The two arrived at the entrance of the Silver Blade Squad's base.
It was a spacious three-story villa, located in the busiest district of Blackedge Town's southern area. The exterior walls were beautifully painted, and the garden was filled with roses.
The roses hadn't been tended to for some time, their branches growing haphazardly, with a few withered flowers hanging from the stems, swaying listlessly in the breeze.
"You should go back and rest now."
Margaret wiped away the last of her tears, regaining the assertive demeanor of a sharp-tongued woman.
"I'll go back and make a pot of soup for you. I'll have Hans bring it over tonight.
"Look how thin you've become-skin and bones."
She glanced at the two Pure White Dolls again, her face twitching.
"Where do you plan to put these two big things? Don't scare the neighbors."
"Just leave them in the yard. They won't move around."
"Fine." Margaret glared fiercely at her brother one last time. "If you dare run off to die without saying a word again, I'll break your legs."
With that, she turned and walked away. After a few steps, she looked back to make sure Allen was still standing there before quickening her pace and disappearing into the alley.
Allen watched his sister's figure vanish around the street corner, the forced smile on his face gradually fading away.
He pushed open the iron gate and entered the empty living room.
Sunlight filtered through the dust-covered windows, casting patches of dim, yellowish light on the floor. The once lively base was now home to only him.
On the long table in the living room, five cups still remained; leftover from their last gathering before setting out. The dregs of wine at the bottom had dried into dark brown films.
The captain's cup was the largest, a coarse ceramic beer mug with a clumsily carved shield pattern on its side, etched with a dagger.
Jack's cup was the smallest, an exquisite silver goblet. He claimed to have found it in a treasure chest on the third floor, but everyone suspected he had swiped it from some noble's home.
Allen stood before the table, staring at the five cups for a long time.
Then, he slowly walked up to the second floor and pushed open the captain's door.
The room was tidy, the bed neatly made. On the table lay a half-read knight novel, bookmarked with a dried ginkgo leaf.
The captain was perfect in every way, except for one hobby that didn't quite match his tough-guy image: he loved reading love stories about knights and princesses.
Jack had mocked him for this for three whole years. The captain would always sternly say, "This is tactical research," and then secretly tuck the book under his pillow after Jack turned away.
Allen didn't touch the book.
He crouched down and retrieved the squad's accumulated shared funds from a hidden compartment under the bed.
It was a heavy iron box, secured with three steel locks. The key had always hung around the captain's neck.
However, before they set out, the captain had left a spare key in the hidden compartment, saying, "In case the squad doesn't make it back, this money will be enough for the survivors to start over."
At the time, everyone had laughed at him for being a pessimist.
Allen used the key to open the box. Inside were piles of gleaming gold coins and several large-denomination banknotes, emitting an alluring glow in the dim room.
He roughly counted them–about two thousand gold coins and banknotes worth another three thousand gold coins.
This was the blood and sweat of the five members of the Silver Blade Squad, earned over more than three years. Now, it all belonged to him alone.
Allen closed the case and held it against his chest.
The cold, metallic sensation seeped through his robe and into his heart, but he couldn't tell whether the chill came from the case or from deep within himself.
As the sole survivor of his squad, and by the unanimous agreement of his fallen comrades, he had legally and rightfully inherited everything here… the property, the funds, the equipment; All of it was now his.
With this wealth and this spacious residence, he could live a comfortable, secure life in Blackedge Town for the rest of his days without lifting another finger.
…But every coin was stained with the lives of his teammates.
Dragging his exhausted body back to his bedroom, he didn't even bother to undress before sprawling face-up onto the soft bed.
The springs let out a faint creak, and the sheets still carried the faint scent of the mint soap he'd used before setting out.
This was a real bed–springy, warm, and filled with the scent of human life.
He stared blankly at the ceiling for a long while. It was made of ordinary wooden planks, with a few cracks and a small water stain in one corner, but its brown color was infinitely better than the maddening, sterile white he'd grown accustomed to.
"I survived," he whispered, as if trying to confirm a fact that still felt unreal.
His eyes slowly closed–the accumulated exhaustion of these past days surged over him, and his consciousness began to blur.
He thought he could finally catch his breath, even if only for a few hours of peaceful sleep–a luxury he hadn't known in far too long.
Just as his mind was about to slip into slumber, the silver brand on his forehead suddenly radiated a searing heat.
A burning, stabbing pain shot straight to his temples. Allen's eyes snapped open, and every muscle in his body, which had just begun to relax, tensed once more.
A vast psychic power pierced through hundreds of meters of rock and soil separating the Dungeon from the surface, effortlessly seizing hold of his consciousness.
Labrynth's soft, demonic whisper echoed clearly in his mind.
"Allen, my rat, did you think you could rest easy now? Hurry up and get to work!"
The sweet voice sounded to Allen like a death knell.
He jolted upright in fright, nearly tumbling off the bed. Cold sweat soaked through the back of his robe, and his heart hammered violently.
"M-My Lord!"
Allen stammered, his voice trembling. Instinctively, he stood ramrod straight, like a recruit caught slacking off by a drill instructor.
"What are your orders? I've already completed the discharge procedures! The news of the Silver Blade Squad's annihilation has spread, and no one suspects a thing!"
He reported rapidly, terrified that any omission might anger this capricious Demon Castle Lord.
Deep within the sixth floor of the Dungeon, Labrynth lay sprawled on her large bed, draped in velvet covers. Her pale, slender legs were kicked up behind her, her feet swaying idly.
Before her floated the holographic projection panel transmitted from Allen and the Doll's perspective, displaying a blurred outline of Allen's location.
She nodded in satisfaction before issuing her next command, her tone light and cheerful.
"Mhm, well done!"
"That house looks quite nice, and the location is good too. I want you to immediately carry out a full renovation of the first floor–knock down all the partition walls and decorate it beautifully, make it bright and open!"
Allen froze.
He looked around in confusion, unable to understand why this terrifying Dungeon ruler would suddenly care about the renovation of an ordinary house on the surface.
His first thought was that Labrynth intended to establish an intelligence outpost or secret armory in Blackedge Town, especially since she had already proven that Pure White Dolls could cross the Stratum Barrier to reach the surface.
"Renovate the house? My Lord, are you planning to set up a secret base on the surface?"
Allen quickly voiced his support, "I'll go buy reinforcement materials and defensive magic arrays right away! The first floor can be converted into a weapon storage, and we can dig a secret tunnel leading directly to the Dungeon in the basement–"
Labrynth let out a light laugh, cutting off his enthusiastic planning. Her answer nearly made Allen's jaw hit the floor.
"What defensive magic arrays? What are you thinking? I want you to open a dessert shop in the busiest part of Blackedge Town! Name it the Silver Dessert Shop!"
!? …!?
Silence. A full five seconds of speechlessness.
Allen remained standing, his expression shifting from shock to bewilderment, then from bewilderment to confusion, ultimately settling on a look of "Am I hallucinating?"
"A dessert shop?"
He spoke hoarsely, "My Lord, did I hear you correctly? You said a dessert shop? The kind that sells cakes and cookies?"
"That's right! The kind that sells cakes, cookies, and puddings! I've been craving surface desserts for so long!"
Labrynth declared with righteous excitement, "Use those two Pure White Dolls as laborers–make them knead dough and bake cookies! Hurry up and get ready!"
Allen opened his mouth, then closed it again.
He took a deep breath, trying to make his brain keep up with the wildly unpredictable leaps in logic of the Lord talking to him.
World domination? Gathering intelligence? Establishing a military outpost on the surface? All wrong.
The answer was… opening a dessert shop.
A Demon Lord entrenched in the sixth floor of the Dungeon, commanding the Ivory Labyrinth and an army of slaughtering puppets, using her psychic power to pierce through hundreds of meters of rock to contact her surface spy, all just to order him to open a dessert shop.
Allen reflected that all the absurd things he had experienced in his life combined were still less ridiculous than this moment.
Regardless, he dared not resist.
He knew this Demon's methods all too well. She could use illusions to make you feel the agony of your feet melting in lava, crush your sense of direction and sanity with her shifting Labyrinth, and snatch away hope just as you glimpsed it.
Arguing with such an existence was less productive than arguing with a wall–at least walls wouldn't stuff illusions into your mind.
"Understood, My Lord."
Allen steadied himself. "I'll start preparing immediately. Do you have any specific requirements for the types of desserts?"
"Hmm, I want little cookies that are crispy on the outside and soft and chewy on the inside! And cream cakes!
"And puddings! Oh, and little cream puffs dusted with powdered sugar! Basically, anything sweet and pretty!"
Labrynth grew more and more excited as she spoke, her words tumbling out like rapid-fire.
She clearly harbored an abnormally fervent obsession with surface desserts, though Allen doubted whether a Demon like her had ever actually tasted such things.
"Also, the shop needs to be decorated beautifully! Use white and silver as the main colors! Put flowers by the entrance! I want everyone who passes by to feel compelled to come in!"
Allen listened while rapidly calculating the costs in his mind.
Knocking down the partition wall on the first floor, purchasing baking equipment, procuring raw materials, hiring helpers… wait, no, he had two Pure White Dolls as free labor.
But having those two faceless stone lumps knead dough, pipe frosting, and bake cookies?
Imagining this scene made Allen's temples throb twice.
"My Lord, the Dolls have no sense of taste, nor do they have experience with delicate tasks. If we want to produce passable desserts, it will likely require–"
"Then teach them! Aren't you human? Shouldn't all humans know how to cook?"
"I'm a mage, not a–"
"Then go learn! I'm giving you three days! I want to eat cookies in three days!"
The mental link clicked and disconnected.
...?!!
Allen stood in the empty bedroom, feeling the warmth of the brand on his forehead slowly fade.
Outside the window, the sunlight remained bright, and the street vendors' calls were still lively–everything seemed so normal.
But his world was now completely abnormal. He was a spy controlled by a demon, a retired adventurer with a forged identity, a survivor who had inherited all the possessions of his deceased teammates.
And now, he was also going to become a dessert shop owner.
Allen slowly sat back down on the edge of the bed, resting his hands on his knees, lowering his head to stare at his own shadow on the floor.
He didn't understand why Labrynth wanted to open a dessert shop; Perhaps it was just a whimsical idea of this demon, or perhaps there was a deeper purpose behind it that he couldn't see.
Nonetheless, he had no right to refuse.
After about a minute of silence, Allen stood up.
He walked to the wardrobe, changed out of his tattered mage robes, and put on a clean linen shirt and dark brown trousers.
The reflection in the mirror looked much more haggard, with prominent cheekbones and sunken eye sockets, but at least it was better than someone who had just crawled out of a grave.
He carefully examined the silver brand on his face. To ordinary people, this mark would look like an oddly shaped scar, unlikely to draw much attention.
"Three days," he said to his reflection in the mirror. "Learn how to make cookies in three days."
After a pause, he added, "As the third-ranked top graduate of my entire class at Flame Academy, I shouldn't be unable to handle something as simple as cookies."
After saying this, even he felt a lack of confidence.
Allen went downstairs and pushed open the back door to enter the courtyard.
The two Pure White Dolls stood motionless in the corner of the garden. Sunlight struck their snow-white surfaces, reflecting a dazzling glow.
A few sparrows perched on the nearby rose trellis, tilting their heads curiously as they observed these two uninvited guests.
"Alright," Allen looked at them, took a deep breath, and slowly exhaled.
He turned and headed toward the main gate. He needed to go to the market to buy flour, butter, eggs, and sugar.
He also needed to find a blacksmith to forge a proper oven. If Margaret's husband, Hans, had any spare fabric, he would need to get some to make aprons and tablecloths.
As he stepped out of the iron gate, he glanced back at the three-story building.
Sunlight shone on the cream-colored exterior walls, rose blossoms swayed gently in the breeze, and warm light spilled from the spacious first-floor windows.
"Silver Dessert Shop," he murmured the name, a look of resignation on his face.
It was hard to say whether it was worry or helplessness, or perhaps mixed with an almost imperceptible anticipation that he himself refused to acknowledge.
After all, compared to being tormented to the brink of mental collapse by illusions in the Ivory Labyrinth, opening a dessert shop at least sounded less life-threatening.
Probably.
He quickened his pace, heading toward the market. Behind him, the iron gate swayed in the wind, letting out a faint, creaking sound.
...
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