their horses galloped through, kicking up clouds of dry dust.
By nightfall, they made camp to rest. Ashley pulled out her mirror to check the mileage: about thirty kilometers as the crow flies, but the winding mountain paths likely made it four or five times that.
It was a sparse, open birch forest, silent without a single bird call. The trunks stood like chalk sticks jammed into the ground, straight and upright.
The cold wind whipped the campfire, stretching the shadows of the four seated around it. Each heated portable meals in aluminum mess kits, speaking not a word.
Moracha sensed the stiff atmosphere and clapped his hands. “Don’t be so serious. Let’s tell jokes. Ashley, little sister, you start.”
“A hedgehog in a rubber dinghy. It paddled and paddled… until it drowned,” Ashley muttered.
“Hiss… that’s cold.” Despite her fluffy fox-fur mountain cap—with earflaps on the sides and a big tail dangling in the back—Eunice hugged her arms and shivered after hearing the joke.
Ashley wasn’t bothered by the cold. Her boots were custom cowboy boots from the leatherworker girl, in reddish-brown patent leather with large rose embroidery and gleaming spurs. Her hat was a soft, delicate white Panama straw hat tied with a ribbon.
Perhaps her joke was too frigid, because Moracha skipped ahead. He pulled out his pocket watch. “Four hours’ rest, then we move out.”
Ashley had no idea what this guy’s game was, but it wasn’t convenient to ask.
Among the four, Moracha was closest to the primary consciousness, with the highest degree of modification. He didn’t even need food or water—fully inhuman—so his personal whims were minimal. Everything he did served the primary consciousness’s strategic goals. The other three rarely questioned him, let alone challenged.
“Didn’t you bring a tent or sleeping bag?” Eunice approached Ashley and offered, “My tent’s big. Want to come in?”
“I didn’t think you were the generous type,” Ashley replied, a mocking smile curling her lips.
Eunice’s face stiffened briefly, then she gave an awkward smile. “I’m only cruel to people I don’t like. I’m good to my own.”
“Thanks for the invite, but no need. I carry my house with me.” Ashley pulled out the Slanted House Key, opened it, and slipped inside.
“The Slanted House!”
The other three recognized the A-Grade Relic, their expressions varying.
Eunice grew even more embarrassed, fidgeting with her hem.
Arms folded on the windowsill, Ashley grinned. “Isn’t my house bigger? Want to come in?”
“Sure!”
Eunice blinked, then beamed with delight.
Though she had no fondness for the girl, Ashley needed someone to back her up when voicing dissent—to lay groundwork for questioning Moracha later.
One against three meant too little sway; she couldn’t challenge him and would just get led astray.
The two chatted lightly before grabbing some rest.
At dawn’s first light, the four set off. By noon, they finally left the granite hills behind and reached the open plains.
Moracha reined in his horse, pulled out his mirror, and angled it toward the sky. After observing, he said, “The caravan’s coming. Prepare to move.”
He pulled up his face mask.
Eunice grabbed the fox tail at the back of her hat, draped it across her cheeks, and hooked the tip on the other side—like fiery red whiskers, somewhat cute.
Vitik donned his personal favorite: a Nailspike mask.
Ashley blinked. Huh? What was this? A robbery?
Seeing the three turn to her expectantly, she gave an embarrassed smile. “Sorry, been a cop too long. Forgot the family business.”
Seeing she had no mask, Eunice untied her neckerchief and handed it over.
As Ashley wrapped it around her face, she caught a whiff of the girl’s faint fragrance.
Gazing into the distance, a small puff of dust rose on the horizon, too indistinct to make out. Ashley pulled out her mirror and switched to the Star Chain’s overhead view.
From above, the transport group consisted of a dozen riders and a six-legged behemoth. Strong fiber ropes tethered to the beast’s flanks pulled a tall, high-chassis caravan wagon.
“Never seen a caravan like this. What are they hauling?” Ashley asked curiously. “That wagon’s clearly for living in. Human traffickers?”
“Do you know about the Fungus People?” Moracha asked suddenly.
“I’ve heard of them. After the Second Dawn, unable to dig a path to the surface, they midway established underground habitats and symbiotically merged with fungi—a human offshoot. Their largest settlement’s in the Land Where the Sun Never Sets, I remember now: Rock Mountain Kingdom—Palastre,” Ashley recalled.
“Though the Fungus People are human, their long underground life left their skin abnormally delicate, ten times more sensitive than normal. Even autumn or winter sunlight burns them. And even if they later dug to the surface, they couldn’t adapt, so they stay in caves carved from the rock.
“That’s the origin of Rock Mountain Kingdom. The underground sections dwarf the surface mountains that serve as their cap, like customs checkpoints or a submarine’s snorkel.
“For Fungus People to venture aboveground, protective suits aren’t enough. They need surface humidity of 75-85% to survive… It’s tricky. Do you know absolute versus relative humidity? Contact with outside air through a suit creates temperature differences, causing condensation and uneven humidity, leading to mental breakdowns and organ failure in Fungus People…” As they waited, Moracha explained.
“I get it. Like keeping reptiles—you need constant temperature and humidity, so full sealing. But a small enclosure’s hard to regulate, and a large one leads to inconsistencies. Better to rely on local climate than tools, but keeping every part of the enclosure at 75-85% humidity? Impossible,” Ashley shook her head.
“So, to solve this, the Fungus People developed the ‘Lichen Garment’ that symbiotically bonds with their bodies.”
