Torvea

Jarathia | Jarathia City | City Center | Ten Years Ago

The island’s air is different. No mist. Streets alive with voices. Blackwood homes stand proud, cobblestone streets are swept clean. Compared to the future, it feels like a clean new heaven.

In the central plaza stands Mayor Torvea—green hair catching the sunlight, green eyes glimmering with faintly red pupils. His presence commands silence. He wears a crisp green suit and a red tie, simple yet dignified.

Torvea lifts his voice.
“People of Jarathia! Today we announce a new law. From this day forward—health insurance is mandatory. Every employer must provide it. And every healer and doctor will be properly paid. No more mineworkers dying of Red Dust Syndrome before their time!”

A ripple passes through the crowd. Gasps. Then murmurs. Faces once hardened by routine now soften with cautious hope.

Behind the gathering stands an old woman in a wig, her fingers heavy with diamond rings, golden earrings glinting in the light. Her lips curl down.
“Tch. Our income will lower even more because of this fool. And Raven backs him up, of course.”

But before she can spit further venom, Torvea points to her, smiling with deliberate weight.
“And Monroe! A round of applause to you, for participating in these plans.”

The crowd erupts, clapping thunderously. Monroe’s forced smile stretches wide as she waves, playing her part.
“No thanks necessary,” she croons sweetly, though her eyes stay cold, “the hardest workers of our island will always have my support.”

The miners press forward, shouting questions.
“No unpaid overtime anymore? And health insurance too? Can the economy really handle all of it for us?”

Torvea answers without hesitation.
“You pay your taxes. Those taxes are the backbone of our infrastructure. And employers should take care of their people’s wellbeing. That’s the Jarathia I believe in.”

The plaza explodes in cheers.
“Torvea! Torvea! Torvea!”

Fists rise into the air, voices echo back from the island’s stone walls.

Torvea raises his own fist high, a fire burning in his eyes.
“For Jarathia!”

The chant swells, a roar carried through every street, every home, every worker’s heart.

Jarathia | City Outskirts | Eat And Smith | Ten Years Ago

The place is alive with chatter, the smell of grilled meat and firestone smoke hanging in the air. Tyreese works the smith’s half of the counter, sweat running down his arms. Jenna, a little more nimble than now, balances trays with practiced ease.

On the far side, by the window, the mood is different as Raven and a young Nine sit waiting. At the door, footsteps sound.

A boy with green hair and red eyes rushes in.
“Faaather!”

Torvea enters after him, still in his green suit, and pats the boy’s head with a fond smile.
“Ah, Mersa.”

Raven leans back, her long black hair falling over her shoulders.
“The legendary mayor finally shows himself.”

Nine slouches in his seat, arms crossed. Raven elbows his ribs.
“Greet him.”

“Ouch—… hey, Mayor.”

Torvea chuckles and takes a seat at their table, right next to the window. Mersa climbs up beside him, eyes bright.

“So, Raven,” Torvea begins, tone calm, “you’re leaving for a mission, I hear.”

Raven nods. “Yeah. A dangerous one.”

“You’ll survive it, won’t you?”

“Of course. I don’t plan on dying anytime soon.”

Nine cuts in, voice flat. “And I won’t let you die either.”

Raven glances at him, a flicker of melancholy passing through her expression. She pats his head.
“Sure, sure.”

Then she looks back at Torvea, her eyes narrowing.
“But you—you’ve really angered the nobles this time. They’ll come for you sooner or later.”

Torvea only shrugs, stretching out his arms and letting a yawn slip.
“If they sabotage the infrastructure, if they break the system out of greed… then in the long term, their profits will vanish too. It's as simple as that.”

From behind the counter, Tyreese mutters, hammer in hand.
“You’re too blue-eyed, Torvea. Humans are greedy, especially in the short-term. Better to drag their crimes into the open now.”

Torvea shakes his head. “I don’t want to sow more hatred into our island’s soil.”

The restaurant fills up more and more—miners in fresh clothes, merchants with polished necklaces, mothers wearing simple rings. Small symbols of everyone's prosperity, hard-won over the years. The island looks alive.

Torvea ruffles Mersa’s hair.
“You, too, Mersa. You’ll do everything you can for the future of Jarathia, won’t you?”

Mersa straightens. “Yes, Father!”

Nine watches him quietly. “You don’t talk much.”

Mersa frowns. “You’re scary. All dressed in black and never smiling.”

Torvea scolds gently. “Mersa—”

Raven chuckles. “Told you, Nine. That cold-shoulder-act terrifies children.”

Nine shakes his head stubbornly.
“That’s just who I am.”

Torvea sighs. “Apologize to Nine, Mersa.”

The boy hesitates, then lowers his gaze.
“…Sorry. Maybe you only LOOK scary.”

Nine leans forward suddenly, pulling a face. “Buh—”

Mersa blinks. Then grins.

Nine smirks, smug. “Heh-heh-heh.”

Raven bursts into laughter, shaking her head.
“Would you look at that—Nine with an expression!”

Jarathia | City Outskirts | Eat And Smith | Present Time

Hanla leans back in her chair, eyes narrowing.
“I see. Health insurance. Shared wealth. And no smog.”

Tyreese sighs.
“Better times. But as you see now—it got worse. Don’t get me wrong, Torvea was strict. Zero-tolerance laws. But he was always on the side of the everyday citizen.”

Hanla thinks.

Strict, huh? But in this case, it makes sense. So many countries clawing for Jarathia’s resources, so many hungry for control. If he hadn’t been firm, the island would have been swallowed whole.

A memory flickers to life in her mind…

She remembers her desk, her old articles, the backlash.

The End of the Middle Class

The title alone enough to set people off into a rage. She remembers Rokku’s voice, calm but piercing.

“You got dragged hard for that article.” He said.

Hanla shrugged, stubborn.
“Judge me all you want. I looked at the data. The majority of people don’t have financial resources. It’s reality.”

Rokku’s sigh lingers in her ears even now.
“You’re right. But people cling to illusions. They crush the truth with all their might when it hurts to hear. Most humans can’t accept topics that make them feel bad.”

Hanla whispers under her breath, almost without realizing. “But science and data exist to show the truth objectively… How can people deny it?”

Tyreese catches the distant look in her eyes. His gaze sharpens. “You’ve got a story of your own too, huh?”

Sunthia tilts her head.
“You have good eyes. You know, Hanla, Torvea had the same kind of focus. He was always making polls and collecting statistics.”

Tyreese chuckles dryly. “Though I’ll be honest, I never understood half of it.”

At that moment, Jenna returns, balancing another tray. She sets down plates of rice and thick patties of bread filled with meat.

Tyreese grins. “Finally.”

Hanla blinks. “That’s… a burger?”

Jenna raises a brow. “Burger? What’s that? This is Patrieras.”

Hanla chuckles softly. “Where I’m from, we call it a burger.”

Jenna brushes it off, then folds her arms. “But yeah, I used to listen to Torvea’s speeches a lot.”

Her eyes soften with memory.

“Torvea had one policy he never broke. Transparency. Even if the subjects were complicated, he explained them openly. Ironically, most people didn’t understand him—because they were living well. When life is good, you don’t want to care. But he still explained everything. He kept the stones at fair prices. He built healthy relationships with the countries. And when those relationships soured—”

Hanla cuts in quietly. “They feared Raven.”

Jenna nods. “Of course. That was our final safeguard. I miss those days.”

Hanla leans forward, voice low. “How did Torvea die?”

A silence falls over the table. Sunthia lowers her eyes. “I think the majority wants to forget that day.”

Tyreese’s jaw tightens, his voice a gravelly murmur. “Ironic, isn’t it? Torvea gave everything for the citizens. But in the end… they-”

His fists clench on the table.

“…they could not save him when the nobles came for him.”

Jarathia | Jarathia City | City Hall | Ten Years Ago

Torvea sits at the long oak table, papers stacked neatly before him. His tie glints under the lamp light. Across from him, a man leans back in a chair—a noble in a vast blue coat, white-gold shirt gleaming. His beard is trimmed, his blue eyes sharp and cold. A strand of white hair falls across his nose as he stifles a sneeze.

The man speaks with smug authority. “Since Raven is dead, and you don’t realize you no longer have the power to dictate our prices… we—no, I, the second prince of Alpas—will make you an offer.”

Torvea’s voice is calm, unyielding. “We are not changing these prices. They are fair. Balanced for the economies of the buyers. Jarathia stays independent.”

The prince narrows his eyes. “We can protect you.”

Torvea’s gaze hardens. “Protect us from what? If you forbid sale of these stones, you forbid clear water itself. You don’t protect nations—you cripple them. And if anyone were to start a war, it would be Alpas itself. That’s not protection. That’s making underhanded threats.”

The Alpas prince’s tone drops. “We believe in unity.”

Torvea shakes his head. “Then forgive my ignorance, my prince, but we are still not interested.”

The prince rises, cloak sweeping across the polished floor. Fury burns in his eyes. “At least care about your choice of words. Such filth… truly unbecoming of a ruler.”

He storms out the chamber.

Torvea exhales, alone. He stands to move to the tall window, looking down at the streets below. Noise rises—chants, shouts, waves of anger swelling.

Signs flash in the crowd.

"Warlord!"

“Corrupt piece of trash!”

“Killer of Innocents!”

Torvea murmurs, weary. “I see… This is how it really works. Statistics may show the truth, but employers will twist the numbers. Their paid activists then fan the flames. And in the end, manipulated emotion drowns out reality.”

He yawns, not from boredom but exhaustion. “But if you play with emotions, the outcomes only get worse.”

The door bursts open. His son Mersa rushes in, green hair tousled, green eyes wide with panic. “Father! They said—they want to kill you—”

Torvea smiles faintly, resting a steady hand on his son’s shoulder. “Let them try. I am strong.”

He pushes open the tall window. The chants outside roar into the room like a storm.

“Raise the mine rate!”

“More work, more stones!”

Mersa trembles. “But—”

Torvea speaks, voice low but steady, as if lecturing a student. “Mersa… you must understand something about the human mind. They always search for an easy solution to a complex problem. If they feel good, but responsibility tries to take it from them, they will avoid it. Or they throw the responsibility onto others.”

Mersa grips his father’s sleeve, desperate. “But death—that’s not just responsibility, it’s—”

Torvea looks down at the crowd, then back at his son, eyes gleaming with a quiet sorrow. “They don’t know better. Not yet. But one day, Mersa… they will realize what it really means, the true impact of what they call out for today.“

Jarathia | Jarathia City | City Hall | A Few Weeks Later

Torvea sits at the head of the polished table, papers neatly stacked but untouched. Across from him sits Monroe, jewels glittering on her fingers, adjusting her wig with irritation. Beside her sits Rizario, his sharp suit freshly pressed, his eyes heavy with calculation.

Monroe’s voice cuts the air like a knife. “Torvea, profits are dwindling. That health insurance law of yours—it’s ruinous. Reverse it.”

Rizario sighs, rubbing his temple. “She’s right. There’s still profit, yes, but you’ve clipped our wings. And the demand for elemental stones only grows. We must increase mine output.”

Torvea’s fist slams onto the oak table. Its echo shakes the whole chamber.

“No!”

He breathes deeply, controlling his voice. “Red Dust Syndrome. You’ve seen it. Too much mining in the volcano floods the veins with toxic miasma. The consequences are unknown—but scientists warn it may create monstrous lifeforms!”

Rizario scoffs. “Scientists? Experts? They theorize while the world moves on. Torvea, live in the NOW!”

Torvea leans forward, his gaze sharp enough to pierce stone. “Rizario. Monroe. If we sell our citizens’ health for short-term gain, the children of this island will have no future. We will die early, so we NEED to leave behind an island with a future! IT'S OUR DUTY!”

Monroe clicks her tongue. “Tch.” She sweeps out of the room without another word.

Rizario remains, his expression shifting from frustration to cold disappointment.
“You’ll regret this stubbornness, Torvea. Mark my words.”

Torvea doesn’t flinch. “Red Dust drains mana from the body. Once the eyes turn red, the network is terminally damaged—but early stages are still treatable.”

Rizario stares, confused. “What are you saying?”

Torvea steadies his tone. “You demand higher mine rates, longer hours. But with it, you invite catastrophe. If we just endure the current hardship a bit longer, we’ll return to a bright future. Raven left disciples. And one boy in particular—Nine—already shows high potential. Support him and he may just take her place one day.”

Rizario laughs, bitter. “He’s just a child.”

“I know,” Torvea answers, resolute, “and that’s why we don’t force children into the mines. If we hold the line now, Jarathia WILL survive. Maybe, we can even protect ourselves, we just need prep time! A plan and enough time to get stronger.”

Rizario pushes his chair back, fury flashing in his eyes. Without another word, he storms out of the chamber. Outside, nobles wait in silence, like vultures circling carrion.

Monroe’s lips curve in a thin smile.
“No way to get through to him. We will need… a different kind of power. A different mayor.”