Many reunions did not occur near customs.
"I thought you were dead," Old Harriman said slowly. "They just let you come back?"
"As long as the application is certified, the visa is issued," Young Harriman replied.
After more than a decade apart, father and son were reunited. The retired veteran could barely walk now; old wounds from battles with foreign tribes in his youth had finally caught up with him in his twilight years, the scars throbbing on rainy days. The old man looked at his resurrected only son with a complex expression. Younger Harriman bore several new scars on his face, yet he seemed gentler and more serene than before.
Old Harriman had once been immensely proud when his son was commissioned as an officer, then hung his head in shame when news arrived of his defeat and capture. Later, all contact ceased. He had assumed Young Harriman had perished long ago under the alien's lash, never expecting to see his prodigal son return home in his lifetime. The boy who had brought him both pride and shame now stood before him, unharmed. The old man looked at him and felt a strange sense of unfamiliarity.
"How... how have you been?" he asked.
"The first few days were tough," Young Harriman said, a smile touching his lips as if recalling something amusing. "But I brought it on myself. No torture or forced confessions—just work, and confinement and nagging when I refused."
"Then you compromised," Old Harriman blurted out, anger brewing in his throat. "You started working for those Others! You betrayed Erian just to survive!"
"We're all 'aliens,'" Little Harriman chuckled. "Our ancestors were all slightly different. That was sealed on the Day of the Red Rain. Besides, Tasmarin was always part of Erian."
"It's all a conspiracy!" the old man shouted stubbornly. "How could we possibly be the same as those evil aliens?"
"Differences exist, but no greater than those between Erian's southernmost and northernmost dwellers," Little Harriman replied patiently. "Their factories operate like ours, their children are as innocent and curious as ours, their soldiers as steadfast as ours, and their civilians—like ours—have both good and bad among them. Not because of their birth, but as individuals. Even if they switched tribes, things wouldn't change. We've harbored too many prejudices in the past. Don't rush to contradict me, Father. I've seen more of these alien races in recent years than you ever have."
"You've been deceived by them!" the veteran insisted bitterly. "Look at my leg! It was an orc's claw that left me like this. Those vile alien races still plague every corner of Erian!"
"But your enemies have long been buried beneath the earth. Your war is over," young Harriman reminded him. "Have you heard? Peace negotiations between the Empire and the orcs have begun. The current strife won't last much longer. The Abyss Passage will open in the coming years. The creatures of the land must unite to fight for a whole Erian and all its inhabitants, just as they did centuries ago."
"What kind of nonsense have those people been feeding you... Ugh!"
Old Harriman spun around in fury, only to be met by his wife's unyielding glare as she returned from the kitchen, tucking away the rolled-up newspaper she'd been about to smack him with. "Robbie's finally home, and you're causing trouble again!" the old woman scolded her husband. Old Harriman snorted and turned away, muttering under his breath. His wife then turned her attention to Young Harriman.
"Don't mind him. Your father's always going on about outdated nonsense. Here, try some freshly baked pumpkin pie!" The old lady placed the tray on the table and nudged it toward her son. She beamed at the boy, her cheerful smile filling every wrinkle. "You look so handsome in that outfit. Is that a military uniform from over there?"
"No," young Harrit said, pausing mischievously to watch his father begin drinking with a look of relief. "Actually, I'm not in the army anymore. I'm a Sarro priest now."
His father sprayed water onto the wall.
Such reunions unfolded across the Erian Empire. Most former prisoners of war had transitioned to civilian life, qualifying them to apply for repatriation. Those still trapped in high-intensity factories became bargaining chips in agreements, shuffled between various parties.
Over the years, the orc forces waging guerrilla warfare deep within the empire's heartland had grown like a snowball. Tribes hidden in the wilderness and untamed slaves from towns kept joining their ranks. Through relentless combat, they had grown formidable. Though their overall strength remained insufficient, the trouble they caused the Empire now surpassed even that of the dungeons when they were first exposed. With Tashan's mediation, they sat at the negotiating table for the first time, participating in a trilateral conference.
Tasha relinquished control over human prisoners of war in Tasmarin Province, transferring them to the Orc Revolutionary Army in exchange for resources and manpower from the rebels. The Revolutionary Army then traded these prisoners with the Empire to secure the release of orc prisoners and slaves. While many thorny conditions remained difficult to reconcile, it was, at the very least, a promising start.
Months later, Tasha formally signed a ceasefire agreement with the Imperial leader and Orc commander, Terence.
Mavis's magic concealed all inhuman traits from this new body, and incidentally, she tweaked that devilishly handsome face—enough to ensure it no longer screamed "scourge of nations" at first glance. At the end of the agreement, she signed the name "Natasha." Over the years, the name of Magistrate Natasha had become renowned throughout Tasmarin and beyond.
Tasha was the leader of a non-orthodox race. While a few inhuman traits might endear her to the people of Tasmarin, a living dungeon capable of casually pouring souls into any vessel was simply too much. A fixed identity was still needed—one that people could grasp, one that allowed them to focus their adoration or hatred.
The first agreement signed was insufficiently detailed, relatively primitive, and left many points ambiguous—such as how to handle those domesticated orcs who willingly curled up in the mansions of the wealthy. But Rome wasn't built in a day. Even if future conflicts were inevitable, progress was still progress.
After the signing ceremony concluded, the Head of State sought out Tasha alone. He extended goodwill toward Tasha, hinting that the Empire and the Dungeon should pursue deeper cooperative ties. With their comparable strength, both bore the responsibility and obligation to maintain world peace and stability. Such conciliatory words would have been astonishing even months prior. It was quite intriguing—by introducing the orcs, a force that had long troubled the Empire, the Empire itself had begun extending olive branches to Tasha with renewed eagerness.
Forming alliances seemed inherent to human nature. When one side dominated, two sides clashed; with three, they played games—behaving no differently than elementary schoolchildren demanding, "You be my friend, not his." It was as if the threat from the Abyss had paradoxically deepened peace on the surface. This was why people needed rivals, why homogenous groups grew fragile, and why monopolies bred stagnation.
The next visitor was Terence. "I never imagined this day would come," he remarked with emotion. "Thank you." He bowed to Tashar, then departed swiftly. This orcish leader had grown far more composed than before, yet retained genuine sincerity—speaking sparingly, yet more earnestly than the Führer. Shortly after his departure, Marion returned to the room.
The negotiations had been handled by diplomats for months; Tash only needed to appear for the final signature. Thus, Marion, who had accompanied him, arrived only today to see kin and friends she hadn't met in years. The wolf girl still seemed quite excited. Her emerald eyes shone brightly, her ears pricked straight up. She paced back and forth like a hyperactive child or a puppy thrilled by a walk.
That was Marion for you. Even at an age when she could no longer be called a child, she remained as pure and sincere as one. The better her circumstances, the more childlike and vivacious she seemed, as if her childhood, cut short too soon, had been chopped into pieces and scattered throughout the rest of her life. Tasha sat in her chair watching the wolf girl leap from window to window, her bare feet padding across the carpet, wolf claws digging into the fabric—the cleaning staff would likely be puzzled by the tiny holes in the carpet. Poor floor, plowed over by wolf claws and dragon claws all day.
"Is that it?" Marion asked abruptly, her large tail sweeping back and forth like a broom. "We just... we just...?"
She couldn't articulate it, perhaps not even knowing what she meant to say. Tash beckoned, and she came over, crouching before her and smacking her head onto Tash's thigh.
"Yes," Tashar said, stroking Marion's hair and ears. "Now you can walk tall in every city of Erian, fearing no one's gaze."
"I remember," Marion said. "You said it would happen."
Her voice was quiet yet fervent, spoken with absolute certainty, as if declaring /God said, 'Let there be light,' and there was light/. Tasha realized Marion had always believed in that promise made over a decade ago. She smiled and flicked the tip of the wolf girl's ear.
"I told you not to worship me," Tasha said.
Tasha didn't possess the power to make the impossible possible; she simply never made promises lightly. Her promises always had a chance of coming true, and then she would push that possibility to one hundred percent.
"What difference does that make to us?" Marion lifted her head after hearing the explanation and countered, "What you say will happen is destined to happen."
Such weighty trust.
Tasha chuckled, suddenly thinking of Victor.
Perhaps it was the silence. If Victor were still awake, he'd surely start his usual jibes—from the generous terms of the agreement to Marion's situation—"Look at this naive little puppy worshiping you like a god. Ha! like that?" He'd likely say something along those lines, a subtle smugness in his voice, determined to prove the wolf girl understood Tasha less than one ten-thousandth as well as he did. That envy, when displayed so blatantly, resembled a foolish scheme—and in that moment, it became almost amusing, even a little endearing.
Tasha would explain it all to him: See? Look at the Empire's reaction. That's one reason I didn't bring the beastfolk under my banner. They serve as a counterbalance, a source of leverage and scapegoats, without the hassle of actually taking responsibility. The benefits of having them as allies far outweigh the burden of being their boss. What's the matter? You don't like Marion either? Sorry, but let's not even get into it—just in terms of feel alone, you can't hold a candle to her. Got a problem with that?
Unfortunately, Victor was still sleeping off his magic in the pool, oblivious to the world, unable to interject a single word.
Most of the time, Tasha didn't rely on Victor, yet his absence was far from insignificant. The background noise suddenly cut off, the constant vanished. Only then did Tasha belatedly feel the loneliness of standing alone at the summit. It wasn't that she disliked being the leader, but scheming without an audience, celebrating every victory in secret—like wearing fine clothes at night—couldn't help but feel a bit lonely.
It's too quiet, Tasha thought. Wake up already.