Mersa

Jarathia | Volcano | Five Years Ago

The air is thick with smoke. Children and teenagers work hunched over, their hands sore and bleeding as they chip away at glowing stone. Red flecks burn in their eyes—signs of the creeping Red Dust.

Guards watch from above, iron-faced and yet, guilt flickers in their eyes.

At the center, Mersa hauls ore with the trembling arms of his sixteen-year-old body. Beside him, the slightly younger Sunthia collapses to her knees. Her clothes are torn, bruises all over her body. One of her eyes burns red, while the other slowly changes to the same hue.

Mersa drops his pickaxe.
“Guards!”

A man stomps over. “What is it?”

“Sunthia needs a break.”

The guard sneers. “She promised to cover for the others.”

“She will get the Red Dust Syndrome!” Mersa’s voice breaks. “She won’t last another hour…”

The guard shrugs. “It’s just some illness. Who cares?”

Mersa looks at Sunthia’s blistered hands, her open wounds that never heal properly anymore. His jaw tightens. “For a moment, I nearly thought you had a flicker of humanity left in you.”

The guard’s face twists. He slaps Mersa hard across the cheek.

Mersa steadies himself, blood at the corner of his lips. His voice rises, echoing through the tunnels.
“CHILDREN OF THE MINES! ARE WE GOING TO ACCEPT THAT WE’RE PAWNS TO BE KILLED? WILL WE LOSE TO THIS PATHETIC EXCUSE OF A MAYOR?”

Pickaxes pause in hands, children listening. Dust settles. Their eyes—sunken and furious—are fixed on Mersa.

He takes the heavy sack Sunthia was trying to carry, lifts it with a grunt, and smashes it into the guard’s chest. The man crumples to the ground and Mersa forcefully kicks him—strong enough to send him into the magma.

“Let’s cleanse our mines!” Mersa roars.

Sunthia stares at him, horrified. “Mersa… why? You just killed—”

He grabs her wrist, his voice sharp but desperate. “Because you would’ve DIED! We’ll ALL die if we keep obeying! That’s why we have to STAND UP!”

The children, trembling at first, snap into action. Rage boils over. They charge, pickaxes swinging, and the guards at the lower levels are quickly overwhelmed. One by one, armored bodies fall, some plunging into the glowing magma below.

The children flood out of the mines, breathing the free air like it’s their first time. Outside, they face hardened workers, their bodies streaked with ash. Among them stands Jule, only seventeen, his teeth stained grey, dragging a line of chained guards after him.

Mersa approaches. Sunthia follows, shaking, still stunned by their actions.

“Where are Chisa and Jerome?” Mersa demands.

Jule spits onto the ground. “They’re dealing with the bandit leaders.”

Mersa turns to the chained guards. A younger child rushes forward with a knife, eyes blazing with hatred.

But Mersa blocks him, hand firm on the boy’s arm. “They have families too. They only followed their orders. Let them go home.”

Jule’s eyes widen. “Home? This is madness!”

But Mersa doesn’t respond, only repeats in a shout, voice like steel. “LET THEM GO!”

The guards are untied. They stagger back, stunned, then flee into the treeline.

Mersa turns sharply to Jule. “Your parents are still alive, right? Even after that last influx of information months ago?”

Jule quickly nods. “Yes. And they’ve gathered it all up too.”

He tosses a worn notebook into Mersa’s hands. Mersa catches it, tucking it beneath his arm, as they walk toward a large tent, pitched within the outskirts.

When they reach the entrance, Mersa freezes for a moment. He scans the camp: dozens of civilians clustered together—miners, children, even families from the forest villages. Their faces are hollow, bruised and frightened.

“Why are there so many here?” Mersa asks, lowering his voice.

“Wyverns.” Jule mutters back. “They’re spreading like a pest now, killing everything nearby. Since Torvea died, they’ve grown stronger and more numerous. The guards… they don’t even try to fight them.”

Mersa’s eyes narrow. He pushes his way into the tent.

Inside, a sixteen year old Chisa and seventeen year old Jerome stand beside two bound men on the ground.

Chisa straightens. “The bandit’s troublemakers are dead.”

Jerome gestures at the larger of the two. “That’s their leader.”

Mersa steps forward, pulling a thin knife off a table. Its blade glows a faint blue, smoke curling around it like mist. With deliberate calm, he presses it against the leader’s throat.

“I heard you were stealing our stones,” he says evenly. “Killing our people. Even children.”

The bandit leader swallows. “Yes, but—”

“I don’t have a problem with theft.” Mersa cuts him off. “Not when it’s from nobles, at least. But from the poor? And kids? That’s pathetic.”

He sighs, almost weary. “There’s so many bandits, and not a shred of ambition among you. Still, your troops could be useful… if they survive. But acting out your greed without a plan is just ridiculous.”

The leader’s eyes widen. “Plan? What plan?”

Mersa leans closer, voice cold. “To save this hellhole from the greedy dogs that run it. Chisa, Jerome—handle the vice leader.”

Chisa yanks the gag out of the second man’s mouth. He barely has time to speak before her axe comes down, cutting his scream into silence. Blood sprays across the tent’s floor.

The leader watches in horror as his comrade’s body slumps over. Mersa pulls his head up by the hair, whispering into his ear. “We are Jarathians. The whole world is our enemy. You broke our one rule by killing innocents.”

Then the blue blade flashes, and the leader’s head rolls to join his deputy’s.

Jerome wipes his hands, voice steady. “Time for our plan.”

Mersa turns to Jule. “Go to your parents. Tell them everything is a go.”

Jule nods, bolting out of the tent.

But Sunthia lingers, trembling, her eyes locked on the corpses. “Did he really need to die? Why do we have to kill people? This is… ”

Jerome gives her a gentle smile. “She’s still so pure, Mersa. Too pure to be a part of this.”

Chisa turns her face away, silent.

Mersa opens his mouth to answer, but his words get stuck in his throat. Sunthia’s second eye flickers red.

“No… miasma? Why?” He whispers.

A deafening roar echoes through the camp. Outside, the ground trembles. Two Fire Wyverns land, flames spilling from their jaws.

Chisa curses, already grabbing her axe. “These bastards… How did they—?”

Mersa shoves past her, his ice-blue knife igniting with cold mist. He leaps at the first Wyvern, driving the blade into the beast’s core with brutal efficiency. Chisa follows, swinging her axe and cleaving into the second beast’s shoulder.

The creatures screech, belching up miasma. Chisa staggers back, covering her mouth from the toxic air.

“Jule!” Mersa shouts. His eyes lock on the running Jule. “Take her and run!”

Jule freezes for a moment and then comes back, his face drained of color.

“Oh no…” He grabs Sunthia’s hand, her body trembling as the red spreads further through her eyes. “Come on, Sunthia! Run!”

And together, they flee as Mersa and Chisa clash steel and fire against the screeching Wyverns, slowly killing them all.

Jerome wipes blood from his cheek, shaking his head as he looks at the still-smoldering Wyvern corpses.
“Sunthia… she overworked herself.”

Mersa’s jaw clenches. “We don’t have time to talk. Search for Wyverns and kill them!“

Jarathia | Near The Volcano | One Hour Later

Mersa sighs inside their tent, shoulders heavy with exhaustion. Jerome lies sprawled on the ground, equally drained, while Chisa wipes the sweat from her brow.

“It was A LOT of wyverns…” Mersa mutters, catching his breath. “Why were there so many—?”

“And why today of all days?” Jerome groans, eyes half-shut.

Mersa lowers himself into a seating position, pressing a hand to his forehead. “We need a plan for how to go on. But for now… I really need some rest.”

Chisa crosses her arms, eyes narrowing. “Then let’s keep it simple—we’ll stop Rizario and his nobles. That’s been our plan all along.”

Jerome’s grin carries no humor. “And we’ll set the bandits straight.”

Mersa nods. “First, we thin out the guards. Break their defenses. After that, we start a full rebellion—push the mayor to the limit and beyond.”

Chisa tilts her head, her voice colder. “And after you take his power? What then?”

Mersa doesn’t even flinch. “Then I set things right. Tell the people the truth.”

Chisa chuckles. Jerome smirks at him, trying to lighten the mood.

“Such a noble killer.” Jerome teases.

“I kill only when it’s necessary.” Mersa shoots back.

“Sure.” Chisa mutters. “I’d end anyone who tries to kill me too.”

Mersa’s glare softens slightly. “For now, what’s important is this: we want what’s best for Jarathia.”

Back then, they did not know that weeks later, the outskirts would bear scars of both struggle and hope. A small graveyard would be built, lit by the steady glow of firestones and watered by enchanted veins of water stone.

Chisa would stand at the center of the tiny settlement, a line of teenagers and weary civilians by her side. Her voice would ring out sharp across the whole camp.
“We will not let anyone die again! Not one of ours! We control the mines now! From now on, they’ll have to deal with us on OUR terms!”

The people would nod, fists clenched, eyes wet with hope and determination in every line of their bodies.

Jarathia | Volcano | A Few Weeks Later

Avort unrolls a crude schedule across a wooden table.
“So with this system, the people can rotate. Some mine, some recover from the dust infection. The mining rate is lower, but steadier. It’s a good balance.”

Mersa leans over the table, arms folded. “That confirms it. The red dust syndrome is avoidable. The only problem is that they force us to work all the time, for cheap labor… as if we aren’t even human.”

Avort’s weathered hand grips his shoulder. “You’re like Torvea. Always thinking of the greater good.”

Mersa’s eyes burn as he heavily sits down on the ground, anger simmering within him. “Torvea had strength, but clearly not enough. He only fought the flames, not the root problems.”

Avort frowns. “You mean you want to attack the nobles? Are you sure?”

Mersa looks up, his voice cold as ice. “Do you know what my real problem is, in general?”

Avort waits for him to continue.

“Greed. This forced labor, the endless killing of anyone who dares oppose them… And yes, I have every right to strike them back. But what I hate most is bigger than all of them.” Mersa’s voice cracks, then hardens all over again. “Dehumanization. Selling our country, our very souls, to a cause that will doom us all. If the only thing we build are graveyards, then what we have isn’t a true life—it’s slavery with nicer packaging.”

Then he stands, the air around him freezing. “We have a fat mayor who fought my father on every step of the way. Nobles who don’t even know the soil they bleed us out on. And now, a Wyvern plague that could erase us entirely, thanks to both.”

At the edge of the forest, Jerome appears, carrying two corpses across his shoulders. His face is grim.

“This plague,” Mersa continues, “will erase us… unless we erase them first.”

Avort studies him. “But is your way the right way?”

Mersa’s voice is low, his conviction unshaken. “We tried talking with them. They answered us with executions. Sunthia’s parents—gone. Jerome’s parents, as well as other scientists? Executed for their knowledge. They’re scared, Avort. Scared of losing control, because it’s all they care about. I will take that control and give it back to the people who truly deserve it.”

Jerome enters the volcano and places the bodies onto the ground with respect. “We'll attack soon. But it seems they’ve set up a counterforce. Not just that—they seem to know how we operate.”

Mersa’s lips twisted into a cold grin. “Then there’s a traitor.”

“Who?” Jerome asked.

“Doesn’t matter.” Mersa said. His skin shimmered pale blue, icy vapor curling around his arms. “Even if they know everything… we’ll brute force our way through.”

Jerome clenches his fists, nodding. “Through this hell. Through this labor.”

Together, they turn their eyes toward the gates of Jarathia City, the storm already gathering on both sides of it.

Jarathia | Jarathia City | City Hall | At The Same Time

Rizario slumps back in his chair, one hand pressed against his temple. The brunette woman in front of him trembles, clutching her papers.

“You’re telling me the Red Dust has a connection to… what?” His voice is sharp, cracking like a whip.

The woman steadies herself. “Miasma, sir. If we don’t lower the mining rate—”

“Shut up with this MISINFORMATION!” Rizario slams his fists onto his desk, rattling ink pots and folders. “Nothing ever happened back when WE mined!”

“Because it’s a continuous build-up.” She whispers.

“I said SHUT UP!” His eyes blaze. “Say one more word, and that’s your job gone.”

The woman pales, bows quickly, and flees the office.

Rizario mutters under his breath, pacing toward the window. “Bastards. They took the mines… and now they want to crown a leader too? Torvea’s son… even more brutal than him!”

He shakes his head and leaves, his footsteps echoing through the marble corridors until he reaches the Conference Hall.

Inside, Jinnra and Jonath are already waiting. Behind them stand three figures that make the air feel heavy.

A toothless mage, with demonically white eyes lined with black veins, lips twisted into a grotesquely empty grin.

A giant of a man, easily two and a half meters in size, bald-headed and shirtless, with short pants and a heavy chain around his neck—his leash held in Jinnra’s hand.

And finally, an assassin with long grey hair, a short blade strapped to his back, his eyes like sharpened steel.

Rizario forces a thin smile. “Welcome.”

Jinnra folds her arms, smirking. “So, Torvea’s boy finally started his little revolution.”

Jonath scoffs. “Told you from the beginning: We should’ve ERADICATED the bandits—but YOU wanted to bribe them! Now look where it got us!”

Rizario exhales through his nose. “The bribing worked. We have all the information. But Chisa and Jerome… somehow they’ve climbed high in the internal structure. I don’t know how.”

Jinnra’s lips curl slyly. “Oh, I think I know EXACTLY how Chisa did it— But I’ll keep it to myself—for now.”

Rizario’s jaw tightens. He changes the topic. “Their next moves are clear. They’ll attack the City Hall, and take back Ember Valley.”

Jonath shrugs. “We abandoned Ember Valley. The Wyverns swarmed it after the cleansing. The gates are shut.”

Jinnra adds coldly. “And the guards can barely hold the beasts at bay as it is.”

The giant steps forward, the floor vibrating under his heavy steps. He bares his teeth in a grin.

“Oh, don’t worry. I plan to kill more than just Wyverns…”

The floor keeps slightly trembling as he laughs like a beast.

Rizario ignores him, continuing on. “Then there’s the Ceral District. Home of the nobles. My bet is, the rebels want to spread misinformation to the people and have them kill the nobles!”

The toothless mage cocks his head and hisses, “—Boom…?”

Jonath chuckles. “Yes, boom.”

The mage giggles with delight, drool slipping from his mouth.

Jonath smirks. “So, our main targets: Jerome Caruzu—their swordsmage…”

The mage blushes, swaying like a child promised candy.

Jinnra continues smoothly. “...and Chisa Caruzu—the warrior prodigy.”

The giant licks his lips. “A warrior princess, hm? Interesting. I hope she can endure some hits. May I ask for her hand in marriage after I crush her?”

“Of course.” Jinnra replies sweetly. “But only if you truly defeat her.”

“Perfect,” the giant booms, “thank you, Master Jinnra.”

Rizario’s face twists in mild disgust before he regains composure.

“Then there’s Mersa. He hides his ability, but from the reports… he can infuse weapons, strike like an assassin. He’s cold and focused.”

The assassin steps forward at last, voice flat. “At least you’ll pay me properly.”

Rizario narrows his eyes. “You’re one of the Alpas elites, aren’t you?”

The assassin’s smile is thin, cruel. “The Third of the Seventh—Sin of Alpas.”

The room goes still.

Rizario steadies his tone. “If you succeed, you’ll be paid well. Alpas will gain much from our mines, and Jarathia will grow again.”

Inside, Rizario’s thoughts are darker.

One of the strongest killers of Alpas… if he strikes down Mersa, even the civilians will finally understand. They’ll see Alpas’ power—and cling to them for protection, as they should. I’ve already lost faith in our soldiers. Better to bend than burn under Alpas’ wrath.