Chapter 85

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Chapter 85: 10 Years

"The war has been over for more than ten years."

This sentence lingered in the air for a long time before truly entering Shirel’s mind. He asked in surprise, "What?"

"You were seriously injured." The other person nodded as if that explained everything.

Shirel’s attention returned to himself. He was seriously injured, it seemed inevitable. He couldn’t feel his limbs, nor his body, nor his face. His whole body felt numb, as if turned into rubber, no longer belonging to him. Shirel urgently tried to lift himself up to confirm if his limbs were still there.

He couldn’t do it; he couldn’t even raise his head. The sounds he heard seemed strange, the sights blurry as if shrouded in mist. Shirel’s tongue felt numb, his eyelids sticky, and the traces of the big fire lingered everywhere. Pain and high fever haunted him, occasionally surfacing on his skin. Panic began to rise. How badly was he injured? Had he become useless? Was he really in a coma for over ten years? Unthinkable, simply unthinkable. Damn, it hurts again!

Shirel howled; his voice was rough as if he had been screaming incessantly during his unconsciousness. This thought made him shudder, then vehemently deny. Impossible! Only fresh wounds could bring so much pain. If he was so badly injured, how did he survive that disaster? No wounded person could live like this, unheard of!

The other person must be lying, and Shirel was fueled by anger from being deceived, making him start struggling wildly. His numb body slowly began to move, finally managing to pull away the blanket, kicking it under the bed. The old lady stood up, stepped back, and called for a servant at the door. When Shirel glared at her angrily, she lifted her eyelids slightly, glanced at his face, and quickly looked away.

Now Shirel was sure, this person couldn’t possibly be his mother.

His mother was a well-mannered and respectable woman, always beautifully dressed and groomed, speaking elegantly with her chin up. She was like a typical high official’s daughter, wife, and mother. Some colleagues joked that Shirel spoke just like his mother, and he saw it as a compliment. But the woman in front of him seemed to have lost all her vitality, looking old and tired, her hair poorly maintained and half white, with a few strands hanging on her forehead that his mother would never allow.

The old lady had dull eyes, her gaze wandering, avoiding looking directly at Shirel, as if she didn’t want to see him. How could his mother avoid her son’s gaze?

"Go away!" he shouted, "If you want to deceive me, at least find someone who looks more like her!"

Servants rushed in from outside, and the old lady finally slowly realized what he meant, a hint of anger on her face. She retorted angrily, "I am your mother!"

Shirel wanted to refute this lie, but a few strong butlers had already lifted him up, preventing him from falling to the ground, and pressed him back onto the bed. The door opened wider, allowing Shirel to see the outside walls and the corridor extending from outside the door. This sight stirred something in him, a faint sense of familiarity.

Shirel’s eyes scanned the entire room, from the somewhat old patterns on the ceiling to the elegant wardrobe, to the courtyard outside the window, where the statues matched his memories. A realization struck him quickly – he was in his ancestral home.

Far from the capital city, situated in a rural area where his grandfather made his fortune, they had moved to the city when his father’s career took off, leaving this place behind. Shirel had only lived here for a few years when he was young, as his father had to retreat here temporarily due to setbacks in his career. When they left, everyone from the family to the servants was thrilled.

Compared to the bustling capital city, this place was in complete disrepair, remote, almost like a place of exile.

Why is he here?

Shirel was in his father’s old mansion, so he wasn’t captured by enemies. The person in front of him could really be his mother. Countless questions rushed into his mind, almost making his head ache. A sense of dread lurked beneath his conscious thoughts, like a huge unknown shadow under the sea surface. Anger was easier to deal with than thinking about what it could be.

"I have been exiled?" he angrily demanded, "Why? Isn’t this the treatment a decorated general deserves!"

For the first time since the conversation began, his mother looked up at him.

"A decorated general?" she sharply said, "In the past few centuries, Aryans have never suffered such a defeat."

Her gaze was as sharp as her tone, casting a glimpse of the old woman she once was.

The undefeated General Shirel lost to Hybrid.

The former general’s face burned as if slapped hard. Images of the moments before he lost consciousness played over and over in his mind, imagining what would happen after the explosion. Did those soldiers lose to Hybrid? How useless! Yet he had to take responsibility. Shirel shouldn’t have touched that control panel, causing the explosion and the commander’s absence. Admitting a mistake felt terrible, even just in his own mind, even just to himself.

His enemies would be laughing and his mistake would bring shame to the family. Who would replace him? Hopefully it would be Liest, definitely not Norman.

"Who is the replacement?" Shirel gritted his teeth and asked with difficulty, "Who is the person who brought victory at the end?"

"No one." His mother said, returning to her lifeless demeanor.

"No one to take over?" Shirel puzzled, "It’s impossible, if I’m not there…"

"We didn’t win." Mother said dryly, "Aryan didn’t win."

Shirel jumped up again, the servants hurried to restrain him. "What are you saying?!" He yelled in excitement, "The Aryan Empire’s army can’t lose! It was just a little Hybrid!"

"We didn’t lose, we just didn’t win." The old lady sighed, "It’s a truce now."

"What does that mean?" Shirel asked mechanically, so confused that he lost his expression.

He thought that the war ending meant they had already won, Shirel believed that the phrase "over a decade ago" was the biggest surprise, never expected that there was such earth-shattering information hidden in this sentence. Every war should have a result, either winning (which should be almost certain) or losing (a very slim chance), but a truce? How could humans make peace with Hybrids!

"A lot can happen in over a decade." Mother replied, "Rest well."

She turned around, looking like she had lost patience to talk.

Shirel couldn’t believe she just left him like that, leaving behind her son who had just woken up, with a blank of more than ten years. She kindly left a few servants behind, and from them, Shirel was able to learn about the major events of those years.

He almost regretted speaking.

The absent ten-plus years were compressed into a conversation, with highly concentrated bad news piercing Shirel’s mind like a bullet. He said "impossible" countless times, questioned and cursed, but each servant gave the same answer. After his failures, there was no more fighting, siege turned into a standoff, and standoff turned into cooperation, mixed with absurd news. Shirel was on the brink of breaking, thrown into a world separated by over a decade, where changes felt like centuries had passed.

This world was too strange, and no words could make one believe.

Shirel ordered the servants to repeat, again and again, dozens of times, with no change in those strange words. "Enough!" he shouted, interrupting another retelling, commanding them to find his father. His mother’s words might not be right, what did women and servants know? Surely there were important secrets unknown to him, he had to see his father.

His request was not immediately met, after being abandoned here, he was no longer the authoritarian general. Shirel had to repeat his orders countless times, and finally resorted to a hunger strike as a threat, only to get a vague message. Two days later, he met his father, retired senior official Ogden, who looked tall as ever, aging but still imposing.

"What do you want?" he said, holding a cane.

Without any small talk, Old Ogden straightforwardly spoke, as if he wasn’t facing a son who had been comatose for over a decade. His furrowed brow and disdainful, impatient gaze at his son oddly made Shirel feel relieved. His father was always this strict, always looking serious and angry, in a world that now seemed out of place, seeing something familiar was comforting.

"Father, is that true?" Shirel asked eagerly, "Is the Empire going to cooperate with those Hybrids? And saying that exterminating Hybrids is wrong?"

He had too many questions, considering his father’s patience, he decided to start with the most important one.

"That’s simply insane!" his father growled, as if his son’s words ignited his long-suppressed anger, he slammed his fist on the table.

This rare approval lifted Shirel’s spirits. Everyone he had met these days had been strange, no one had shown strong agreement when cursing the Hybrids. When he cursed all Hybrids and traitors, wishing them all burned to ashes in the abyss, some people even looked indifferent. In the past, Shirel would have demanded the execution of these traitors in the name of betraying the country. Although he still requested the same, the order was not carried out, as if everyone thought such cruelty was nothing.

It seemed like everyone had accepted, even supported, the Empire’s decisions, including the extremely wrong policy towards Hybrids.

"Yes! It’s completely insane!" Shirel nodded repeatedly, "How could they announce such crazy news? How did this resolution pass?!"

"They’re all a bunch of incompetent idiots!" Ogden gritted his teeth, "Those lazy corrupt individuals only care about how much Magic Stone they can get through cooperation, to light up the rooms with light bulbs, to use cars instead of carriages, to soak in hot tubs in winter! They couldn’t even last a short time on first-level alert! How can such people meddle in national affairs? And those cowards! They’re actually afraid of a small Tasmanian, threatened by just one-fifth of the population!"

"Hybrids!" Shirel corrected with disgust, "They are not human."

Ogden continued to speak with great emotion, completely ignoring the interruption.

Ogden walked around the room, saying angrily, "There are spies, traitors, and cowards sitting at that table. The leader doesn’t even know who to trust. They made a foolish decision to compromise with that strange woman. They should blame the Hybrid’s conspiracy, unite against the enemy, and not be in chaos."

Shirel, who was nodding at first, slowly stopped.

Ogden waved his hands and said, "The fools who made the decisions should be punished! They ruined our chances. The people should not know too much, they should not question. Now everything is revealed! The foundation of the empire could be shaken. Doubts are rising. When the mob comes knocking, those blind decision-makers will regret their choices!"

Making the research results public went through a long struggle.

Despite continuous opposition, conflicting parties delayed the cooperation. When it was time to execute the agreement after completing the research, complex disputes, excuses, and threats emerged again among the leaders. Tensions rose, and it seemed like war was imminent. Even now, like Ogden, some believed it was a grave mistake.

Regardless of the slight gap, the pro-public side had the upper hand.

In crucial decisions about the future, Tasha was the sole decision-maker for the dungeon side, while the empire faced complexities. The military was powerful but not the only force. After a century of peace, other factions gained more influence. Together, they could challenge the military, which was not united.

Even in the heavily militarized capital, few could endure constant readiness. Resources shifted to the military, luxury disappeared, and magic stones were used for weapons. The privileged elites felt the most impact, missing the conveniences of magic technology.

One or two days were bearable, but years of uncertainty and restrictions made some envy the civilians who enjoyed their former comforts. The endless future seemed daunting.

Some people think not about life, but about survival. In the several clashes between dungeon and the empire, although the empire did not use full force, the dungeon did not show any signs of exhaustion, making it difficult to gauge the depth of the situation. Various analyses indicated that the empire, with its solid foundation as an established powerhouse, should have the upper hand against the newly emerged makeshift army, as it was only one-fifth the size of the state where the empire focused on eliminating both people and land. Even if the magical weapons were unavailable, overwhelming victory should still be achievable through sheer numbers, considering they had previously defeated the dwarves and orcs, right?

However, according to various analyses, the dungeon should have been crushed and wiped out long ago. If it defied logic and won time after time before, no one could guarantee that it would not defy logic again in the future.

The conservatives believed in caution, as the Abyss and the Heavenly Realm had underestimated the human world, leading them to completely withdraw from the Aryan stage. The complacent faction did not even consider a narrow victory; for those who already had sufficient resources, a narrow win equaled a defeat, maintaining the status quo seemed preferable. The idealists supported the decision to reveal the truth publicly, arguing that people should not compound their mistakes. As the traditional saviors and world police of Aryan, humans should rectify their errors as soon as possible and continue to save the world. Some who were closely related to the Southeast pushed for public decision-making with full force, while others hesitated, stood by, and prepared to join the winning side.

Things eventually evolved into the current state.

"Wait, father!" Shirel stiffened and raised his voice, "Admit? Disclose?"

Old Ogden, who no longer held real power, seemed to have been holding back for a long time. He was not satisfied and wanted to continue scolding, giving his son a displeased glare when interrupted.

"You talk as if this news is true," Shirel hurriedly chuckled, trying to show sarcasm but conveying fear in his voice, "The idea that everyone has Hybrid ancestry, and that killing Hybrids and spellcasters will only make Aryan worse… How could that be true? It’s too absurd, it seems like a Hybrid conspiracy, doesn’t it?"

"That is true," his father said coldly, "Conspiracy theories are used to persuade others. Lambs need to be foolish, sheepdogs do not."

Shirel did not mishear.

His father’s anger always stemmed from the Empire’s upper echelons ultimately choosing a policy of openness, believing it would shake the Empire’s rule. Old Ogden was a politician, not a soldier. He wouldn’t be saddened or enraged like those whose beliefs were shaken because he didn’t have any beliefs at all.

He said, "Don’t act like a fool, Shirel."

"Do you expect me to believe this nonsensical stuff?!" Shirel burst out, "Believe that noble humans actually interbred with different kinds? Believe that our great cause was a mistake from the start? Don’t be ridiculous! It was humans who drove out the celestial spirits and underground demons, humans who slayed the greedy dragons, insane wizards, manic dwarves, and barbaric orcs! Humans are the pinnacle of creation! Our lineage is pure and spotless!"

Ogden looked at him.

The father gazed at Shirel as if he were only eight years old this year, having done something extremely foolish, yet being proud of it. His scornful eyes treated Shirel like a speck of dust, like a clown, always like this, from childhood to adulthood.

Then, in those eyes, a hint of pity shone through.

Shirel thought he would say something, but he didn’t say a word. Ogden just shook his head, turned around, and walked away, leaving his son behind in this bizarre and frenzied new world.

After that, Shirel had no visitors. His colleagues and old friends seemed to have completely forgotten about him. He had his servants write letters for him, but never received a reply. He began a remarkable journey of recovery, and when he could wobbly stand up, he realized he was under house arrest.

They hadn’t even bothered to hide it from him.

Shirel smashed everything he could reach on the ground. He hated everyone and didn’t trust anyone. All the words people said sounded crazy to him, but his anger kept him going, helping him fight against loneliness and pain. The pain never left him, the burns left scars on Shirel’s body, his bare skin showing a horrible black-red color. Even though he hadn’t seen his face, he knew he must look terrifying now.

The headaches got worse and sometimes Shirel would roll on the ground holding his head, feeling intense pain radiating from his skull as if something wanted to burst out of it.

But one day, when his anger and intense pain subsided, Shirel found himself running in the yard.

He looked around in disbelief, it was dark and the servants weren’t professional guards, no one expected the recluse to run out at that moment. Shirel’s feet touched the solid ground without trembling or needing a cane. He breathed heavily, clenched his fists, then grabbed a nearby tree branch which snapped in his hand.

The strength Shirel thought he had lost forever miraculously returned to him.

Wait, not a miracle, it was destiny, a "calling."

What kind of person could survive an explosion, wake up after a decade of unconsciousness, and regain their former strength? Such astonishing vitality and recovery belonged only to legendary heroes. Why did he wake up now and have to witness this incredibly crazy world? Because he was chosen by fate, entrusted with a mission to set things right.

Throughout history, heroes accomplished impossible feats with their human bodies, saving the world. They embodied humanity’s strength, the best proof of human superiority. Shirel’s heart pounded in his chest, he wanted to laugh, to shout in joy for this well-deserved honor.

He had to leave.

Everyone here has turned bad, trying to keep him trapped. Shirel smirked silently, carefully moving from the courtyard to the corridor, heading towards another room. During his childhood confined here, Shirel explored the entire old mansion. He knew there was an abandoned tunnel in the dry well, running underground through the whole building, which could help him sneak past the guards and leave – something the new servants would never know.

The passage below the well was just like he remembered.

Shirel bent down and squeezed in. He had grown much taller since then, so he had to crawl for a long stretch, feeling the dust tickling his throat. His temple started throbbing again, as if there were fresh wounds, although he was used to the pain all over his body. It was nothing, destined heroes always faced many trials.

After crawling for a while, Shirel finally reached a spacious area. He looked around at several forks and started to recall where the exit was.

Bright moonlight seeped in from an unknown crack.

Initially, Shirel thought there was a puddle on the ground, but he soon realized it wasn’t water, but a mirror reflecting the light. He wondered who had thrown the mirror there, covered in dust and barely shining.

Shirel hesitated before walking towards it.

The mansion had no mirrors, likely reflecting his mother’s desire to protect him. But a true hero never avoids challenges, so Shirel saw this as the first test of his journey.

He tried to pick up the mirror but failed; it seemed stuck to the ground. Shirel had to wipe off the dust with his sleeve, luckily the moonlight was at the right angle, allowing him to see the image clearly even when crouching down.

Shirel jumped up.

He clenched his teeth to stop a scream. If he had been holding the mirror just now, it would have surely been shattered. His heart was pounding so hard it hurt his chest. Shirel stood for several minutes before finally thinking, "I must have mistaken what I saw," and crouched down.

Oh, he hadn’t mistaken it after all.

It would have been better if it was a disfigured face, or even a severely burnt face. In the mirror was Shirel’s face, mostly undamaged apart from the skin color, surprisingly little destruction and aging. However, his once emerald green eyes were now completely black. From the pupils to where the whites of the eyes should be, all black. His eyes looked like two black spheres.

"It’s a lie," he thought to himself. This was an evil mirror, reflecting things that didn’t exist. Shirel reached out tremblingly, feeling around the same spot in the mirror. He felt two small protrusions.

From his forehead, two small horns pierced through his skin. With dried blood on them, like sprouts breaking through the soil.

With all black eyes, horns, dark red skin, strong life force, and amazing recovery ability, it was the typical appearance of an Angry Demon Descendant, as depicted in military academy manuals.

Shirel smashed the mirror with his fist.

The broken mirror shards cut his hands, but he couldn’t feel it anymore. Even his anger seemed to vanish, leaving only an endless emptiness. "I must be dreaming," Shirel muttered to himself, "a terrible nightmare."

"It must be a dream," said the shattered and distorted Mirror Image soaked in blood, speaking in Shirel’s voice, "I want to have a good dream."

"Yes," Shirel repeated blankly, "I want to have a good dream."