The Royal Military Academy's Impostor Owns a Dungeon [BL]

Chapter 1086: Peaceful

It had been nine days inside the dungeon since they first welcomed their initial bees.

And if one were to ask the dungeon owner how things had been since then, the young man with the increasingly noticeable spring in his steps would simply describe the entire experience with one word.

"Peaceful."

Of course, that description conveniently excluded the sniffling and the visible departure of the soul that occurred during the purchase of the remaining limited-time items.

Specifically, the three Flame Stones priced at 50,000 CP each.

And then there were the three boxes of Luxurious Pet Food that had somehow dealt a devastating 300,000 CP worth of damage to their balance.

Safe to say, right before purchasing those items, Luca’s complexion had not particularly matched the calm and peaceful atmosphere he was currently trying to describe.

Not even remotely.

Still, because the addition of bees to their humble dungeon had brought him unreasonable happiness, the little money-grubber somehow managed to endure such tribulations.

See, the truth was that they didn’t actually have any urgent need for either item.

No one would die without Flame Stones.

No one urgently required those suspiciously luxurious pet food either.

In fact, ever since purchasing them, several people had quietly been trying to figure out exactly what those items even did in hopes of justifying the horrifying amount of CP that had been sacrificed.

Unfortunately, the answers remained as vague as their surprisingly ultra-generic descriptions.

Then again, it didn’t really matter whether they found a use for those items, because the group would’ve bought them anyway after one particularly decisive meeting.

Because after listening to everyone’s arguments, the little money-grubber—whose big toe had practically curled from the pain of hearing so much painfully reasonable logic—eventually got convinced.

It really was better to buy the items while they were available than risk regretting it later.

After all, they still didn’t fully understand how the limited-time offerings worked. And until they gathered more information, it was probably wiser not to gamble unnecessarily.

Thankfully, that decision quickly proved itself correct.

Because after they finished purchasing all available items, there was no indication whatsoever of when the next limited-time batch would appear.

And because of that, Luca felt reassured.

They’d made the right choice.

His heart was calm.

He was at peace.

Unfortunately, the same could not be said for the rest of the dungeon dwellers.

__

All over the place, people were still desperately trying to discover their bloodline abilities.

At this point, hearing random thunks followed by the sound of someone collapsing onto the ground had become an ordinary part of daily life after several optimistic individuals attempted (once again) to test whether they could suddenly fly.

Clearly, they were living through some possible definition of insanity, repeatedly doing the exact same thing while somehow hoping for different results.

"..."

"..."

But in the grand scheme of things, such experimenters were still faring better than the next group.

As in those saddled with positions carrying far too much responsibility.

Technically, the Kyros couple should’ve belonged in that category.

However, whether out of instinct or sheer alarmist confidence, Duke Leander, Duchess Amelia, and the other biomecha pilots had instead chosen to sprint enthusiastically toward corruption zones the moment they received their assigned cubes.

How absolutely thrilling, right?!

Armed with gear they were fully prepared to stake their lives on, the fortunate pilots practically radiated excitement at the opportunity to "earn their keep," as Duke Leander had loudly declared at least twice before departure.

Unfortunately, not everyone was lucky enough to be among the shameless enthusiasts happily testing out their brand-new toys.

Take Marshal Julian, for example.

The man was well on his way to developing his third possible aneurysm, and it had only been three days outside since he managed to double the maximum number of soldiers allowed into the Day Care daily.

See, unlike the dungeon space that constantly basked in perfect sunshine, ideal temperatures, clean air, and suspiciously therapeutic vibes, the cursed Military Headquarters somehow continued producing beasts likely born with the sole purpose of shortening his lifespan.

Therefore, while the increase in slots had been met with tears of gratitude and near-religious devotion from the actual soldiers, the same absolutely could not be said for the cursed upper management.

"Isn’t it possible to officially classify it as a branch of the Military?"

"Why are we passing through a group of cadets when the Empire should directly control such an important facility?"

"Marshal Julian, surely you understand the strategic implications—"

The Marshal, who looked one complaint away from personally launching someone into orbit, immediately shut the repetitive arguments down by throwing them right back.

"Since Mecha production is important," he said flatly, turning toward one particularly vocal Marquis, "does the Marquis agree to hand over all private manufacturing facilities under your house to Imperial control?"

Silence.

Glorious silence.

One official immediately developed a sudden and deeply sincere interest in the tablet before him. Another coughed into his fist like he had not spoken two seconds ago.

Marshal Julian sneered internally.

Ah. So now private ownership mattered. Fascinating.

Such a scene was something they imagined happening, and while that sucked, at least the Marshal wasn’t alone in feeling rather murderous as more and more of their small group encountered something similar.

Imperial Butler Henry has had to listen to the most absurd requests regarding the turned-over Expo booth since being appointed overseer of the project.

Questions about his qualifications and insinuations that he was already too busy to handle such a thing were some of the most common things he had to deal with.

But thankfully, because of his experience and nearly unshakeable position as a trusted vassal of the Imperial family, he could get by with a few choice words.

If only Minister Kordel and his son, Killian, could do the same.

The Minister had always been busy.

That fact was about as reliable as the direction from which the sun would rise.

But ever since the latest revelations within the Empire, his office had practically turned into a battlefield disguised as a government building. Requests, proposals, negotiations, complaints, and thinly veiled threats flooded in daily like an unstoppable tidal wave.

Now, much of that had been expected. He wasn’t particularly surprised by the desperate enthusiasm several nations suddenly displayed for building larger consulates near Imperial territory.

What truly tested the Minister’s restraint, however, was one particularly annoying elf.

Prince Eren.

That little shit.

It was obvious the Elven Prince had begun poking around behind the scenes, stirring interest here, provoking pressure there, and generally acting like someone trying to see how much chaos he could create before getting punched.

Maybe it was the vigor of youth, but clearly, the villains of today followed a different, much faster timeline than their much older predecessors.

Ugh.

It was taking everything in Kordell’s power not to personally arrange his demise.

Unfortunately, the Imperial Monarchs were still finalizing evacuation procedures for civilians in case tensions escalated into outright war.

Ideally, the military should’ve been handling most of that preparation already, but because they had deliberately kept the earlier terrorism attempt under wraps to prevent copycats from trying something similar, they were forced to conduct as much of the planning as possible within their own limited circle.

As such, instead of striking first, they had little choice but to continue buying time.

And that miserable job somehow landed squarely on the shoulders of Killian Nox.

Which was absurd.

Because Killian genuinely could not understand why he, one single overworked man who already had more responsibilities than reasonable human limits should allow, had to act as mediator between one fearless Orc Princess, one deeply unfortunate Elven Prince, and one completely deranged Orc King.

Of course, discussions could’ve been handled privately.

But to ensure Princess Marin and Prince Elior wouldn’t simply be hauled back home without warning, most of these "negotiations" had to take place publicly.

And who better to stand witness to potential diplomatic incidents than his deeply unfortunate self?

Truly.

What a blessed existence.

Honestly, if he and the others carrying similarly horrifying mental burdens didn’t have access to the dungeon space for occasional peace and quiet, there likely would’ve already been reports about high-ranking officials spontaneously losing their sanity.

But then what about his current situation?

Despite rushing over just to finally get some rest, was it already too late for him?

Because after greeting his mother and running away in search of his bed, Killian loosened his tie with the exhaustion of a man who had mentally retired three separate times today.

The top buttons of his uniform came undone as he exhaled heavily while walking toward his own cabin.

One sigh.

Then another.

Then a third one so profound it practically carried the weight of the Empire itself.

It was definitely peculiar, but doing that gave him some sort of demented peace.

Finally.

But just as Killian was moments away from reaching his room, the Chief of Staff stopped dead in his tracks.

"...What the hell?"

Something was there.

A mass.

Large. Dark. Motionless.

Killian’s exhaustion evaporated instantly as years of military instincts slammed into place. His spiritual energy sharpened on reflex while his hand immediately moved toward the weapon at his side.

An unidentified beast inside Luca’s dungeon space?!

Impossible.

Either they were under attack...

Or he had finally gone insane from overwork.

The towering shape shifted slightly.

Killian narrowed his eyes.

No visible classification. No recognizable anatomy. Just a huge dark silhouette standing before him.

The minister’s son immediately lowered his stance, preparing for combat while thinking of screeching for D-29.

"...Right," he muttered under his breath. "Of course, this would happen today."

Then the thing twitched again.

Then—

"Help..."

Killian froze.

"...What?"

The beast moved weakly.

"Help!"

Silence.

Killian blinked once.

Then twice.

His fighting stance faltered as his brain struggled violently to process the situation before him.

After all, which monster asks for help?!

At that point, Killian had to slowly shake his head.

Ah.

So he really had gone insane.