Well, the red tape wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Still soul-sucking, but in a lighter, more politely suspicious kind of way.

The moment we stepped out of the dungeon, a uniformed attendant in green and gold robes approached us with a too-bright smile. “Do any of you require medical attention?” he asked, eyes scanning us.

“We’re fine,” Mahya said, already brushing past him.

Al gave a polite nod. “No injuries.”

I just held up a thumb.

His expression changed to less than thrilled. “Very well. Follow me for tax evaluation.”

That got a collective groan.

The guy led us into a side room with far too many chairs and insufficient ventilation. The walls were painted the same color as dried oatmeal with no window in sight.

“Please remove all harvested or collected materials from the dungeon so we can assess your due contributions to the Masarwaso Empire,” the attendant said, his tone switching to something dangerously close to bored menace.

Mahya crossed her arms. “We didn’t collect anything. We entered purely to level up.”

He blinked at her, like she’d just said we came to the dungeon to watch birds. “You didn’t collect anything?”

“Nothing,” I added. “Just levels and trauma.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Right. Please come with me.”

The next room was even smaller and somehow even stuffier. Two mages waited inside, both wearing long gray coats and grim expressions like they hadn’t been paid enough to be lied to today. Without a word, they raised stone wands and waved them around us. Slowly and thoroughly.

I could hear one muttering under his breath. “No storage devices detected…”

The other mage frowned. “Still can’t be. Their readings are inconsistent. That healer’s mana signature is very impressive.”

I cleared my throat. “Thank you?”

They ignored me and continued their full-body wand ballet. After what felt like forever and at least five full scans, the first mage stepped back with a frown. “It seems they don’t possess any storage devices,” he said, like it physically hurt him to admit it.

The second mage crossed his arms. “It seems. That does not mean they don’t.”

Next, they patted us down like cops in the movies. Twice. After that, they physically checked our fingers one by one, our arms, ears, ankles, and even each of Mahya’s braids. That took a while. During the whole process, they looked more and more confused, while the guy who led us to the room looked increasingly pissed.

“Check again,” he demanded.

I could swear he almost stomped his foot like a toddler. That was exactly the vibe I got from him.

After another three inspections with the wands, including one between our legs, Mahya shot the man a glare.

“Don’t kick them,” I sent telepathically.

“Only a little,” she said.

“No!” Al and I said together.

She huffed, which earned a startled look from the one holding the wand between her legs. She glared at him, and he took two steps back with a spooked expression.

They launched into a full-blown debate, tossing around terms like "conflicting scan harmonics," "mana fogging," and something about a theoretical loophole involving "multi-dimensional compression fields." Thanks to the reading I’d done from the Wizards’ books, I understood most of the individual words—but strung together like that, they sounded like pure nonsense. It was like they took the most complicated phrases they could remember and stitched them into a sentence just to sound impressive.

One of them claimed the scan harmonics might be inverted due to unstable universal interference, while the other insisted it was more likely a side effect of residual mana fogging from a previous dungeon dive. Then they both nodded solemnly as if this explained everything. A minute later, one of them suggested that if the artifact had passed through a compression bubble in a parallel spatial fold, that could have hidden it from detection altogether.

Even without being an expert in magic—yet—I knew enough to spot the holes. Unstable Universal Interference does not affect passive detection spells, especially not in open-air scans, since it simply means the mana is not uniform in the air but has pockets of higher concentration, not necessarily near vents. And multi-dimensional compression fields was a subject Archwizard theorists argued about in books with too little evidence, not something you just casually ran into during a routine inspection. Of course, there was a chance this world had figured it out, or something, but either way, it had to do with theories of dimensions created by mana and the existence of various beings undetectable to the naked eye that influence the creation of dungeons and mana occurrences. Not the gibberish they were spouting.

Honestly, it felt less like a real discussion and more like a performance for the supervisor’s benefit. Too many big words. Not enough logic.

We stood there for over an hour while they argued. Rue fell asleep on the floor. Al flipped through a pamphlet he found in a wall slot labeled How to Die Legally. Mahya just looked done with life.

Finally, the attendant nodded with a tight smile. “You are free to go,” he said. “However, if the Empire discovers you have lied, cheated, or in any way evaded paying what is due, you will regret it for… many decades to come.”

I offered a bright smile. “Of course. We’d never dream of it.”

This time, he didn’t smile back, not even tightly.

With that cheerful send-off hanging over us like a tax auditor’s curse, we retraced our steps and left the dungeon building, breathing in the fresh air like we’d just escaped something deeply unpleasant.

Because, well… we had.

We spent the next two days at The Plucky Spearman, not doing anything particularly interesting. The run hadn’t been especially hard or demanding, just long and annoying. Definitely deserving a proper rest.

In the late morning of day three, I sat by the window of my room looking outside and almost dropped my cup of coffee. One of the tricycles used in this world pulled a truck container about three times the size of those on Earth. It looked ridiculous. The tricycle was the size of a regular bicycle, maybe even smaller, and behind it was a huge metal container on twelve wheels filled to the brim with sand.

Curiosity got the better of me. I bolted out of the inn and chased after the tricycle, not even sure why. At first, I just wanted to figure out how that tiny thing was hauling such a massive container behind it without tipping over or exploding. But then it turned a corner, rattled down a street, and rolled into a wide, fenced-off area, and I completely forgot about the tricycle.

The container came to a halt beside a towering skeleton of a building, another one of those massive stone structures that seemed to be growing like weeds in this dungeon dimension. But it wasn’t the size of the building that caught my eye. It was how they were building it.

Groups of workers clustered around bulky metal installations that looked like a cross between a furnace and a fountain. Sand from the container poured into them in steady streams, down open hatches. One person added water, another followed with a thick green liquid from a glass jar the size of a barrel. Then someone traced glowing runes along the side of the machine and pushed mana into them. The entire contraption began to hum and spin, like a washing machine, or maybe a concrete mixer.

Once the mixture inside hit the right consistency, the workers tilted the machine slightly toward a robed figure standing at the center of it all. He raised his wand, poured mana into the swirling blend, and directed it with slow, precise gestures.

The sand didn’t shoot out, but flowed. It hovered for a moment, suspended in the air like a ribbon, then glided toward the half-built wall. There, it spread out in a perfect, even layer, hugging the contours of the previous layer before settling into place. There were no tools, molds, or scaffolding. Just magical layering, one line at a time, that built the wall at an amazing speed.

Within seconds, the color shifted. The golden sand dulled into a warm, dusty beige. Sand stone. It looke solid and dry, and supported the next layer forming above it. They weren’t building walls. They were printing them like in 3D printer, layer by layer.

I stayed rooted to the spot, watching the entire process in quiet awe.

It took me a few minutes to snap out of the open-mouthed, wide-eyed state of awe I’d slipped into. When I finally remembered I had legs—and a brain—I shuffled over to one of the metal devices to get a closer look at that weird green gunk they kept pouring into the sand mix.

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

I closed my eyes and focused. The green substance glowed like a magical rave in a bottle. My best guess? Some kind of ultra-concentrated potion. Beyond that? No clue. Plants? Probably. Alchemical whatnots? Sure. Maybe even ground-up frog toenails and unicorn dandruff for all I knew.

This was the moment I remembered, not for the first time, that I had absolutely zero alchemy knowledge, and zero desire to get any. I mean, learning about sticky potions and bubbly brews just never made it onto my list of “fun ways to spend a Saturday.”

Okay, let's try to understand what the wizard is doing.

I wandered closer to the guy with the wand, doing my best impression of casual curiosity. As soon as I stretched my mana sense out toward him, trying to feel the delicate threads of how he was controlling the sand…

The sand immediately snapped back into the machine, and the wizard turned to me and glared. "What do you think you're doing?!" he roared, pointing his wand at me like it was a sword.

I froze mid-step. "Uh… trying to understand how you control the sand?"

His eyes bulged. "How are you not ashamed to spy on the Great Deumionocoritos?!"

"Who?"

He took a deep breath, puffed up like an angry rooster, and launched into what was clearly a rehearsed monologue. "I am the Great Deumionocoritos! The most renowned sand wizard in the entire Empire! How dare you spy on me?! Who do you think you are?! By what right does a… a pee-duck healer attempt to meddle in the sacred artistry of sand?! Great kings and emperors bow before me! And you have the gall to touch me with your mana?!"

I blinked. That was… a lot. Honestly, kind of impressive.

"Right. Um, so… I’m a wizard too," I said, lifting a hand sheepishly. "Relatively new to the class. I was just curious how you do it. The books on magic and mana are pretty terrible, so I figured I’d learn by watching. But if it bothers you, I totally get it. I’ll stop."

He didn’t answer right away. Just glared. Then blinked. Then scratched his head. Then rubbed his chin. Then, for some reason, scratched his rear end. He hummed thoughtfully, cleared his throat like he was about to announce something, tilted his head from side to side, and blinked again—twice, just for good measure.

Finally, he fixed me with a shrewd look and asked, “What are you willing to offer me in return?”

That took some thought.

Maybe I should teach him how to make the marble for mana crystals?

The idea had potential. It wasn’t some throwaway spell, and it would definitely impress him. But… no. Bad idea. The marble itself was simple enough in theory, but the runes and magic script needed to actually make it were a whole semester’s worth of headaches. I doubted he even knew the basics. Not worth the exchange.

Now I found myself scratching my head too. It seemed to help him think earlier. Maybe it would work for me too.

Spoiler: it didn’t.

Just to be thorough, I gave my butt a quick scratch too. It did help him think. Still nothing. No flash of inspiration, no sudden eureka moment. I realized the secret to arcane brilliance wasn’t hiding back there after all.

I cast Identify.

Deumionocoritos Clot

Sand Wizard Level 39

Help him advance from sand to earth?

How exactly?

Gold?

Maybe. Wizards liked shiny things. That might work.

"Money?" I offered.

He flailed his arms like I’d insulted his entire bloodline. "Wizards do not trade money!" he bellowed, robes swirling like he was trying to summon a tornado through sheer volume. "Wizards trade knowledge!"

Right. Should’ve seen that coming.

I scratched my head again. Part habit, part desperate fishing for inspiration. "A book, then?" I tried.

His eyes narrowed. "Wizard book?"

I nodded slowly, cautiously.

He recoiled, face paling. His whole body tensed, and I could feel the waves of panic rolling off him like heat from an oven. “No, no, no,” he said, shaking his head so fast his ears almost flapped. “No Wizard books.”

That reaction was… expected.

I rubbed my chin this time, swapping tactics. Maybe a different motion would work better for thinking. As I stood there, something floated up from the depths of my memory. An old book I’d read back in London. It was technically a mana theory manual, focused on expanding the smaller mana channels. The writing wasn’t bad—well, by wizard standards—but the method was so painful I’d mentally labeled it “not in a million years” and stuffed it into the back of my Storage.

I checked. Still there, buried under a pile of boxes of those weird black potatoes.

"I’ve got a book on enlarging the small mana channels in the body," I said. "The writing is not bad for wizards. Interested?"

He drew in a sharp breath, puffing up again like he was about to launch another operatic explosion. I braced for impact and waited. Nothing. Waited some more. Still nothing. Finally, he nodded.

"I’ll need to translate it first," I said. "How long will you stay here?"

He lifted his chin and flicked his eyes around the building site. "Forty days at least."

"Okay," I said with a casual wave. "See you in a couple of days."

I turned to leave before he changed his mind, or remembered he was still supposed to be mad.

For three days straight, I worked on translating the book.

Mahya vanished into her own world, probably buried somewhere under a pile of enchanted wires, gears, and whatever project she’d dragged back from the guild. Al disappeared too, just as focused but a lot more secretive. He muttered something about formulas and then stopped answering questions entirely. I had no idea what either of them was doing, and honestly, didn’t care.

Rue, on the other hand, had taken it upon himself to become the official mascot of The Plucky Spearman. Within hours, he had the inn's staff—and most of the regulars—wrapped around his giant paw. I caught him being fed roasted meat under the table by five different people, one of whom I was pretty sure didn’t even work or eat there. He’d mastered the art of the mournful stare, the perfectly timed tail wag, and the pitiful “Rue is hungry now” look. It was a masterclass in mooching, and he was the professor.

By the end of the second day, something about him felt… off. He looked a little smaller than before. Narrower. I frowned and walked over, standing beside him to compare. Sure enough, for the first time in a couple of years, his head was a bit lower than mine. He had definitely shrunk.

I didn’t say anything. Not yet. If Rue wanted to talk about it, he would. And if he didn’t ... well, I wasn’t going to push. He might change his mind.

The book was ready. I gave it a quick flip through, mostly to make sure I hadn’t accidentally left any sarcastic margin notes in the translation, then headed back to the construction site. I found the Great Deumionocoritos exactly where I’d left him. Center stage, arms raised, wand in hand, robes dramatically fluttering despite the lack of wind. Still the same. But the walls were much higher. it was very impressive.

I held out the book. “Here. Translated, like I promised.”

He snatched it without a word and opened it right there on the spot, flipping through the first few pages. His eyebrows twitched a few times, and his fingers drummed lightly on the edge of the book before he looked up.

“You understand this?” he asked suspiciously, narrowing his eyes.

“I translated it. That usually helps.”

“You have studied books of this caliber before?”

I shrugged, spreading my hands. “I’ve read worse. This one’s actually not that bad, once you ignore the diagrams drawn by a drunk.”

He narrowed his eyes but tucked the book under his arm and gave a stiff nod. “Very well. I shall fulfill my part of the agreement.”

He turned and beckoned me toward one of the nearby mixing machines, the ones still full of sand and quietly humming. “First, I must know. Do you possess Mana Manipulation?”

“Yes.”

“Mana Control?”

“Yes.”

He spun to face me fully, squinting as if trying to see through my soul. “You do?” he asked again.

“Yes.”

“Hmph.” He looked genuinely disappointed for a second, but he collected himself quickly. “Good. Then you might be able to learn without embarrassing yourself.”

I kept my mouth shut.

“This method is based on Mana Control,” he said, lifting his wand. “But it is not about flooding the material with mana to change or manipulate it. That would require hundreds of thousands of units, and we are not walking mana wells. You take only a small amount of the sand. You fill it with mana, and you control only that part.”

He walked over to the wall and tapped a newly added layer. “You guide it there. You place it. But you do not let the mana go. You hold onto it. Then you pull it back. You reuse it on the next piece. Layer by layer, over and over. The same mana.”

I nodded slowly. “So… recycled mana?”

“Yes!” he said, eyes gleaming. “Mana recycling!”

That was actually a really good idea that never crossed my mind.

He thrust his wand at me. “The wand helps. It focuses the mana and sharpens the direction. Without it, you will lose precision, and the sand may stick to the wrong spot or collapse entirely. Or fall on someones head. Which is unforgivable, by the way.”

“Got it,” I said stepping toward the machine. “No collapsing. No head-hitting.”

I pured a thread of mana into a portion of the sand. It responded easily enough, and I was able to lift it gently into the air, and guide it toward the wall. It was easier than I thought. Sudennly, it fell down halfway there.

“No!” he snapped, robes flaring again. “You do not throw it! You place it. Gently! Like laying a feather on silk!”

I didn’t know what kind of silk he’d been working with, but I nodded and tried again.

This time, I brought the sand up slowly, guided it more carefully, and placed it along the edge of the last layer. Then I held the mana and pulled it back into the next sliver of sand. It felt awkward, but it worked. My layer was ugly with lumps in it, but it did reach the target. I considered it a minor win.

“Again,” he barked.

I repeated the process, this time a little smoother.

He circled me like a shark in the water, making sharp little noises every time I deviated even slightly.

“Too fast. Slow your mana pulse.”

"Too much mana"

"Not enough mana."

“Too soft!”

“Keep the layer tight! This is not soup!”

I kept going.

By the fifth hour, the process started to feel natural. Compared to him, I wasn’t fast, but it was working. The sand slid into place in a clean, even line, and the mana came back to me like a stretched-out thread. I pressed it into the next portion, guided it forward, and repeated the process. I did lose some mana; it wasn’t a perfect recycling, and at some point he admitted, with an expression like he had eaten a lemon, that he lost some too.

After I managed to layeer five consecutive layeers without him finding any falts in them, he stared stared at me eyes wide, mouth slightly open. “You’ve done this before,” he said slowly, pointing at me.

I shook my head. “Nope.”

He leaned in, squinting. “Then how—” His eyes narrowed, suspicion sharpening. “Wait. You have the affinity.”

I gave a small nod. “Earth affinity.”

His jaw clenched tight enough I was afraid he would break his teeth. “You,” he growled, his voice rising with every syllable, “you came here to steal my craft!”

“What?”

He spun in place, throwing his arms toward the sky in pure dramatic agony. “You dare stand here, next to me, the Great Deumionocoritos, architect of sand and master of layer and form, and you steal my methods!”

For the first time, I got the pleasure of looking at somebody like they were an alien. “You literally just spent hours teaching me.”

He pointed a trembling finger at me. “And now you will open your own business! Underbid me! Woo nobles with your affinity and perfect lines and recycled mana! Show the world the perfect artistry of Earth Affinity.”

I blinked. “I’m not opening a sand wall company.”

“You think I am a fool!” he shouted, stomping once for emphasis, which sent a puff of sand into the air—very on brand.

I backed away as he launched into another tirade, full of titles I was pretty sure he invented on the spot, like the Great Master of the Art of Layers, the Great Sand Drafter, the Architect of Clean Lines Without Unnecessary Grain, and the Great Ruler of Mana. People passing on the street stopped to watch. I nodded politely, gave him a small wave, and retreated before he decided to duel me with powdered limestone.

Still, I had to admit. I’d learned something interesting.

Shame I wouldn’t get to see his expression when he actually started working with that book. He deserved whatever came next. Mostly for the shouting.