Witness of Tragedy
The scent of old books and polished mahogany filled the air of Finlay's private study—an aroma Adreana had always associated with her brother's tireless dedication to his duties. The room was dim, lit only by the soft, warm glow of a few Lumite lamps strategically placed around the large desk. Heavy velvet curtains were drawn tight to block out the midday sun.
Adreana stood before the grand desk, her hands clasped lightly in front of her.
Finlay ignored her presence, his eyes focused entirely on the documents atop his desk.
With a deep breath, Adreana finally broke the silence.
"Brother," her voice, though soft, carried a clear thread of resolve. "I hope you understand why I have come here."
Finlay's quill stopped mid-stroke. He did not look up immediately. The sudden silence in the room felt heavy, laden with the unspoken complexities of their relationship. Slowly, he set the quill down and raised his eyes. Those eyes, always cold and calculating, regarded her with an intensity that could make weaker souls wither.
"Is it your intention to go to Merlesia?" he began, his voice smooth and calm, like the surface of a deep, frozen lake. "Why did you wait until now to inform me?"
"I thought your Black Thorns had already told you of my plans," Adreana retorted, meeting her brother's cold gaze with her own steady one. "I will be attending the Day of Good Light festival in Merlesia. As Princess of the Kingdom of Ardenia."
A flash of something crossed Finlay's face. Perhaps annoyance, or perhaps disappointment. He leaned back in his high-backed chair, steepling his fingers.
"This is a serious matter," he said. "You have never been this reckless before."
"With all due respect," Adreana said, stepping forward as her voice rose slightly, "this visit is meant to clean up *your* reckless actions."
Finlay sighed. He had had no choice but to raise taxes and increase the production of the kingdom's pure Lumite. It was for the survival of the kingdom, for the survival of its people.
But still...
"The Day of Good Light is no ordinary day. The people will finally have a chance to unleash all of their pent-up emotions."
He turned toward the curtains before looking back at Adreana. "You are Ardenia's beloved Princess. You should not be risking your life like this."
That irked Adreana. She stepped closer to the desk, staring directly at him.
"Tell me, Brother. Who led us down this road of misfortune in the first place?" she said.
Finlay merely sighed again. He knew it was his fault. He was aware that his actions had sparked the people's anger; nationalizing Lumite mines was not something that could be done easily.
But to secure the kingdom's future in these uncertain times, he felt his actions were justified. After all, the ends justified the means.
Adreana turned to the side, looking toward the curtains where a sliver of sunlight filtered through. She closed her eyes, clenching her fists.
"I am the Princess of the Kingdom of Ardenia. Therefore, I bear the responsibility for the suffering of Ardenia's people."
She opened her eyes, looking resolute yet holding back the emotions churning in her chest. "Though I am powerless to oppose your policies... at the very least, I can stand in solidarity with the people at the upcoming Day of Good Light festival."
She turned back to face Finlay.
"I will show them that the Royal Family does not only send soldiers to solve problems!"
Hearing that, Finlay was slightly taken aback. Show them that the Royal Family does not only send soldiers to solve problems...
This girl... how naive she is. But she also has a point. If the people see her among them, see her sharing in their struggles...
He sighed for the third time, rising from his chair and walking to the back of the room where a map of Ardenia was displayed on the wall.
Adreana turned to leave, but before she could take a step, Finlay finally spoke.
"Very well. You have my support."
That made Adreana pause. She turned back toward Finlay, her eyes wide and hopeful. "Are... are you certain, Brother? I thought earlier..."
Finlay turned to face her. "Seeing you take responsibility, I am grateful. You are beginning to look very much like her," he said, referring to Adreana's late mother.
"Keep yourself out of harm's way," he continued, turning his back to her once more. "I pray for your success."
Despite his cold and calculating nature, he was still her brother. And a brother would always worry about his little sister's safety.
"Thank you, Brother. I will... I will make sure everything goes well."
"You may go."
Respectfully, Adreana left the room.
Finlay stood still for a moment before walking to the curtains, drawing them open to watch the Princess leave the castle grounds.
Soon after, the sound of footsteps came from behind him.
"It's like sending livestock into a fangbeast's den..." An ice-cold, feminine voice emerged from the darkness. A shadowy figure stepped into the light, revealing a striking woman in the uniform of the Black Thorns, the special intelligence agency serving directly under Finlay.
Standing behind him was Mara, chief commander of the Black Thorns.
"How do you plan to make use of her?"
"Bring troops to Merlesia and stand by. If Brenda and the other guards can keep her safe on their own... hold back."
He turned to her, his eyes hard and cold. "I feel war is already on the horizon... so we have more important matters to attend to."
Mara nodded before blending back into the darkness.
---
Two months had passed.
That was how long the world had felt upside down, shifting from the smoky chaos of his old life to this vibrant yet alien landscape. Two months of sleeping beneath unfamiliar stars with calloused hands and aching muscles, grappling with a language that danced just beyond the reach of his comprehension.
Asep trudged along the path leading to a small hill. In the distance, he could see the sea, the scent of salt in the air promising relief. Merlesia. The port city. The name had become a mantra, a beacon of hope in this strange new reality. It wasn't for its famed architecture or its bustling trade, but for one simple, pressing reason: tobacco.
"Haaahh... Akhirna... Aing geus lila teu ngudud. Sugan we atuh... Tah di dieu teh aya nu ngajual bako."
(Hahh... Finally... It's been so long since I smoked. Hopefully... there's someone here who sells tobacco.)
He reached the top of the last hill, and the city sprawled out before him.
The sight was breathtaking—a vast tapestry of red-tiled roofs and pristine white walls cascading down the hillside toward the embrace of the sparkling blue sea. Ships of all sizes bobbed in the harbor, their sails like white clouds tethered to masts. Banners of various colors—crimson, gold, sky blue fluttered in the sea breeze, signifying a grand occasion. The air vibrated with the rhythmic beat of drums and the faint, cheerful melody of flutes.
A festival.
"Beuh... Rame geuningan." (Woah... Turns out it's crowded.)
He adjusted the strap of his worn canvas bag, which held a collection of meager earnings from two months of backbreaking labor like hauling crates in dusty warehouses, cleaning stables that smelled worse than garbage dumps, and even a brief, bewildering stint as a dishwasher at a roadside tavern. Every coin was hard-earned, every copper piece a testament to his stubborn will to survive. And more importantly, to smoke.
He descended toward the city gates, blending into the stream of travelers. His worn black varsity jacket, a gang symbol given to him by Agung before the *isekai* incident and jeans torn at the knees made him stand out among the tunics and robes of the locals.
The guards at the gate glanced at him briefly, their eyes drawn to his foreign features and strange clothing, but the festive spirit seemed to have loosened their usual vigilance. Or perhaps they simply dismissed him as an eccentric performer drawn by the celebration. Asep gave a small, awkward nod and slipped inside.
The city was alive. The streets were packed with people jostling shoulder to shoulder. Laughter echoed off stone walls, children darted between adults' legs chasing colorful ribbons, and the aroma of roasting meat and sweet pastries vied for dominance with the sea air.
"Excuse me... Tabac... Where?" he asked a passing man, mimicking a smoking gesture with two fingers.
The man looked confused, then rattled off something in a fast, melodic language that sounded like French mixed with German, before gesturing vaguely toward the market district.
"Merci... uh... Danke... Thanks, whatever." Asep muttered, heading deeper into the crowd.
As he navigated the streets, he felt a familiar tickling sensation at the back of his neck.
No, this wasn't something supernatural. This was the survival instinct he had always possessed—his understanding of the streets.
Seeing a group of miners in tattered clothing huddled in a corner of the city, attempting to hide their tools, Asep couldn't help but feel something was off.
Why would miners bring their pickaxes to a festival? he thought. Maybe just for show? But looking at their fgrim, disappointed, and resolute faces, something felt all too familiar.
They're planning a riot, aren't they?
He had seen it before: the tense atmosphere before a brawl, the calm before the storm, the way groups gathered with sharp eyes and trembling hands near concealed weapons. It was the universal language of violence, and Asep was fluent in it.
But he wasn't here to be a hero. He wasn't here to stop a revolution or save the day. He was here for one thing, and one thing only.
He pushed those thoughts aside and continued his search.
Finally, tucked between a bakery selling star-shaped pastries and a stall hawking colorful masks, he found it: a Merlesian tobacco shop called *Tobacconist of the Tides*.
He pushed the door open, a small bell chiming to announce his arrival. The scent hit him immediately—the unmistakable, earthy aroma of tobacco mixed with clove. It felt like coming home.
"Welcome! How may I help you?" The shopkeeper, a friendly old man with a thick white mustache greeted him in the local tongue.
Asep walked to the counter, his eyes scanning the shelves filled with jars of loose tobacco leaves and boxes of cigars. He pointed to a jar containing dark, shredded tobacco. "This. One." He raised one finger. "And... paper. Wrap?" He made a rolling motion.
The shopkeeper seemed to understand. "Ah! Rolling tobacco! From the Columbian tobacco plantations, yes? An excellent choice." He weighed out a generous portion, wrapped it in simple brown paper, and placed a pack of rolling papers on top.
"Sabarahaeun... Oh, sorry. How much?" Asep asked, taking out his coin pouch.
The shopkeeper held up five fingers, then three.
Asep counted out the coins—fifty-three copper pieces, nearly all the money he had left. But as he placed the coins on the counter and took the small package in his hands, a wave of pure relief washed over him.
He stepped back onto the streets, clutching the package tightly. He needed a place to sit, to roll, and to light up.
Heeding that tickling sensation at his neck, he decided to sit in a dark alley, away from the festive crowd but close enough to see the central square where a platform had been set up for a speech.
He sat down on a wooden crate, carefully unwrapping the package. The scent was heavenly. His fingers, trembling slightly, pinched a bit of the dark leaf and smoothed it onto the thin paper.
"Gusti... Nuhun." (God... Thank you.) he whispered, rolling the paper and sealing it with a lick.
From his back pocket, he pulled out a worn Zippo lighter, a relic from his old life. He flicked the lid open.
Click.
The flame danced in the dim alley light. He brought the cigarette to his lips, leaning forward.
Fwoosh!
It was perhaps the most satisfying feeling he had experienced in his two months stranded in this alien world. At the very least, the tobacco reminded him that he was still sane, despite everything.
---
Meanwhile, at Merlesia's Central Square...
Behind the raised wooden stage, which was adorned with ribbons and flowers, stood Brenda and Adreana.
A sea of people stretched before them, packing the square to capacity.
Usually, the prospect of addressing her people would fill Adreana with a sense of pride. But today, the crowd felt different. There was an undercurrent of tension beneath the laughter and music, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.
She smoothed the front of her gown for the tenth time in as many minutes, her gloved fingers trembling slightly. It was a beautiful gown, a masterpiece of burgundy silk and velvet bearing the royal crest of Ardenia, embroidered with silver and gold threads that caught the sunlight. But right now, it felt more like a costume than a garment.
"Princess Adreana, it's time." Brenda's voice was soft beside her, a gentle hand resting on her arm.
Brenda herself looked well-suited to her role. Dressed in her formal attire—a simple white knight's uniform—she was the picture of a dedicated escort. Yet her eyes were fixed on Adreana's face, reading the anxiety etched there.
Adreana let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. "I-I don't know, Brenda. I'm not sure about..." Her eyes fell to the ground.
"Your Highness, you have prepared well for today's speech. Whatever happens... I will protect you with my life," Brenda said. "Calm your mind. We are here if you need us."
Adreana looked at Brenda, a small smile touching her lips. "Thank you, Brenda... I'm ready."
Before she stepped up, Brenda walked closer to her. "Wait. Your Highness... here is your iris." She handed over a stem of blue-purple flowers. "Its beauty suits you perfectly."
Adreana took it, gazing at the flower for a moment. An iris—a symbol of hope.
She placed the flower in her breast pocket.
"Thank you, Brenda. If you weren't by my side..." Adreana's words trailed off, her chest filled with a swirl of emotions, but she shook her head to focus on the present. "Anyway, it is time to take the stage."
With that, Adreana, followed by Brenda, walked to the front of the stage.
Unbeknownst to her, a figure in a grey hood stood among the ragged miners in the central square.
---
The speech was going smoothly. The people, though initially restless, began to calm down, swayed by the sincerity of the Princess's words.
"On this day, at this important Day of Good Light festival, I come on behalf of the Ardenian Royal Family to stand with you and offer our support..." she continued, her voice clear and resonant.
"I hope that, in the end, we can reach a mutual understanding."
"Wait!" someone shouted.
From the crowd, a hooded man stepped forward.
"Princess Adreana, your words have reached us... However, we still have unanswered questions."
"Yes, that's right!" one of the miners said.
"We need an explanation!" another miner added.
"Back off, all of you! Or else...!" one of the royal guards warned, thrusting his spear forward.
"It is alright. Lower your weapons and let him speak," Adreana commanded. Reluctantly, the guards lowered their spears.
"Your Highness... thank you for your graciousness," the hooded man continued. "In the past, our beloved King Sigismer freed us from the slavery of the Holy Empire... Yet the Prince Regent has pushed us back into the mines, forcing us to dig Lumite until our dying breath! We are no better off than we were before!"
What the hell are these people talking about?
Asep, still hiding in the alley, could see it clearly. This was no longer just a miners' protest; this was something else entirely.
Back home, Asep had seen his share of union demonstrations and worker protests. Usually, they demanded higher wages, better working conditions, or bonuses. But this guy...
Slavery? Digging Lumite until their last breath?
This guy wasn't asking; he was accusing. He was seeking conflict instead of seeking solutions.
Damn... this is gonna get ugly fast. Asep stood up.
"I-I know this is not an ideal situation... but for the time being..." Adreana stammered, trying to defend her brother's decisions as temporary measures for the kingdom's survival. "Working in the mines provides a stable source of income..."
"That is a fine way to put it," the hooded man said, his voice laced with disappointment. "Then please look at my poor friend here!"
A bandaged miner stepped forward, crystals resembling raw Lumite protruding from one of his shoulders. It was a horrifying sight.
Adreana covered her mouth. This was the first time she had seen such an illness. She had never known this could happen.
"...W-what is he suffering from? Is this...?" she uttered, her body trembling involuntarily.
"Y-Your Highness..." the sick man said with labored breaths, as if enduring excruciating pain. "Please look at me... Do you not know what has made me terminally ill?"
"Ah... um..." Adreana fell silent. She couldn't utter a single word, utterly shocked by the sight of the sick man and the horrifying crystals growing from his flesh.
"I'm sorry... I had absolutely no idea..."
"Lumite Assimilation. It has afflicted many of us miners," the sick man continued. "Prolonged exposure to raw Lumite transforms our bodies into Lumite itself... yet you don't even have the slightest concept of it!"
At his words, a hostile murmur rippled through the square.
"She doesn't even know!"
"We're dying down there, and she doesn't know?!"
"What kind of Princess is that!"
The sick miner coughed before continuing. "And what do you know? The treatment for this cruel and incurable disease is exorbitantly expensive! It has drained my meager funds just to numb the mildest of pains!"
He turned toward the crowd. "Not only that... as if that weren't enough... now the people of Albion—foreigners, no less—are offering us free treatment!"
"Albion..." Adreana murmured.
Albion? Aren't those the colonial people who import tobacco here?
Asep watched from the darkness. If those people were truly helping them, why bring it up now, in the middle of a royal speech? Unless...
"Kela... Ieu siga pernah maca di buku sejarah..."
(Wait... this is like something I once read in a history book...)
He recognized it from history: a proxy war, using "humanitarian aid" as a pretext to win over the masses.
"But resources are limited," the sick miner continued. "Every day, people line up in droves, desperate for care."
"To make matters worse," the man turned back to face Adreana, "the Royal Family has forbidden Albion from purchasing our Lumite!"
"Ah anying... Ieu mah siga Amerika deui wae."
(Ah damn... this is just like America all over again.)
Asep grumbled. This wasn't just a protest; this was incitement. It reminded him of the geopolitical psyops he had read about back home. The Albion faction clearly wanted control of the kingdom's abundant Lumite resources.
"That is so cruel!"
"Why would he do that to us?!"
"Does he want us all to die?!"
The crowd grew restless, and the guards tensed. Adreana stood frozen, at a loss for words.
"I-I will discuss this urgent matter with my brother upon my return," she said, struggling to maintain her composure.
"I am afraid I won't live long enough to see that day," the miner said, stepping dangerously close to a guard's raised spear. "I only ask on behalf of everyone here: when your people are dying, where is the royal family's mercy?"
"Right!"
"Where is your compassion?!"
The crowd's anger had reached a boiling point. One wrong move, and the square would erupt into violence.
"I fear that, in the end, the only thing waiting for us is the sharp end of your spears!"
"No, that is not true! I won't let..." Adreana tried to quiet the crowd, but her voice was drowned out by the rising noise.
"Your Highness, please step back. This is becoming dangerous," Brenda warned.
"You say no, but we see with our own eyes that the Royal Army grows larger by the day!" the sick miner shouted. "Let me ask: what exactly is this army fighting for?!"
Adreana looked left and right, searching for an answer. What exactly is this army fighting for?
"They are fighting... to protect..."
What a pathetic display, the hooded man thought. His plan was working perfectly. The Princess now appeared to be a clueless ruler who cared nothing for her people. Now, for the final blow.
He stepped back, his eyes making contact with the other miners, who immediately surged forward.
"Of course they fight for themselves!"
"Yes! We don't need such a cruel royal family!"
"It's time to end their reign!"
"Yes! Starting today!"
"Brothers! Bring out your weapons!"
"Let's make the royal family feel our pain and suffering!"
"Stop!" a panicked royal guard shouted, accidentally thrusting his spear into a miner who had lunged too close.
The miner fell to the ground without a sound, blood pooling beneath his feet.
The crowd fell silent, but only for a moment, then... chaos erupted.
"Murderer!"
"The Royal Guard killed him!"
"Capture the Princess!"
The peaceful festival turned into a bloody riot in the blink of an eye.
"Ah anying... Kakarek mah aing ngeunah udud... Geus aya ricuh wae."
(Ah damn... I was just about to enjoy my smoke in peace... now there's a riot.)
But he didn't care. After all, this wasn't his country, nor did he have any affiliation with either side. It was just...
Why this sudden shift in attitude?
The sudden escalation was too coordinated. Someone had clearly orchestrated it.
Time to go. At least I've got my tobacco supply.
---
Chaos was not a strong enough word to describe what had befallen Merlesia. It was a descent into madness. The sun, which had initially been a benevolent witness to the joyous festival, now hung low in the western sky like a bloodshot eye, gazing indifferently down upon a city tearing itself apart. Thick, acrid smoke choked the bright blue from the coastal air, replacing the salty smell of the sea with the stench of burning wood and the metallic tang of blood.
The streets that just hours ago had been filled with laughter and music were now clogged with debris. Overturned carts, shattered stalls, and the lifeless bodies of those caught in the initial wave of violence littered the cobblestones. The Royal Guards, outnumbered and overwhelmed by the ferocity of the mob, had fractured into isolated pockets of resistance, their disciplined ranks shattered. Some fought back with desperate brutality, their spears and swords slick with blood, while others lay trampled beneath the feet of the very people they were meant to protect.
Homes that had once been warm shelters became crematoriums. Flames licked greedily at wooden frames, leaping from rooftop to rooftop like a mad dancer. Through shattered windows, families could be seen huddled in corners as their world burned around them—or worse, there was only the empty silence of homes whose occupants had fled or perished.
In a narrow alley far from the main square, a small boy, no older than six, sat amidst the rubble. His face was streaked with soot and tears, his small hands clutching a worn teddy bear. Before him lay the bodies of a man and a woman, their festival clothes torn and blood-soaked. The woman's hand was outstretched, as if reaching for the boy in her final moments. He gently shook the woman's arm, whispering, "Mama? Mama, wake up... the fire is scary..." over and over, his voice small and lost in the cacophony of screams and roaring flames. There was no answer. Only the crackle of burning wood and the terrifying roar of the mob in the distance.
The mob itself was a terrifying organism, a beast with a thousand heads and no conscience. Fueled by years of hardship, ignited by provocateurs, and now driven by senseless bloodlust, they flooded the city like a deluge. "Death to the tyrants!" "Tyranny falls!" they chanted, the words rendered unrecognizable by rage and adrenaline. Shops were looted not for food, but for anything that could be used as a weapon. The bakery that sold star-shaped pastries was now a smoldering ruin, its owner dragged out and beaten for the crime of serving the "privileged."
Further toward the docks, the scene was even grimmer. Those who tried to escape by sea found the harbor blocked by burning shipwrecks, set ablaze by the rioters to prevent escape. Men and women threw themselves into the churning water, desperate to distance themselves from the inferno, only to be met with stones and arrows from the pier, or to succumb to exhaustion while swimming in their heavy clothes. The seawater, usually a bright turquoise, turned a sickening murky red near the shore.
---
Below the city, in the cool, damp darkness of the old Merlesian dungeons, the air was musty but thankfully free of smoke. This place, usually reserved for criminals and drunkards, had become an unlikely refuge for a small group of mercenaries.
"I told you," Kirsche hissed, his voice echoing slightly in the stone corridor. He was pacing, his usual apathy replaced by a restless, nervous edge. "I told you we should have stayed in Loriana. 'Let's go to the festival,' she said. 'It'll be fun,' she said. Fun?! The whole city is on fire!"
"I-I didn't know!" Clara whispered back, her voice trembling. She sat on a cold stone bench, her knees drawn to her chest, her usually bright eyes wide with fear. "It was supposed to be peaceful! The Princess was going to give a speech... How could it turn into this?" She looked down at her hands, still holding the small, colorful pinwheel she had bought just a few hours ago. It seemed like a cruel joke now, a toy from a world that no longer existed.
Sylvanne leaned against the heavy iron cell door, her greatsword resting on her shoulder. Her face, usually lit with a mischievous grin, was grim and hard. She took a swig from a small flask, wincing as the strong liquor hit her throat. "Stop whining, both of you. Blame won't put out the fires." She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "We're stuck here until things cool down. Literally and figuratively."
From the dim corridor, Zachary returned to the group.
"Looks like the chaos outside is starting to settle."
"Boss!" Sylvanne straightened up. "How's the situation out there?"
"Not good," Zachary answered, his voice low and steady, though his eyes hinted at the horrors he had witnessed. "The mob got their hands on explosives. Most of the city is in complete disarray."
"Strange. How would ordinary people get their hands on that kind of stuff? Lumite explosives are expensive," Sylvanne said. "Unless someone's funding them."
"Isn't it obvious?" Kirsche scoffed, finally stopping his pacing. "It's those suspicious hooded guys. I saw them handing out stuff to the miners before everything went to hell. They were organized and ready."
"Speculation won't get us anywhere," Zachary said, cutting off further debate. "Our priority is getting back to Loriana in one piece. We're mercenaries, not royal guards. This isn't our fight."
"But... the people..." Clara looked up, tears welling in her eyes. "We could hear them screaming, Chief. Shouldn't we help? We have weapons! We can fight!"
Zachary looked at the young girl, his gaze softening slightly. He walked over and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Clara, look at me. We can help people along the way, but right now... we need to make sure we survive first."
He turned to the others. "We have to leave before things get worse. This isn't our war, and we don't need to involve ourselves."
---
Exiting the relative safety of the dungeon, they stepped directly into hell itself. The heavy iron door creaked open, groaning in protest, and the assault on their senses was immediate. The roar of flames was a constant, hungry beast in the background, punctuated by the sharp crack of collapsing wood and agonizing screams that tore through the smoky air.
"By the Light..." Clara choked, her hands covering her mouth. She stumbled, nearly losing her footing on the blood-slick cobblestones.
Just a few hours ago, the street leading from the dungeon exit had been a quiet back alley. Now, it was a slaughterhouse.
Bodies lay everywhere.
It was no battlefield with clear frontlines and soldiers fallen in honorable combat; it was a massacre. Royal soldiers lay in tangled heaps, their maroon tabards covered in soot and blood. Some were missing limbs, others impaled by crude spears. But their deaths seemed almost merciful compared to those of the civilians.
Men, women, and children lay amidst the rubble like discarded dolls. A baker, still wearing his flour-dusted apron, lay face down with a pitchfork piercing his back. Beside him, a young woman in festival clothes lay at an unnatural angle, her lifeless eyes staring at the smoke-choked sky, her throat slit. Further down, a group of armed civilians lay dead in a gruesome circle. Miners, judging by their rough clothes, their bodies riddled with arrows, likely from a desperate last stand by the guards. But mixed in with them were those who had clearly taken no part in the fighting: an elderly man clutching a walking stick, a mother curled protectively around her toddler, both impaled by the same spear.
The distinction between combatant and innocent had evaporated in the heat of the riot.
"This... this is horrible... How could this happen?!" Kirsche's voice cracked. His usual indifferent cynicism had shattered, leaving him looking like a frightened boy. He gripped his bow so tightly his knuckles turned white.
"There are so many..." Clara said softly. Tears streamed down her face, carving clean paths through the grime on her cheeks. She stared at a small shoe lying alone in a pool of blood—a child's shoe. "Why...? They were just... they were just ordinary people."
Zachary's face was a stone mask, but his jaw was clenched so tightly that the muscle in his cheek twitched. He had seen war. He had seen battlefields drenched in blood. But this indiscriminate, blind slaughter was something else. It was the ugly face of hatred unleashed.
"Don't look," Sylvanne said, her voice unusually soft as she stepped in front of Clara to block her view. "Keep your eyes forward. We're moving. Now."
They walked like ghosts through a graveyard. Every step was a careful negotiation around rubble and corpses. Just then, a woman's cry of distress caught their attention.
They hurried toward the sound and found a group of looters cornering a young woman in a grey silk robe.
"Hehe! Can't run, pretty thing," one of the looters said, "and you're all alone too... Too bad. Why don't you come with us? We'll treat you real nice, hehehe..."
"N-no! Please, leave me alone!" the girl pleaded, cowering in fear.
"Heh, begging won't help you!" The looter reached out his hand, ready to grab her.
"That's it! I can't take it anymore! `[Shield Bash]`!" Clara shouted, charging forward before anyone could stop her. With a burst of speed fueled by righteous fury, she slammed her shield into the oblivious looter's back.
"Urgh!!" The man crumpled with a groan, the wind knocked out of him.
"W-what the hell?! Who's there?!" one of the other looters barked, brandishing a crude knife.
"Someone who's going to teach you some manners!" Kirsche snapped, following Clara's lead. He didn't bother drawing his bow at such close range; instead, he drew a short hunting knife and stood protectively beside Clara.
Sylvanne wasn't far behind. She slowly walked out of the smoke, her greatsword resting casually on her shoulder, an expression of absolute, terrifying boredom painted on her face. "Scram, trash. Before I decide to sharpen my blade on your skulls."
The looters looked at the woman with the massive sword, the armed mercenaries, and their unconscious partner, and their courage evaporated. They fled like cockroaches exposed to light, leaving their fallen comrade groaning on the ground.
Clara knelt beside the girl. "Are you alright, miss? Did they hurt you?" She extended a hand.
Shaking like a leaf, the girl looked up with wide, terrified eyes. Too traumatized to speak, she shrank back from Clara.
"Are you hurt?" Clara asked gently.
The girl could not say anything. Instead, she scrambled to her feet and fled into a dark alley.
"H-hey, wait!"
"How rude. We saved her life. The least we could get is a 'thank you'!" Kirsche grumbled.
"We didn't save her for a thank you, Kirsche!"
"It's fine. The girl was probably just too frightened," Sylvanne interjected.
"Still... her face looked kinda familiar," Zachary said.
"Familiar? Is she someone you know, Boss?" Sylvanne asked.
"No... not personally, but... I feel like I've seen her somewhere before. Never mind. Let's move. We need to reach the east gate. After that, we can get back to Loriana."
---
The oak door burst open with a loud *crack* that echoed through the empty house, the cheap hinges surrendering under the force of a well-placed kick. Dust danced in the sudden shafts of light. The hooded man—an Albion spy whose real name was unknown even to the state stepped inside, his hand hovering over the grip of a poisoned dagger concealed beneath his cloak. His eyes, cold and calculating, swept the dim interior.
Empty. Just like the last three houses.
"Hmph. Slippery little noble," he muttered under his breath, stepping further into the room.
Known to the locals as "Ael the Miner," he had spent years infiltrating the Ardenian Mining Guild, whispering poison into ears already calloused by despair, turning grievances into fury and hardship into hatred. It was easy, almost laughably so. People wanted someone to blame for their suffering, and he simply gave them a target. Now, the city was burning because of his handiwork.
But his job wasn't finished. His generous master, Lord William, had promised a hefty sum enough to buy a small estate in the Albion countryside if he could secure the Princess. Alive, preferably. She was needed for the next act of this drama. A puppet ruler under Albion's "protection" was far more useful than a dead martyr.
He moved toward the back room, his boots crunching on shattered pottery. Maybe she was hiding in the cellar? Or perhaps the wardrobe? Nobles were notoriously bad at hiding. They expected the world to bend around them, unaware that in the darkness, a crown was just a shiny target.
He reached for the inner door handle—
Click.
The sound was small, mechanical, and utterly terrifying in the silence. It was the unmistakable sound of a crossbow's trigger mechanism, the string's tension reaching its breaking point. And it was right behind his head.
Ael froze mid-step, his hand hovering inches from the door handle. A bead of sweat trickled down the back of his neck.
"Maju. Buka." (Move. Open it.) the man commanded from behind.
Ael tried to glance behind him. Dark skin, strange clothing, a few bleeding cuts and stab wounds, yet still looking like a fresh fighter... who is this person? An operative of the Eternal Empire?
"Burukeun sia teh, bangsat! Cungur sia ngaganggu aing wae."
(Hurry up, bastard! You're wasting my time!)
What language is that? Ael wondered, but he complied. He slowly turned the handle and pushed the door open, stepping into the dusty bedroom beyond, his hands raised slowly to shoulder height. "Alright, alright. Take it easy. I was just looking for... survivors. To help."
"Ngabacot wae cungur sia."
(Save your bullshit.)
The voice was emotionless, flat and hard. The crossbow jabbed painfully into the base of his skull, urging him forward.
He could hear the door being closed again. Now, it was just the two of them. Ael finally turned around and saw a dark-skinned man in his twenties, ready to fire a small hand crossbow that typically belonged to Black Thorns members.
Could this kid be... an Ardenian spy operative? No, he looks like a foreigner. His clothes don't match those spies either...
The dark-skinned man looked ready to pull the trigger, but he didn't. Instead, he walked over to a desk and set the weapon down.
"Sabenerna kurang karasa lamun siga kieu."
(Honestly, it feels less satisfying this way.) he said.
"Tinggal tarik pelatuk, terus... Jder! Paeh! Tapi... Ah, teu karasa nanaon. Euweuh gregetna."
(Just pull the trigger, then... Bam! Dead! But... ah, I don't feel anything. No thrill.)
He walked closer to Ael, showing his empty hands.
"Tah ieu... Kakarak asik. Ieu karek aya gregetna."
(Now this... this is more fun. Now this has some thrill.)
"What?" Ael was confused. He didn't understand a single thing the man was saying. But he understood one thing... this man was challenging him.
"You fool!" Ael yelled, drawing his poisoned dagger and lunging.
But Asep dodged—not with a clumsy flinch, but with a fluid, calculated sidestep—before launching a sharp kick to the side of Ael's knee.
"Argh!" Ael stumbled, but he quickly regained his balance and lunged again.
Asep sidestepped again, catching Ael's wrist and twisting it sharply.
Crack!
"Gaah!" Ael screamed as the dagger fell from his numb fingers.
Asep followed up with a vicious elbow strike to Ael's jaw, sending him stumbling backward. "See? Now that felt like something," he said in heavily accented Common Ardenian Tongue, grinning like a madman.
Ael wiped the blood from his mouth, his eyes narrowing. This was no ordinary thug. This man moved like a dancer but hit like a sledgehammer. He spat a glob of blood onto the floor. "You want to fight? Fine."
Ael took his stance, adopting a wider base. He was no mere spy; he was trained in elite Albion close-quarters combat. And against a person like this, his pride won't let him to be defeated. He launched a flurry of strikes, targeting the kidneys, the throat, and the eyes with fast, precise attacks designed to maim and kill.
Asep weaved through the strikes, deflecting with his forearms and parrying with open palms. Even on the defensive, he didn't back down. He was smiling.
"Lumayan. Lumayan juga." (Not bad. Not bad at all.) Asep grunted, ducking under a hook punch that could have taken his head off. He retaliated with a sweeping kick that sent Ael off balance, then surged forward, seizing the collar of Ael's tunic and slamming him against the wall with enough force to crack the plaster.
Ael gasped, the wind knocked out of him. He drove his knee into Asep's gut, forcing him to release his grip, then followed up with a headbutt.
Asep staggered back, shaking his head as if clearing cobwebs. Blood trickled from a cut on his forehead, mixing with sweat. He touched his wound, looked at his fingers, and his grin widened, showing teeth stained red.
"Hadeh... Rada karasa geuningan."
(Ouch... turns out that actually hurts a bit.)
He cracked his neck, the sound loud in the small room. Then, he exploded into motion.
This time, there was no defense. Asep unleashed a brutal barrage. He hit Ael with a combination of rapid punches to the ribs, a knee to the solar plexus, and a spinning elbow that slammed squarely into his temple. It was raw, merciless violence channeled through experienced muscle.
Ael was overwhelmed. He tried to block and counter, but for every blow he landed, Asep returned with more. He felt his ribs crack under the relentless assault. He was being beaten into submission by sheer, unrelenting force.
Who the hell is this guy? No ordinary civilian fights like this! Ael thought, panic finally beginning to grip his mind.
He saw an opening. Asep had overcommitted to a right hook. Ael ducked, snatched a heavy ceramic vase from a nearby table, and swung it with all his might.
The vase shattered against Asep's shoulder with a loud crash, sending him stumbling sideways. Ael didn't waste the moment. He snatched up a sharp ceramic shard and lunged, aiming for Asep's neck.
"Die!"
Asep's hand shot out, catching Ael's wrist inches from his throat. His grip was like iron. He looked at the shard, then into Ael's desperate, fear-filled eyes.
"Gak bakal." (Not gonna happen.) Asep whispered.
With a powerful grunt, he twisted Ael's wrist, forcing the shard away. Then, he slammed his other fist into Ael's throat.
"Gahk!"
Ael's eyes bulged. He dropped the shard, clutching his crushed throat, gasping for air that wouldn't come. He staggered backward, his face turning purple.
Asep grabbed him by the hair, dragging him toward the shattered window.
"Ieu keur sia ngaganggu waktu udud jeung ngopi aing," Asep growled.
(This is for disturbing my smoking and coffee time.)
He smashed Ael's face into the jagged glass remnants of the window frame. Once. Twice. Three times. Each impact made the sound of bone and flesh being pulverized.
Finally, Ael went limp, sliding down the wall and leaving a horrifying red smear on the faded wallpaper.
Asep stood there for a moment, chest heaving, blood dripping from his knuckles. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve, further smearing the blood. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind the dull ache of his bruises and the sharp sting of his cuts.
He stared at the ruined body of the man who had incited a city to burn itself down.
"Hah... Cape. Deuh... Baju aing kotor deui wae."
(Hah... Tired. Ouch... my clothes are dirty again.)
He reached into his pocket, his fingers searching desperately. He pulled out the crumpled tobacco pouch. A bit flattened, but still intact.
"Alhamdulillah. Salamet." (Thank God. It's safe.)
He carefully took a pinch of tobacco, his hands trembling slightly as he rolled a cigarette. He lit it, taking a long, deep drag, letting the smoke fill his lungs and soothe his racing heart. He blew a slow smoke ring toward the ceiling, watching it disappear into the dusty air.
"Hahh," he sighed, "Waktunya pergi." (Time to go.)
He stepped over Ael's body and walked out of the room, leaving the dead spy and the burning city behind him. He had a long journey ahead, and he desperately needed a quiet place to enjoy his tobacco.
---
The East Gate Plaza, normally a bustling hub for merchants entering from the countryside, had transformed into a gate of despair.
As Zachary and his weary group rounded a corner, expecting a clear path to the exit, they were instead greeted by a wall of humanity. Hundreds of refugees—frightened families clutching meager belongings, the elderly being supported by grandchildren, the wounded limping along—were packed tightly, a terrified herd driven toward the closed gate.
But it wasn't the gate itself that held them back.
Blocking their path was a makeshift barricade of overturned carts, barrels, and furniture—manned by a jeering gang of rioters. These were not the starving miners desperate for change; these were the opportunists, the thugs who had tasted blood and power in the lawless vacuum of the burning city. They brandished stolen spears, rusty swords, and torches, their faces twisting with cruel amusement.
At the front line of the refugee mass, standing alone in the no-man's-land between the terrified civilians and the armed thugs, was a young woman.
"Absolutely not. I refuse to hand over those carts. We only have three days' worth of supplies for ourselves," the young woman said, her voice calm but firm. "Only then will we have enough provisions to reach the next town."
"Does it sound like I'm asking?!" the lead rioter sneered. "You're lucky we don't just kill you and take it!"
"That's right, Adeline! Drop everything you've got, now! No one leaves here until you do!" An arrogant young man stepped forward.
"So you're just robbing us?! With everything that's happening here?"
"So what are you gonna do about it, sweetheart? Last I checked, we're the ones with weapons! We make the rules!"
Adeline's eyes narrowed as she looked at the young man before her.
"Wait a minute... Adrian? Aren't you the youngest son from the family who lives on the next street? You've come to my family's shop dozens of times..."
"W-what?! W-what are you talking about? Stop talking nonsense!" The young man stammered, his bully mask slipping for a moment before he recovered, puffing out his chest. "I'm Adrian the Liberator now! Part of the People's Army! And the People need supplies!"
"You're no liberator, Adrian. You grew up in this town, and now you are turning on the people who cared for you!" Adeline's tone rose slightly, staring at him as if he were nothing but walking garbage. "...You disgust me!"
"S-shut up, you whore! I'm finally where I belong!" Adrian stammered. "What we're doing now... it's all to overthrow the damned tyrant!"
"Where you belong? Overthrow a tyrant? All I see... is a bunch of weak-minded cowards. Cowards preying on the weak because they don't have the strength to do otherwise!"
"Why you—?!"
"You really have a death wish, huh?" The lead rioter raised his stolen spear, pointing it at Adeline. "Just a bunch of lambs... begging to be slaughtered! Men... kill them!"
As the leader stepped forward, Adeline swiftly backed away, raised her crossbow, and shot him in the shoulder.
"Gah! Damn you!"
The rioter stumbled back. "You bitch! I'll kill you!"
"Hah... Hah... Hah..." Adeline's breath came in gasps, her body trembling. "We... are not... lambs..."
*This must be her first real fight,* Sylvanne thought, watching her. She readied her *Stormcleaver* and made eye contact with Zachary, who nodded in understanding.
Adeline quickly reloaded, raising her crossbow. "Everyone! Grab whatever you can find! We are not prey! We must protect ourselves!" she shouted.
The refugees, inspired by Adeline's courage, picked up stones, tree branches, iron bars, and whatever else they could find.
"Fine! Kill them all!" the wounded leader ordered.
And just as the thugs were about to charge—
CLANG!
A massive, jagged blade slammed into the cobblestones between Adeline and the rioters, cracking the pavement and sending a dusty shockwave into the air. The thugs slammed on the brakes, eyes wide as they stared at the terrifying weapon embedded in the ground.
Slowly, Sylvanne stepped out from the crowd of refugees, retrieving her *Stormcleaver* with one hand and resting it back on her shoulder.
"Bullying unarmed civilians? How boring," she said slowly, her red eyes scanning the thugs like a predator eyeing its prey. "If you wanted a fight, you should have just asked. I've been itching to swing this thing all day."
"W-who are you?!" Adeline was bewildered, turning to see a group of armed people affiliated with neither the refugees nor the rioters.
"Don't just stand there. You've got a lot of people to protect, right?" Sylvanne said.
Adeline turned to the refugees, now armed with whatever they could find. "Everyone! Get ready! We're breaking through in one charge!"
Before anyone could react, she raised her crossbow and shot the lead rioter again—this time, right between the eyes.
Twip! Thud!
The leader fell backward, dead before he hit the ground.
"Go!"
"Y-you bitch! You killed the boss!"
"Doesn't matter! Kill them!"
The rioters charged, screaming in fury.
"They're coming!" Kirsche nocked an arrow, his expression grim. "Clara, stay close!"
"Ready!" Clara raised her shield, bracing herself.
Sylvanne grinned, a wild expression promising violence. "Finally! Let's do this!" She swung her greatsword in a wide arc, the force of the blow sending two rioters flying.
Zachary drew his longsword, steel ringing as it left its sheath. He didn't waste any words. He moved with fluid grace, parrying a machete blow and responding with a precise thrust to the attacker's throat.
The gate plaza exploded into chaos. But this time, it was a battlefield.
Adeline, driven by the need to protect the refugees, reloaded her crossbow with trembling hands. She fired again, hitting a thug in the leg just as he raised a club toward an elderly man.
"Push forward! Don't let them surround us!" she shouted, her voice cutting through the noise.
The refugees surged. Buoyed by the mercenaries' intervention and Adeline's leadership, they fought back with the ferocity of cornered animals. Stones flew through the air, finding their marks on the skulls and limbs of the rioters. Table legs became clubs, cooking pots became makeshift helmets.
"We're losing ground! The boss is dead!" one of the rioters shouted.
"Stop panicking! We've already sent for backup! They should be here in minutes!" The deputy leader, now forced into the leadership role, shouted back as his makeshift wooden shield blocked an arrow.
"Clara, Kirsche! Use everything you've learned! Sylvanne, smash that barricade!" Zachary ordered.
"On it, Boss!" Sylvanne roared. She charged the barricade like a battering ram, her sword colliding with wood and metal. With a mighty heave, she shattered the overturned cart, creating a gaping hole in the rioter line. "Path's open! Move!"
Adeline moved past Zachary. He expected a word of thanks, but she remained silent, keeping her eyes locked on the remaining targets.
Instead, she raised her crossbow. Thwip!
"Argh!" A rioter who had been creeping up behind Zachary collapsed with a groan, a bolt piercing his chest.
"Watch your back," Adeline said, reloading her crossbow. "Don't act all cool when you're clearly leaving your back wide open."
Zachary blinked, then a small, impressed smile touched his lips. "Noted. Thanks for the save."
In truth, he could have countered a sneak attack like that with ease, but the girl's battlefield awareness was impressive for someone who had never held a weapon before.
"Don't mention it." She turned to the refugees. "Those with weapons, protect the others. Everyone, let's move!"
Soon after, a new group of armed men arrived. This time, they weren't just a band of rioters; they seemed more organized.
"Adeline! Roy and Terreli's groups are safe! We've come back to help!" a large man with an axe shouted.
"Good work! Secure the perimeter! Make sure everyone is safe! We're leaving the city!"
Nearby, Clara took a blow to the head, blood trickling down her temple. Zachary quickly moved in to assist.
Seeing the reinforcements, the remaining rioters lost their will to fight. Their leader was dead, their barricade shattered, and they were facing not frightened sheep, but a pack of wolves led by a mercenary with a giant sword.
"Run! Run for your lives!"
One by one, they dropped their weapons and fled into the side streets, chased by the jeers and stones of the victorious refugees.
The plaza fell quiet, save for the ragged breaths of the fighters and the distant roar of the flames.
"All civilians! Evacuate the city!" Zachary shouted.
"You heard the man! Let's go!" Adeline shouted.
The refugees, finally seeing a path to safety, streamed toward the open gate. They moved with grim, hurried determination, supporting the wounded and carrying what little possessions they had left.
"Hah... Finally," Kirsche sighed, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
"You okay, Clara?" Zachary asked.
"I'm fine, Boss. Just a scratch. Though it stings a bit." Clara winced as she touched her wound.
Zachary placed his hand over Clara's wound, murmuring an incantation. A soft, greenish light enveloped the cut as his `[Minor Healing]` took effect, closing the skin. Though it couldn't replace the lost blood, it stopped the bleeding and the danger of infection.
"Thank you, Chief!"
"You're welcome," Zachary said with a smile.
With the refugees filing out of the east gate, Adeline walked over to the group.
"Thank you. We were lucky you came to help us," she said, her crossbow lowered.
"We just happened to be passing through. You handled yourself well," Zachary replied, wiping his blade clean on a dead rioter's tunic before sheathing it. He regarded the young woman, noting the fire in her eyes and the way she stood tall despite the exhaustion radiating from her. "You've got good instincts. First time?"
Adeline nodded once, her expression hardening. "Yes. But it won't be the last. Not as long as those animals threaten my people."
"What's your plan now?" Sylvanne asked, leaning on her greatsword.
"My plan?" Adeline turned back to watch the stream of refugees leaving the burning city. "Get them as far away from here as possible."
"And what's your plan once you're clear of the gates?"
"We'll part ways, I suppose." Her gaze fell. "Though most of us have nowhere left to go..."
"Hee... Why don't you come with us?" Sylvanne grinned.
"Thank you for your kindness, but... I've already agreed to stay with the others for a while. We'll head east along the road. Once we reach the Western Crossroads, we'll decide whether to keep moving or not."
"That's a long, hard journey for a group of civilians, you know," Clara said.
"Yes, I'm aware. But in times like these... we need to learn to rely on ourselves. We can't always count on you to show up and save us," Adeline said with a faint smile.
"If we can band together... and learn to protect each other, learn to use the weapons we've taken... at the very least, we won't just be a bunch of lost sheep."
"I strongly agree," Zachary nodded. This girl was brave, and she had a strong sense of responsibility.
"Well then, keep heading east. You might pass through our quiet little town of Loriana," Zachary said.
"We'll be waiting, so make sure to come and visit!" Clara said, her cheerful personality finally returning.
"By then, I might give you some pointers on your marksmanship," Kirsche added.
"Thank you so much... all of you." She turned to Zachary. "And thank you for your leadership. If it weren't for you, I'm afraid things could have gone very badly for us."
"That's riiiight! He's a natural, isn't he?" Sylvanne chuckled, elbowing Zachary.
Zachary simply ignored her. "Go. The city is still burning, and the chaos isn't over."
"Yes. Time to go. I hope you can all get out as soon as possible, too," Adeline said. "I wish you a safe journey."
With that, the groups parted ways.
Just then, a strange man in foreign clothing walked past, muttering something unintelligible as he headed south.
"Anying... Sendal aing pegat."
(Dammit... my sandals broke.)