Each key possessed a unique shape and rhythm. One key opened one door; one key emitted one sound. This sound resonated softly within Tashan's mind, like the tinkling of large and small rings strung together on a ceremonial staff.
The sound declared: Knowledge for knowledge, truth for truth.
Tasha's palm lifted from the mirror's surface, and the key's phantom vanished. When her hand touched the glass again, the shadow reappeared, accompanied by the chant-like sound. These multicolored shadows floated evenly in midair—some distant, suspended in an indistinct, hazy starry sky; others close, face-to-face with Tasha.
No, not merely face-to-face—wherever her body overlapped, the phantoms persisted. Tasha's empty hand swept around her, the key's phantom passing straight through her palm like a ghost traversing a wall.
These phantom keys permeated the Hall of True Knowledge, yet within the dungeon's field of vision, this space remained blank. None of the keys possessed physical form. Had anyone else stood here, they wouldn't have seen even a faint shadow. Touching that mirrored door felt like connecting to something—the keys appeared directly within Tasha's mind, like the vibration of a mosquito caught in a web, traveling from the outer edge of the silk to her fingertips. Each key existed, just not at this very moment.
They were either lost or not yet forged.
With a thought, a small iron key drifted straight toward her from afar. The phantom hovered above the round mirror, as if embedded in an invisible groove.
Within the vast web of the dungeon, minute points of light emerged silently and unnoticed from individuals bearing elven blood. The greatest contribution came from the bard Jacqueline. These sparks flowed at astonishing speed, like fragments of information through a fiber-optic cable. They converged at the dungeon's core, then transmitted through Tashan as the terminal.
A speck of phosphorescence materialized between the demon horns, solidified, then fell like a droplet. An invisible pen dipped in this ink instantly sketched the outline of a key. The faint, shadowy form solidified, the iron key materializing in midair. The formed metal piece plummeted downward, clunking into Tashan's palm.
So the horns function as antennas? A whimsical thought flashed through Tashan's mind. She grasped the key and inserted it into the lockhole on the mirror's surface.
The unassuming iron key slipped into the lockhole like a young swallow returning to its nest. Both vanished as the mirror door rippled like a lake, sending out tiny phantom ripples. A palm-sized fairy fluttered its wings, humming a fairy song whose melody was beautiful and mesmerizing. Within a minute, the singer on the leaf vanished abruptly, leaving only the music echoing in Tashan's mind.
At that very moment, the library outside stirred. A scroll of parchment materialized, its pages inscribed with the fairy's song in the bard's seven-line notation. With sufficient information gathered, the Mirror Door activated, bringing this lost melody back into the world.
The long-dormant library gained a new treasure. Ebony wood sighed, and dust-covered shelves stirred to life. A halo of light enveloped the entire library, as if a canvas draped over it had been abruptly lifted. The oldest structure in the entire dungeon was renewed. For a fleeting moment, Tasha glimpsed a phantom vision of the library centuries past.
Countless volumes stood neatly stacked upon the shelves, piled from floor to ceiling. From the southernmost reaches of Eryan to its northernmost, from the most mundane humans to the most enigmatic faeries, from the celestial realms to the Abyss—countless secrets were housed here. The previous curator had stored the truths of half the world. Standing at the very center of the library, his slender fingers turned the pages of the Book of the Dungeon—though it was not yet the Book of the Dungeon. In his hands, the weighty tome was merely a lifeless memorandum. Tashar strained to see through this fleeting glimpse across time and space. The library's master turned his head, a pair of jet-black curved horns crowning his skull.
Victor, she murmured silently.
The Archfiend's yellow eyes curved with amusement, as if across the vast expanse of time and space, he too had glimpsed the next master of this place.
This was no ordinary dungeon configuration. Victor, its former owner, must have done something here. The vision flickered and vanished before Tasha could decipher Victor's connection to this place, but she grasped the purpose of the Hall of True Knowledge.
Knowledge of this world and the information gathered here forged keys—different keys unlocking doors to secrets. These secrets varied in magnitude, depending entirely on what you could offer in exchange. Knowledge traded for knowledge; scattered clues redeemed for answers. Equivalent exchange, fair and just.
Tasha's goal, of course, was not a lost song.
"Tell me," she said, "where the Archdruid and the Wood Elves have gone."
A jade-green key rose from among the stars.
It was beautiful, even before it had fully formed. The key was as large as a palm, slender as a dagger, its translucent texture like sheer gauze. The moment it settled above the circular mirror, a storm erupted from nowhere.
Countless threads suddenly snared the empty space, while innumerable specks flew in from all directions—so swiftly they left only long trails of afterimages. The races of nature were strung together, the knowledge of the druids intertwined. One strand came from herbs growing wild in the medicinal gardens, another from the flora and fauna of Angasor Forest. The thick strand, as robust as a dragon, represented the feedback from the Heart of Nature... All the complex information suddenly fell into place.
They dazzled the eyes, yet they were so perfectly ordered. Bloodlines traced bloodlines, legacies sought legacies, one vine pulling up a whole thicket—how could these invisible threads be described? Perhaps only by calling them "causality."
Causality threads traced their origins.
Amidst countless threads, an emerald key gradually materialized. The iron key had formed too swiftly before, but now one could witness the casting process unfold. As if raw materials from countless conduits converged within a mold, the key's completion steadily rose until it reached nearly half its form. The flow of information slowed, the filling seemingly nearing its end. The key stood half emerald green, half transparent.
Tasha began to worry whether it could be completed, but unexpectedly, the two-toned key fell away, ripe and ready.
It felt icy to the touch. The transparent side had solidified into a white crystal, while the emerald side possessed a peculiar texture—like wax on a leaf, or the scales of a bamboo leaf snake. Tasha grasped the massive key and inserted it into the lock.
For a brief moment, nothing happened.
Ripples rippled across the Mirror Door, yet nothing rose from within—as if something were stuck midway. Tasha leaned closer, peering into the mirror's depths, and suddenly the world spun.
Nothing rose from the mirror; Tasha fell into it.
She plummeted, faster than she could comprehend, everything happening in the blink of an eye. Tasha lost all sense of her body. In that instant, she forgot the dungeon she inhabited, as if severed, or as if every fragment of her soul had entered this sudden illusion. An illusion, of course. How else could she explain this boundless forest of towering trees? Without warning, without process, she had suddenly arrived here.
The delicate vegetation on the ground wasn't typical of the Angars Forest. In fact, Tasha had never seen this type of grass anywhere in Erian. Golden flowers hung from the treetops, stunningly beautiful, yet Tasha had no memory of them. She scanned her surroundings, recognizing only oak trees among the surrounding flora. Recognizing only oaks was sufficient—this was an endless oak forest.
Behind Tasha, a colossal oak stretched its branches, its canopy soaring skyward like a mushroom cloud.
Tasha recognized it. She had seen it in its infancy. It had been an acorn-shaped crystal, a tiny sapling in the dungeon's backyard. The cycle of the Heart of Nature and the Sacred Tree remained unchanged through millennia, like a phoenix rising from the ashes time and again.
This was the Druids' Sacred Tree.
The oak grove teemed with people—or more precisely, with Druids and Elves. The two groups stood before the Sacred Tree: the former, fewer in number, only a dozen or so, dressed in varied styles and representing different races; the latter resembling a migrating army, their ranks stretching far into the distance. The sharp-eared wood elves bore the legendary beauty of their kind—not a single unattractive face among them, as if nature had favored them with an extra measure of grace. These exquisite beings wore solemn expressions, fully armed, with warriors guarding a small number of elders and children. Some carried packs on their backs.
The sky hung heavy, as if a storm were brewing.
"The time has come," an elf declared.
Anyone who noticed him could discern his regal status—not because of the crown, but due to an indescribable aura of kingship emanating from him. It sounded peculiar, yet upon witnessing it, it felt entirely natural. If this wasn't the Elf King, then who could it be? This near-divine ruler held a bow, clad in armor, with a mistletoe crown atop his head. The slightly serrated leaves had somehow withered, curling into sharp points like thorns.
"All sixteen Archdruids are present," a druid nodded softly.
She was no longer young, yet possessed a beauty as radiant as a white poplar. In terms of aesthetic grace, the dozen or so Archdruids present were in no way inferior to the elves, though by comparison, they appeared rather peculiar. A middle-aged woman, a wrinkled old man, a scruffy bearded fellow, a furry-faced beastman, a dwarf barely reaching a human's waist... Each radiated a harmonious, natural grace. Gazing upon them was like looking into a mountain valley after fresh rain, an endless prairie, or a rolling ocean. Both blossoms and withered trees are scenes of nature; observing them brought a sense of peace and a desire to smile.
"Several Wood Elves are still missing," the Elf King frowned, as if the absence of a few kin was an intolerable crisis.
" A few young ones staying behind wouldn't hurt," said the bearded man, earning a glare from the King, though he paid it no mind. "Who knows how long we'll be gone this time. If something were to happen..."
"Nothing will happen," the King declared with absolute certainty.
"Nothing will happen," echoed the female druid from before, her voice gentle. "We will return, sooner or later."
Indeed, this was not attire for farewell, nor was it a death-bound garb. Though solemn in countenance, the Wood Elves bore no heaviness or grimness; their faces radiated spirited resolve. A child reached anxiously for his father's hand; the warrior smiled down at him and patted his head reassuringly. A younger child still clung to his mother's embrace; she whispered softly, "Hush, don't cry. We'll be back soon."
Tasha noticed a druid frown. She seemed to want to speak, but ultimately only shook her head.
"It had better be so," the short one muttered.
The Elf King remained silent. The mistletoe above his head blackened and curled within mere minutes, appearing both withered and scorched by flame. The Elf King tore off his crown. "We can wait no longer," he declared.
The druids exchanged glances, each bearing a hint of sorrow. Sixteen hands pressed against the sacred tree as they chanted prayers. The towering giant collapsed without a sound.
It resembled the passing of the Old Oak, yet the Old Oak's withering paled in comparison to the spectacle before Tashar now. The canopy, which had obscured the horizon, roared as the entire world trembled. The giant tree emitted a long, drawn-out sigh. The scale of a skyscraper demolition could not match this, yet the Sacred Tree's collapse was far gentler. Before the canopy fell, it transformed into a cascade of light, showering the gathered crowd beneath and the Sacred Grove's guardians embraced by its broad arms like a gentle breeze and soft rain. Even in its premature demise caused by human hands, the Sacred Tree spared no harm to all it sheltered.
The Archdruid lifted the Heart of Nature from the sacred tree's remains. One of them transformed into a bird, delivering it to the Oak Guardian standing furthest away in the sacred grove. When the druid returned, the Elf King gestured to all his subjects and allies, then raised his bow.
He drew the bowstring, nocked an arrow, and aimed it at the sky above.