No one truly remembers when Crocus was last in a state of peace.
For most of its inhabitants, war is not a catastrophe, but a schedule. It arrives like the dry season—predicted, prepared for, and accepted as a part of life. When a Hero is born, the world does not ask why, but rather how much longer until the blood begins to flow.
Crocus is a World of Magic. A world where Mana flows in every corner, inhaled with the air, and absorbed by the soil that is never truly clean from the stains of warfare. This energy can be shaped through spells, magic diagrams, or—in the rarest and most dangerous cases—through Will. Of the three, only Will is unpredictable, limitless, and uncontrollable by anyone other than its possessor.
A small fraction of humans are born with magic organs and are called Mages. They are taught from childhood that they are special, only to be given boundaries they can never surpass. The tier of spells they can cast determines the value of their lives. Tier 3 Mages serve. Tier 6 Mages rule. Tier 10 Mages become tools of the state. There is no room for the illusion of freedom between those numbers.
The number of Mages is too small to sustain the world, yet too many to be ignored. Thus, a solution was found—not in the form of justice, but efficiency. Magic diagrams allow anyone to use Mana without a magic organ. Inanimate objects become magic tools, and magic tools become commodities. Magic Equipment flows into the market faster than food, for a sword is always more profitable than wheat.
Magic technology evolved not for life, but for war. A thousand years of innovation did not erase feudalism; it perfected it. Nobles no longer need a healthy and educated populace. They only need bodies—as many as possible, for as long as possible.
They call them slaves.
Slavery in Crocus is not a crime; it is infrastructure. It sustains logistics, maintains labor price stability, and provides a human supply for conflicts that never truly cease. A farmer's child sold due to famine and a kidnapping victim hold the same value in the market: cheap, replaceable, and devoid of a future.
Ironically, the slave trade is the oldest and most stable industry in this world. Slave collars are constantly updated, reinforced, and upgraded. Agriculture receives no such luxury. The world does not starve due to a lack of technology, but because hunger has never been a priority.
All of this happens because the world is waiting.
Because in every era, there is only one Hero.
A Hero is not born from training or political will. They simply appear, carrying a Will capable of commanding limitless Mana. When that happens, the world knows one thing for certain: a Demon King will also emerge.
Neither is chosen by anyone, yet their decisions determine the fate of everyone. The war they cause requires no reason. It simply is.
Humans, by statistical coincidence and ancient myth, almost always side with the Hero. Demons, by blood and name, stand with the Demon King. The two other races—Elves and Demi-humans—never truly choose. They only judge who will be the last to kill them.
Peace efforts were once attempted. Historical records list them as diplomatic initiatives. In reality, they were merely brief pauses before the next war. This world does not reject peace out of hatred—but because war is far more lucrative.
Sixteen years ago, a Hero was born.
Since then, slave prices have soared, fields have been abandoned, and supply lines have been diverted toward the battlefield. Children disappear faster than harvests. Corpses become statistics. And those who die on the front lines are not buried, for burial yields nothing.
Those bodies are bound, hurled, and reused—not to kill, but to weaken. Disease is cheaper than a sword, and fear is more effective than magic.
The Hero's faction calls all of this a "necessary sacrifice."
And the world, as usual, agrees.
In the Rohid Desert, suffering is not an extraordinary event. It is a routine.
Every day, slaves with collars gripping their necks are forced to dig trenches outside the fortress walls. The earth they unearth is never truly dry; it is damp with blood that has soaked in far too often. Enemy arrows fall without warning, piercing the backs, necks, or heads of those who bow. When one body collapses, another steps forward. There is no pause. No death toll.
Some slaves no longer dig. Their task is more "important." They collect the corpses of their former comrades and bind them together, stacked neatly like cargo, to be hurled back at the enemy.
Among the ranks, a middle-aged slave stood frozen. His eyes were vacant, as if everything of value had long been plucked from their sockets. Tears continued to flow, not out of hope, but because his body had not yet learned how to stop. With trembling hands, he lifted a small, stiff body. The girl's matted hair was the same color and texture as his own—an undeniable trace of blood.
Perhaps it was his daughter.
Or perhaps this world no longer cared for such connections.
The little girl's body was placed into the large bucket of a catapult, piled atop other corpses. Light. Too light for a child who should still be growing. The middle-aged slave stared at her face for a long time. Pale skin without warmth. A small nose that no longer breathed. Tiny lips that once always smiled—smiling like her mother's, even when their stomachs were empty.
The memory came without permission.
The day he lay ill, and his daughter—thin, pale, hungry—offered him her last piece of bread. She smiled then. Always smiling. As if the world had never hurt her.
Now, the middle-aged slave's heartbeat felt like nothing more than a bodily habit that hadn't yet found the time to die.
A soldier walked over, checking the catapult's firing angle, calculating the impact distance of the payload, assessing efficiency. Corpses were no different from stones to him—only softer. He nodded with satisfaction and raised a knife to cut the restraining rope.
A shadow moved.
The soldier's reflexes triggered. His weapon was raised. But the shadow did not move toward him. It leaped into the catapult bucket.
The middle-aged slave hugged his daughter's body tightly, as if warmth could still be preserved if held onto strongly enough. From beneath the burlap sack covering his body, he drew a rusted knife. His hands no longer trembled.
One slash.
The restraining rope was severed.
Twang!
The catapult launched its payload into the sky. Human bodies soared, then fell back as what they truly were—a collection of flesh, water, and bone never designed to withstand such an impact. When they hit the ground, they did not fall. They shattered.
Blood splattered. Bones snapped. Flesh was torn. No shape remained, no identity to be recognized. Everything mixed into one, merging into a slick, crimson expanse.
There, at last, the middle-aged slave was with his daughter. No longer separated by suffering or fear. Only red stains on the same earth.