Briefing

Jarathia | Jarathia City | Adventurer’s Guild | Briefing Room

Mersa stands over the map, voice even. “The Red Dust Syndrome,” he says, “has heavy consequences! And you need to hear it all.”

A merchant with a waxed mustache bristles. “You expect us to believe—”

“I’m not lying, it’s CONFIRMED!” Mersa cuts in. “Death counts from red dust and the rise of wyverns have increased together!”

Another merchant—long hair coiled at his collar—frowns. “But twenty years ago, it wasn’t this bad.”

Beatrix folds her arms. “Yes and no. Deaths were fewer then. Wyverns still existed—but the last ten years, it’s been getting worse. The mayor and his people kept everything to themselves, even the death rates of the guards were hidden—we only got the killing requests. In the last five years we’ve seen much more wyvern encounters—and they’re stronger too. If we look at the death rates? It’s not only plausible. It’s the only thing that makes sense! If someone dies with the illness another wyvern rises!” She hesitates, then adds. “And yes—this illness is avoidable. It’s… all a mess.”

Mersa’s mouth thins. “Which makes our failure even worse. If we’d lowered the mining rates and used what this country naturally has to offer, we could still make the same amount of rupees. But we showed no guts. Now we have to save the citizens we doomed.”

A merchant scoffs. “Let Nine handle it.”

The room turns deathly quiet. Beatrix, Mersa, Tyreese and Jenna—all four sporting glares like drawn blades.

“Yes,” Mersa says coldly, “let’s make the outsiders who just killed a calamity fix everything WE broke. Let them burn out and eventually die, while we do nothing. In what world are you LIVING?” He shakes his head. “And before you mention that new adventurer, the girl who offered to fight a fire dragon for people she doesn’t even know—shut up and be grateful she’s here at all. Don’t demand heroes sprint to our rescue, when we’re the ones who cripple them with the miasma.”

Silence. The merchant looks at his shoes.

Mersa continues, steady and practical. “We have a plan. It’s simple: Avoidance. You can be near miasma for a time. The moment you notice red specks in your iris—you leave immediately. You wait a few hours and recover. If the specks fade, you’re safe and can fight again. If not, you keep waiting.”

“Not too difficult.” Beatrix says. “As long as you’re paying attention.”

“The thickness of the dust determines how fast it spreads.” Mersa warns. “But our bodies can clear it with our mana—unless you stay in the miasma for too long. Then the body gets sick. It starts producing ‘red’ mana, instead of healthy mana, which is blue. At that point, your body can’t clear the red anymore and it stays in your body. Forever. And if you try to use it, you shorten your lifespan. So, watch. Your. Eyes. See ANY red? Get away. And your survival is ensured.”

Robes rustle as a merchant in a vast cloak rises. “We can supply workers to do some fighting,” he says, “but a wyvern is as strong as ten soldiers…”

“We won’t fight them like soldiers.” Mersa says. “We’ll use water stones, aim straight for the core and break it. It destroys them immediately. But we have to act now. There are over five thousand in the forests—”

“If we use the three villages as safe spots, that means we could have three groups fighting at once,” someone else at the map table says, “it’s doable.”

“Jenna, Tyreese, Avort—gather anyone willing to fight.” Mersa says. “Merchants, get your workers. Use every connection, call in every favor. We need all we can get.”

“All of this is only happening because Chisa killed the nobles.” a merchant blurts. “If not for—”

“Oh, really?” Mersa crosses the floor and grabs the man’s shirt. “So,do you enjoy sacrificing children? Enjoy killing any ‘liars’? Enjoy dooming your own people and turning our island into a hellhole?” His voice stays level, colder than ever. “Because THAT’S the problems nobles left us with. If that doesn’t suit your worldview, fine. I’m taking control of this island either way, because no one else will or CAN! Child labor, followed by executions, until children had to become bandits just so they wouldn’t be next? Be honest—when the poor get poorer and critics are killed… what do things end in?” He loosens his grip. “What Chisa did wasn’t right. But everything the nobles and the mayor did has brought us TWO mana calamities! It’s INSANITY!”

A hand touches Mersa’s shoulder. “He heard you,” someone gently says, “let him go.”

Sweat beads on the merchant’s brow. He sinks to his knees, when Mersa lets go of his shirt.

Chairs scrape. Whispers circle around the room, turning into nods.

“It’s a dire time,” a signet-bearing trader says at last, “but throwing away our only chance would make it worse. Mayor Mersa—lead the efforts.”

Mersa exhales a raw, grateful laugh. “Thank you. Truly.”

“I will head to the guild!” Another voice offers. “Get our wagons to transport as many water stones as we can.”

Night falls. Torches bloom outside Mersa’s long-locked mansion as civilians fill the square.

“What are you all doing here?” Mersa calls from the steps.

A blonde teen runs up to him, breathless. “You saved me long ago, remember? We’re here to save our island, and repay you!”

He looks past her—recognizes faces from the inn, the alleys, the workshops—then nods. “We head out now. If you see red flecks in your eyes, RUN to us and rotate out! Another person will step in for you, it’s okay! We’ll keep rotating, until we’re done!”

“MERSA! MERSA! MERSA!” The chant surges up like surf.

“Let’s do this! We fight together!” He calls, and the square answers with a roar.

Across the city, in the hall of the Adventurer’s Guild, weapons rise into readiness.

“First we evacuate the civilians,” the organizer tells the assembled adventurers, “after that, WE’RE the real force to be reckoned with, for those wyverns—and when the volcano blows, we support Nine and Hanla.”

Steel sings. Straps buckle. Teams form and pour into the streets, the island moving as one.