Red Dust Syndrome

Jarathia | City Outskirts | Eat And Smith | Present Time

Hanla listens to every word of Tyreese’s story.

“You had a good leader.” She says.

She rises slowly, moving to a window, silver eyes clouded, as she gazes outside. Empty streets. Shadows clinging to every corner.

Tyreese nods heavily. “Yes.”

Hanla murmurs. “It explains the fluctuations… the sudden price shifts.”

Then—her vision shifts.

Colors drain into pale white, as though the world itself is fading. On the table before her, black flowers bloom, unreal and silent. Their petals drift in the air, an eerie, fragile beauty.

Her chest tightens.

Torvea… he didn’t yield. He sacrificed everything for his country. And they betrayed him. Nothing changed. Why does this land need a savior? Why did he believe someone would come to save it? Why can’t these people gather strength on their own?

Hanla’s voice sharpens. “Tell me—why don’t the people here rise up? Why don’t they build strength like Torvea did? He was strong, even with the Red Dust Syndrome.”

Sunthia’s red eyes dim. “Hanla… everyone with Red Dust Syndrome sacrifices something.”

Tyreese adds. “Red dust comes from the mines. From the miasma of the fire wyverns. Even if you directly breathe it in, it doesn’t make you sick at first. But the body warns you—small red flecks start to appear in your iris. And if you keep pushing… if you choose to fight, to be strong like the green demon of Jarathia…“

Hanla finishes his thought, coldly. “I understand. A miasma that can be found among the wyverns. The strong fight them and then become ill with the syndrome. But they must be fought—otherwise, they threaten the civilian population. It remains a vicious circle.”

Tyreese nods. “Yes.”

Hanla narrows her eyes. “But what’s the true cost? Not just a shortened life. In your story, Torvea fought a general, destroyed a fleet. He still had power.”

At that, Jenna approaches. The warmth of her hand cups Hanla’s cheek. Her smile is gentle, almost motherly.

“Your name is Hanla… such a beautiful name.”

She sighs, steadying herself.

“Imagine it like this, Hanla.” Jenna says softly. “Every human has more than just blood vessels. Alongside them, there are mana vessels. They carry the flow of life, the magic of the body. Mana is liquid and energy both. It’s always blue.”

Jenna closes her eyes and lifts her arm. Slowly, new veins glow beneath her skin—dark blue shifting into light, pulsing like a second river beside her blood.

Then she opens her eyes. “That is what I mean.”

Hanla stares. She closes her eyes, searching her body. Nothing. No glow. No pulse.

I don’t have a mana network anymore. I thought it’s strange, never seeing those veins in myself. Here, magic isn’t just support—it defines everything. Strength, healing, the body’s limits. Without it…

Hanla clenches her fist, silent.

Does it determine so much?

Hanla frowns, her silver eyes narrowing. “So… and if someone is already inflicted with Red Dust?”

Sunthia takes a sharp breath. “I can show you.”

She closes her eyes. A faint trickle of blood escapes from the corner, streaking down her pale cheek. Her veins begin to glow—blue, but it’s jagged, unnatural, crawling into deep red glowing mana veins.

“Sunthia!” Tyreese blurts, standing from his seat. His hand shoots out and grips her arm.

Her eyes snap open. “Yes?” she asks calmly, almost too calmly.

But Tyreese freezes. His fingers tighten around her wrist, then loosen as his face twists with something between fear and sorrow.

Hanla doesn’t miss Jenna’s reaction either—the older woman’s lips tremble, her usually sharp face softened by raw grief.

Sunthia trembles, her voice breaking. “Tyreese, please don’t touch me right now—”

When he does not move, her body goes rigid. Her eyes widen. “DON’T TOUCH ME!”

The words tear from her throat like a scream.

Hanla moves instantly. She pushes Tyreese’s hand away, her own landing gently on Sunthia’s trembling shoulder.

“Breathe,” Hanla says softly, firmly, “just take a deep breath. Do it with me, alright?”

Sunthia gulps air, her chest heaving. Slowly, her trembling subsides.

Across the table, Jenna rounds on Sunthia. Her voice is sharp, almost furious. “Who was it?! What did they do—”

“Stop.” Hanla cuts her off, her tone steely but calm. “Don’t pressure her. She’ll talk when she’s ready.”

Sunthia’s red eyes soften at that. She grips Hanla’s hand tightly, grounding herself. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, “I didn’t—”

Hanla studies her closely. “You don’t have much time left, do you?”

The girl nods, tears brimming. “Maybe a year… maybe only a month.”

Hanla exhales, her chest heavy. “What else do you know? About Red Dust Syndrome.”

Sunthia’s lips quiver. Her words come haltingly, but she forces them out. “The treatment is mana capsules… and surgeries. We cut the infected veins out. Shorten them. It gives us more time, but—” She grips her stomach, folding in on herself. “But also… we can’t heal anymore. No regeneration. We have to stitch wounds up by hand. Or burn them closed. And the pain—”

She breaks off. Tears streak down her cheeks as her voice wobbles. “The pain never goes away.”

Hanla goes pale, the words hitting harder than a blade. Every person with this syndrome… living with endless pain? Every injury a scar that never closes? And they keep going… like this?

“Sunthia…” Hanla whispers.

But the girl moves before she can say more. With no hesitation, Sunthia throws herself forward and buries her face in Hanla’s chest. Her arms wrap around Hanla tightly, desperately, fragile and trembling against her.

Hanla freezes. Then slowly, her own arms come around the girl, holding her steady.

Inside her mind, Hanla’s thoughts race.

A lot more makes sense now.
They need to mine, to keep up their income. But if they overdo it, they get sick.
And those who want strength—face the Fire Wyverns’ miasma. That corruption seeps into their mana veins, turning them red instead of blue. Red Dust Syndrome.

Hanla clenches her fist.

This information should be known by everyone, right? But no, they keep it hidden. When adventurers take on the wyverns, get sick and eventually die, that's good for Jarathia. They have to invest less energy into fighting them. That means Nine knows all of this and takes on the Wyvern assignments preemptively. It’s why Tuntris was furious at Nine… Nine always kills the Wyverns because he knows the truth.

These outcomes—Torvea predicted them.
He hoped someone would come. Someone who could buy the people more time—time to get stronger, to stabilize.

I could leave. I could just show everyone the truth and hope that’s enough. But—

Her thoughts break as she feels Sunthia’s hug tighten, clinging to her like a lost child.

Hanla’s mind drifts off. A memory.

A woman trembling in her arms. Destroyed houses. Streets full of enemies no one wanted to fight—freedom fighters, soldiers, foreign banners. It was called a “peace zone,” but it looked like the exact opposite.

The woman weeps against her. “In the future—”

Hanla whispers back. “I will always remember you.”

The vision fades.

Hanla opens her eyes, tightening her hold around Sunthia.

No. I will do something. I WILL ACT! They will not end the same way.

She strokes Sunthia’s hair gently as the girl calms against her.

I need a plan. Need to shut down this system. Cut the threads that choke them. But… she’s so young and yet, she will die- But still!

In the background, Jenna and Tyrese watch with faces drawn in sorrow and wrath.

Hanla’s voice is low but steady. “May I ask something? Why do children have Red Dust Syndrome? Even if children are working, normal politics wouldn’t risk crippling them all. I thought only miners were afflicted—but I saw people here, in the streets, with red eyes. And the bandits too. If they’re not miners or fighters, then why… why is there all of this?”

Sunthia shifts closer against her, leaning more heavily against Hanla, as if about to fall asleep. Hanla adjusts, letting the girl rest in her lap.

Jenna and Tyrese move to sit near her.

Jenna narrows her eyes. “Why do you want to know that?”

Hanla looks down at Sunthia’s fragile form. “If I tell the truth to the world, I don’t know if it’ll help. Maybe nothing will change. But if I know more… maybe, just maybe, I can find a better solution.”

Tyrese leans back, exhaling. “Yesterday, I heard someone beat Chisa with ease. I didn’t believe it at first, but now… it was you, wasn’t it? A white-haired, confident beauty.”

Hanla smirks. “I am Hanla, the Dragonfist.”

Jenna and Tyrese chuckle, shaking their heads.

They glance again at Sunthia, sleeping peacefully on Hanla’s lap. For the first time in a long while, the girl looks at ease.

Jenna’s voice softens. “We don’t have power, Hanla. But… we see she trusts you. You remind me so much of her. She was composed, humorous, had this constant craving for more…”

Tyrese nods slowly. “Jenna’s right. And if I think about it… she and Nine are a lot like her.”

Hanla smirks, leaning back. “Perfect. Because I plan to recruit Nine into my guild.”

Jenna actually laughs, shaking her head. “That’s a good one. Nine, joining anyone? Impossible.”

Tyrese cuts in, eyes narrowing. “Jenna, look at her face.”

Hanla flashes a smug grin. “He’ll join. I’ve realized what kind of guy he is. And I like him for it. He’ll join me—whether he wants to or not.”

For a moment, the room feels lighter and then Jenna’s expression hardens.

“About your question earlier…”

Tyrese sighs. “A few months after Torvea’s death, revolutions started breaking out.”

Jenna leans forward, her voice low. “Hanla, the island fractured. There were those who wanted every noble dead. Nobles who wanted to cling to their power. Workers who wanted to push the mines harder just to make more coin. And others who wanted to throw away independence for the promise of safety from foreign nations. And many more… endless sub-groups.”

Hanla nods grimly. “Understandable. If both the Guardian and the mayor die, no one’s left to unite the people.”

Jenna’s gaze darkens. “The new mayor was backed by the nobles. And new laws followed quick.”

Tyreese’s jaw clenches. “The first was meant to ‘reduce’ the Red Dust epidemic. They treated it like a contagious illness—even though it wasn’t. Against Torvea’s policies, they set up slums. Anyone with red in their eyes was banned from the city or central villages.”

Hanla’s eyes widen.

Segregation…

Tyreese continues, voice heavy. “The mining rates increased. And at the same time, the Wyvern’s numbers rose higher and higher. Within a few months… half the workforce was dead. Either eaten by wyverns, or consumed by untreated Red Dust Syndrome."

Hanla’s fists clench. “But then—there had to be a revolution.”

Tyrese’s face turns pained. “If you isolate a group, bandits rise. And they did. But that year, the workforce still had ample strength. And when workers die in droves, their anger turns toward the nobles and the mayor. But the slums… the harshness of it all…”

Hanla whispers coldly. “Any voice against the system was silenced.”

Jenna nods. “Not all. Mersa didn’t shut up. He was young, but he was always rebelling. Since his father had been a hero, the nobles hesitated. For a time. But… he forced their hand.”

Tyreese’s tone sharpens. “Divide people, and the counter-arguments vanish. Exhaust them, and they stop caring. Science, statistics, truth—it all faded away. And at the end of that year, with half the workforce gone, a new law was instated.”

Jenna closes her eyes, as if the memory itself pains her. “The Law of Restitution.”

Hanla’s blood runs cold. “What was it?”

Tyrese looks at her with raw disgust. “In one day, every child of dead workers… every child of old politicians… every child of Torvea’s previous allies… was taken. If their parents resisted, they were executed on the spot.”

Hanla’s nails dig into her palms. “I’m sure they defended it as the guards ‘keeping order.’”

Jenna shakes her head, her voice trembling. “It was so controversial, so grotesque… that even now, that stain won’t wash away. They crushed themselves with that one law. And we’re still paying the price.”

Tyreese’s voice trembles too. “But Mersa… he resisted. He set up an impossible feat, gathering bandits, teenagers, children—anyone from the outskirts who would follow him. To be honest, his rebellion is the only reason our island has lasted to this day. The only reason our politicians cannot freely dictate us around.”