Chapter 166 | Born as a Dragon, Sorry About That?

“Crackle—”

The wood in the campfire crackled sharply under the intense heat. The rising flames barely illuminated the dim cave, completely overpowering the faint glow of the fluorescent moss growing on the rocky walls.

Three figures sat quietly around the campfire. Maintaining a tacit silence, each held a skewer of grilled meat that sizzled with dripping fat.

Cast by the firelight, their long shadows stretched across the ground, the tips nearly reaching the high cave ceiling.

Just then, the elf with the extremely voluptuous figure made a move.

He pulled back his outstretched hand, sniffed the meat skewered on the wooden stick, and then, completely disregarding his image, opened his mouth—revealing two sharp fangs—and took a massive bite.

Glistening grease instantly splattered, dripping onto his generous chest below. Unbothered and seemingly oblivious, he bit off a steaming chunk of meat from the very top of the stick, a piece as large as an adult's fist.

After chewing slightly and swallowing, he didn't rush to eat the next piece. Instead, he bit his lower lip with a sharp tooth on the right side of his mouth. His gaze drifted upward, landing on the black-haired girl across the campfire who was propping up her cheek with one hand, seemingly lost in thought. He asked:

“Irene, do we really have to keep searching?”

To foster a sense of closeness, he deliberately omitted any honorifics. Seeing no reaction from her, he continued:

“As you've seen over the past week, we haven't found a single trace left by the Subjugation Army along the way.”

“I think... I mean...”

“Is it possible that when we came down, there was an issue with the anchor's positioning, and we ended up off-course?”

“If all else fails, why don't we teleport back to the surface first and try coming down again?”

After he finished speaking, silence descended upon the cave. Only after a few seconds did the black-haired girl raise her head, her vacant eyes refocusing on the elf across the fire.

“No, Miss Charlotte, I don't think so.” Irene shook her head gently and lowered her eyes. Seeing that the meat on her wooden stick was mostly done, she brought it to her mouth. In a standard skewer-stripping fashion, she slid off half of it in one go, stuffing her cheeks until they bulged like a hamster hoarding food.

Then, while chewing, she spoke in muffled, slurred syllables: “Thith part of the Underdark wath never dithcovered by anyone before the mutant beatht tide broke out.” (This place in the Underdark was never discovered by anyone before the mutant beast tide broke out.)

Swallowing the meat, her voice instantly became clear again:

“Which means that the group heading down to subjugate the Mutant Matriarch definitely didn't have a map of this place either. They would have had to fight their way through, exploring everywhere to find the path to the lower levels. That would inevitably leave plenty of traces of battle, not to mention signs of daily life.”

“It wouldn't be like this, clean as if no one has ever set foot here.”

“You mean...?”

After spending a week together, Christine had become quite familiar with this daughter of his. Through a mix of guessing and context, he managed to decipher Irene's words. His expression shifted, and he asked in a low voice:

“Someone has been clearing away those traces along the way—including the markers left by the Subjugation Army?!”

“Correct.”

Irene took a freshly grilled skewer handed to her by Arthas, took a bite, chewed twice, and swallowed. Meeting Christine's furrowing brow, she stated in a very flat tone:

“Based on this hypothesis, it's highly likely that someone is plotting something in the shadows. Driven by this undercurrent, the Subjugation Army's actual current situation remains a complete mystery.”

Of course, this is just my speculation. Well... actually, I am a very suspicious dragon who tends to overthink things.”

“What a terrible way to overthink!” Christine completely ignored Irene's last sentence, instantly standing up in righteous indignation. He waved his half-eaten skewer like a pointer, criticizing sharply:

“Once the entire Eastern Continent falls completely, what could the mastermind behind all this possibly gain? A wasteland overrun by mutated creatures where ordinary intelligent species can't even survive?”

“Who knows?”

Irene sighed. Using both hands, she stuffed the remaining meat from two skewers into her mouth, chewed briefly, and swallowed. Then, she nudged Arthas—who had essentially turned into an automatic grilling machine—with a wooden stick. As she took yet another skewer from him, she asked:

“Watson, what do you think of this matter?”

Absorbed in his grilling, Arthas turned his head. The soul fire beneath his helmet flickered twice, seemingly filled with deep wisdom. But before he could speak, Irene took a bite of the meat, frowned, and interrupted, “The meat is a bit too tender. I like it well-done. Remember to grill it longer.”

“As you wish, Mother.” Arthas nodded slightly. He was about to answer Irene's previous question when a sudden, abrupt “mu-yi” squeak forcibly interrupted his casting once more.

In the cave, which was so silent that only the voices of the three could be heard, this "mu-yi" was incredibly conspicuous. Instantly, two pairs of eyes and a pair of soul fires all turned in unison toward the source of the sound.

In the next second, soft, rhythmic thuds echoed from the dark passage untouched by the firelight. Then, a basketball-sized, sky-blue slime with a perfectly rounded body reflecting a faint sheen hopped out of the passage.

“Poop Egg?!” Christine was the first to react. He dropped his skewer, letting the barely eaten meat fall into the fire, and dashed toward the sudden newcomer like a starstruck fangirl, moving with an agility that rivaled a Dryopithecus.

Before the terrified creature could react, he scooped it up and pulled it into his tight embrace. He squeezed so hard that the entire slime was instantly warped into an irregular shape, its upper body swelling almost to its limit, looking as if it might burst on the spot.

“Is it still that same slime? I remember you named it Dung Ball last time.” Irene stood up, walked around the fire toward Christine, and locked eyes with the black bead-like eyes mimicked by the slime in his arms.

In those tiny bead-like eyes, Irene seemed to read an extremely human-like plea for help. For a low-tier magical beast like a slime—the lowest of the low, devoid of any intelligence, driven solely by basic instincts like feeding and reproducing—this was highly abnormal.

It felt as bizarre as eating in a vegetable garden and suddenly spotting a stupid marmot that, after stealing your vegetables, opened its mouth to yell: “Old man, help! Your vegetables are about to burst my stomach!”

“Oh, come on! Didn't I feel that 'Dung Ball' was a bit too vulgar?” Christine seemed to be in an excellent mood, repeatedly rubbing his face against the slime in his arms. He completely ignored the creature's struggles, though the weak slime's resistance was too feeble for him to even notice anyway.