Hello, is this a letter addressed to Demon Fortress?

Morgan stopped in his tracks.

He stood in front of the shelter.

That was a stone door at the deepest part of the shelter, thick and rough, with the pale light of the magic stone shining through the cracks.

Inside are the weakest half-demon civilians in the sanctuary.

The elderly, children, the injured, and the sick.

More than four thousand people were crammed into this space carved into the mountain.

From the moment Levy and the others were captured, Morgan knew that the location of the shelter would be exposed sooner or later.

His plan was to allow those soldiers who were capable of evacuating to disperse and escape from the barren wasteland as much as possible.

He knew better than anyone that the City of a Thousand Towers would not let them go.

They were the perfect material for that terrible experiment.

And those ordinary people...

He was willing to exchange himself for it.

He is the only legendary mage among half-demons.

He was the "sinner" who took the initiative to approach the great sage and presented his research results to him.

His body, his magic, his soul, his research on demonic energy.

All of this is worth far more than those ordinary people.

What the sage wants is the key to breaking through the bottleneck, not the lives of thousands of half-demons.

As long as he is willing to give up himself and voluntarily become a member of the sage's petri dish.

Those ordinary people might be able to survive.

Morgan took a deep breath, raised his hand, and placed it on the stone door.

The stone door was heavy and made a dull rubbing sound when pushed.

He took a breath, forced a smile, and prepared to comfort the person inside in the kindest tone, as always.

Then he froze.

The moment the stone door was pushed open, a rich, warm aroma, carrying the scent of grease and char, wafted out.

That's the smell of food.

It's not grass roots, not tree bark, not that kind of devilish meat that still tastes bitter even after being roasted.

It has the real aroma of bread baked with flour.

Morgan stood at the doorway, his fingers still resting on the edge of the stone door, completely frozen.

He thought he was hallucinating.

Having stayed in the forbidden area for too long, hunger and exhaustion had clouded his judgment.

He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again.

The image is still there.

The pale light of the magic stone poured down from above, illuminating the entire underground space.

More than 4,000 people are crammed here, including the elderly, children, the injured, and the sick, densely packed together like birds stuffed into the same cage.

They were horribly thin, with prominent cheekbones, collarbones like two knives across their chests, and arms as thin as withered branches.

Their clothes were tattered, their hair was dry and tangled, and their fingernails were stuck with dirt and scabs that couldn't be washed off.

But their eyes are bright.

Those blood-red eyes, which had been dulled by hunger and despair, were now shining brightly.

It was like someone pouring a bucket of oil into a pile of dying embers; flames shot skyward, burning intensely and wildly.

Some people were laughing, some were eating and crying at the same time, and some were breaking bread in half, putting one half into the hand of the child next to them and the other half into the hand of an even older person next to them.

The child took the bread and wolfed it down, his cheeks bulging out.

The old man was reluctant to eat it; he held it in his hands, turning it over and over to look at it, as if it were a rare treasure.

The air was filled with the warm aroma of bread, mixed with the caramelized sweetness of toasted flour and a hint of melted butter.

Morgan stood there, his nose twitching slightly.

He couldn't believe his nose.

In this forbidden land where food had been cut off for several months.

How could there be the smell of bread in this shelter where even the grass roots have been dug up?

His gaze swept across the faces of the half-demon commoners, then landed on what they were holding in their hands.

bread.

It's golden brown, with a slightly charred and crispy surface, and when you break it open, you can see the fluffy and soft texture inside.

Steam rose from the cracks, carrying the warm, sweet taste unique to wheat.

Morgan swallowed hard.

He realized his lapse in composure almost the instant he swallowed.

He was startled, looked away, and frowned deeply.

wrong.

Where did the shelter get its bread?

A thought flashed through his mind: Edwin?

The thought had barely crossed his mind when he nipped it in the bud.

Would Edwin give them food?

That old man in the dark purple robes, looking down at them, using the life of a half-demon as a bargaining chip to force them to submit.

Would they give bread to these half-demon civilians who have no research value?

Even if he were willing, his assassins and mages wouldn't be.

Moreover, once the standard magical robes of the Thousand Towers City appear here...

The first reaction of these half-demon civilians would not be to accept the bread, but rather fear and anger.

They won't show that kind of expression.

That kind of satisfied, expectant, happy, surprised, and relieved expression, like someone who has walked in the dark for a very long time and finally sees a ray of light.

Morgan moved.

He stepped over the threshold and into the crowd.

The half-demon commoners noticed him, and they all looked up, their eyes shining even brighter.

Someone got up from the ground, grabbed his arm excitedly, and spoke in a hoarse voice filled with uncontrollable joy.

"Mr. Morgan! Dalton's food has arrived!"

"Guy's back! He's back with Dalton's men!"

"Grain, so much grain, far more than ever before!"

Morgan stumbled slightly as they surrounded him.

His brows furrowed even more.

Dalton?

How is that possible?

He had no time to think. Pushed by the crowd, he passed through the dense throng and headed deeper into the shelter.

The second floor.

Morgan stepped onto the stone steps, looked up, and saw a scene he would never forget for the rest of his life.

A young mage with black hair and black eyes stood in front of a makeshift chopping board.

His robes were dusty and gray, the cuffs rolled up to his elbows, flour smeared all over his clothes and cuffs, and even his face had several white marks on them.

He raised his right hand and twitched his fingertips slightly.

The flour in the bag was immediately lifted up by a gentle magical current, floated into the air, and evenly sprinkled onto the cutting board like a thin layer of snow.

Once the flour had settled, he drew out a thin stream of water, which rose from the bucket and poured into the center of the flour.

The water flow was fine and even, precisely drawing a circular indentation.

He roughly mixed the flour and water together to form a rough dough, then pushed the dough aside.

"rub."

He uttered a single word, his tone brief, like issuing a command on the battlefield.

Beside him, a blonde woman was rolling up her sleeves, pressing her hands on the rough dough, leaning forward, and kneading it with all her might.

Her movements weren't very skilled, but they were rhythmic, with the dough making a dull thud under her hands.

Her blonde hair fell to her shoulders, stained grayish-white with flour, and her face was also covered in it.

However, her expression wasn't very good.

His lips were pressed into a line, his brows were slightly furrowed, and the corners of his mouth were turned down.

The dough gradually became smooth and elastic under her repeated kneading.

She pushed the kneaded dough back to the black-haired monk.

The black-haired mage took it, and tiny wind blades condensed on his fingers, swiftly cutting the dough into even pieces.

Each piece is almost exactly the same size, with a smooth and even cut, as if it had been measured with a ruler.

He shaped the cut dough pieces into rounds and placed them on an oiled griddle.

Several magical rings floated around him, with faint flames burning within them.

He pushed the iron plate into the range of the fire ring, using the residual heat to slowly bake it.

The baking temperature was controlled very steadily, and the surface of the bread gradually turned golden brown, revealing the fluffy and soft wheat core through the cracks.

Just then, a black-haired female mage squatted in the corner, her face pale.

He was covering his mouth with one hand and supporting himself on the ground with the other, dry heaving.

Her staff leaned against the wall, its tip still gleaming with a faint magical light.

But while she was gagging, she stubbornly raised her hand, her fingertips gathering a faint pale green light.

The light flickered intermittently, like a lamp about to burn out, drifting towards the black-haired mage.

Mana Restoration Spell.

The moment the bread came out of the oven, the black-haired mage used magical energy to lift the scalding hot bread and gently placed it on the stove.

The bread flew up from the counter, arced through the air, and landed steadily on Guy, who was not far away.

Guy stood in the middle of the crowd, his body thin.

There was a long, crooked line in front of him.

Adults, children, and the elderly all stretched out their hands, gazing at him expectantly.

But no one pushed forward, no one cut in line.

They were so hungry their legs were weak and they could barely stand, yet they still lined up obediently, one after another, as if this line was their only remaining dignity.

Bread flew through the air, and Guy caught it, hissing in pain from the heat, and frantically tossed it back and forth between his hands.

He didn't rush to hand it out, but instead looked up at the person at the front of the line.

She was a middle-aged woman, so thin that her cheekbones were high, and she was holding a baby in her arms.

The baby was also hungry, and its cries were so weak that they were barely audible.

Guy recognized her.

Aunt Mary.

His voice was hoarse, but very certain.

"You have three children in your family, right?"

The woman paused for a moment, then nodded.

"Take this home and share it with the children."

He handed the bread over.

The woman took the bread, looked down at the baby in her arms who was crying silently, and her eyes reddened.

She didn't say much, just nodded vigorously, and turned to leave.

Guy caught another loaf of bread.

He looked at the next one.

It was a lame old man, leaning on a crooked cane, his other hand's palm was covered in calluses, and black grime was stuck under his fingernails.

"Old Patton."

The old man raised his head, a glint of light flashing in his murky, blood-red eyes.

"You live alone, right?"

The old man nodded.

"Here, take this."

The old man took the bread, but didn't eat it right away. Instead, he looked at it over and over, then carefully stuffed it into his pocket, turned around, and left.

Another loaf of bread flew in.

Guy caught it and looked at the next one.

A thin boy, his face still showing traces of childishness, but his eyes already looked very old.

"Eric".

The boy looked up, his lips chapped, and swallowed.

"Your home..."

"I live alone in my family."

The boy took over the conversation, his voice very soft, as if afraid of disturbing something.

"Both my parents are gone."

Guy paused for a moment, then handed over the bread.

"Eat."

The boy took the bread, but instead of leaving, he stood there, took a big bite, and as he chewed, tears began to fall.

Guy didn't look at him because the next loaf of bread was flying over.

He caught it, looked up, and saw a little girl in the line.

Those were children he knew; their parents had starved to death in the famine a few months earlier, and they had been taken in by a kind neighbor.

The little girl was as thin as a bean sprout, and her head and eyes looked particularly large.

Guy crouched down and handed her the bread.

The little girl took the bread, but didn't eat it. Instead, she turned around and glanced behind her.

Behind her stood a boy even younger than her, the neighbor's child; the two depended on each other for survival.

The little girl hesitated for a moment, then broke the bread in half and handed one half to the boy.

Guy watched this scene, opened his mouth as if to say something, but was silenced.

He stood up, took another loaf of bread from the side, squatted down, and handed it to the little girl.

"Here, take this. No need to divide it."

The little girl shook her head.

"He was hungrier than I was."

Guy's Adam's apple bobbed, and his voice sounded a little hoarse.

"Take it."

The little girl shook her head again.

"Brother Guy, there isn't enough food, so everyone has to eat sparingly."

Guy looked at her, his own gaunt figure reflected in his blood-red eyes.

He took a deep breath and raised his voice slightly.

"rest assured."

He reached out and gently patted the little girl's dry hair.

"This time, there will definitely be enough food."

His gaze passed over the little girl and subconsciously glanced at the black-haired mage baking bread behind him.

That look in his eyes was complex, filled with gratitude, guilt, and an overwhelming, burning hope.

"and……"

Guy paused, then grinned, revealing a missing tooth.

"We'll be leaving here soon."

Morgan stood at the top of the stairs, watching all of this.

His gaze shifted from the black-haired mage to the blonde woman, then back to the black-haired female mage, and finally settled on Guy's face.

As if sensing something, Guy looked up and met Morgan's eyes.

His smile froze for a moment, then widened.

"Morgan, brother!"

Morgan did not laugh.

He didn't even glance at Guy.

Without stopping, he walked past Guy and headed straight for the cutting board.

The boots pounded on the stone slabs, each step carrying weight.

His gaze was fixed on the black-haired mage, sweeping from the flour-covered face to the dusty gray robe, and then to the still-functioning magic rings.

The bread in the fire ring is baked to perfection, golden and crispy, and steaming hot.

The black-haired mage was using magical energy to lift the bread off the griddle, preparing to send it towards Guy.

Morgan stopped in front of the counter.

He was tall and, though emaciated from hunger, still possessed the imposing aura of a legendary mage.

The previously noisy sounds inside the stone chamber gradually subsided.

The half-demon commoners looked up in their direction, still clutching their bread, their chewing motion halted.

Who are you?

Morgan's voice was deep, not like a question, but more like a pressure grinding out from the depths of his throat.

His blood-red eyes swept back and forth between the three people.

A black-haired mage, a blonde woman, and a black-haired female mage still retching in the corner.

Magic slowly emanated from him, like an invisible mist that enveloped the entire second floor.

The magic rings that were still in operation trembled slightly.

The black-haired mage raised his head, his gray eyes calmly looking at Morgan without saying a word.

Guy ran up from behind, clutching a loaf of bread in his hand, his face showing anxiety.

"Brother Morgan, they're Dalton's men! They've been sent by the Dalton family to deliver food!"

Morgan didn't look at Guy.

"Dalton's men couldn't possibly come here."

His voice was flat, but every word was like a nail, driven into the ears of everyone present.

"The payment I gave them was insufficient to allow them to risk entering forbidden territory. It was even less sufficient to make them suddenly appear in my shelter months after Dalton went missing."

He paused for a moment.

"They are not Dalton's people."

As soon as he finished speaking, the pressure of the magic intensified.

The magic stones on the stone wall began to flicker, their light flashing intermittently.

The magical rings suspended in the air emitted a faint hum, as if resisting some unseen force.