As of April 22, 2022, this chapter has been rewritten

Cent. Calendar 25/04/1639, Barrat, Kingdom of Quila, 10:00

“Hmm...”

A silent groan was the only thing that echoed within the dusty interior created by the four earthen, mud-brick walls. There were no windows, but there was one big, rectangular opening in the ceiling, covered by a holed wooden board that let in thin streaks of sunlight. Behind an earthen slab that functioned as a desk was a man with a dark complexion leaning back on his stiff, wooden chair. Despite his shorter-than-life stature, he was an adult in his middle ages, as apparent in his thick, graying beard and bald temple. His stubbiness is but a natural form for him, for he was a dwarf.

“What is going on here...”

Scratching his scalp that was devoid of hair, Metzal, foreign affairs consultant to the kingdom of Quila, was brooding over something. In an effort to make sense of it all, he went through the events that transpired yesterday.

- - -

Arriving at his work quarters early in the morning, a Metzal buried in a thin film of coarse, irritating sand entered through the entranceway. After using a sizable stone slab to cover the entranceway, he patted his entire person, from his stubby shoulders to the lower parts of his maroon robes, to clear them of pesky dust.

“Damned sandstorm!”

Outside, a blistering sandstorm continued to ravage the modest settlement that was Barrat, the capital of the kingdom of Quila. Laying claim over the barren wastelands that formed the great southeastern aridness of the Rodenius continent, Quila always had little to offer to the greater nations that lay outside of it, and as such it has seen little in the way of economic prosperity, let alone development. In spite of its tragic, unproductive lands, the primary source of pride that the kingdom was known for was its hardy people, a conglomerate of beastmen, humans, and dwarves who’ve built up extreme tolerance to unforgiving circumstances. Driven by the economic wallows in their pitiful homeland, they’re forced to employ themselves in difficult jobs abroad, especially as mercenaries. The sandstorms that constantly plague the Quilan wastelands gave birth to a people with unmatched resolve, but that doesn’t necessarily mean everyone likes it.

“Ugh...”

Metzal tried to breathe through his nose but they were clogged, presumably from the tingly dust particles that made their way through his nostrils.

“Manners, dear friend of mine. Here.”

The voice of another person in his work quarters reached him from behind, mildly startling Metzal. He recognized the elegance of the voice’s tone, but he still turned around to visually confirm it for himself.

“Folen...”

Sitting on one of the earthen slabs that served as a couch was the green-clothed figure of an elven man. Called Folen by Metzal, his clean and refined appearance reflected the fact that he was from the better off principality to the north: Qua-Toyne. The elf’s hand was extended out towards him with a clean, white cloth in the middle of his palm.

“I’ve no need for your baby wipes, Folen.”

“You’re doing a bad job of acting like an adult, Metzal. With that stubby, baby height of yours, the only redeeming, adult-like feature is your bald head.”

“At least I look like a man, you she-elf. If it weren’t for your diplomatic status, you’d be dragged to the brothels by Barrat’s horniest men.”

Despite the divisive undertones rooted in racial differences in the banter between the dwarf and the elf, the two were at the very least in amicable terms; a reflection of the uneasy friendship between Quila and Qua-Toyne. Codified in a pact of friendship between the earlier sovereigns of the two nations, they’ve never been as close as they are until recently, when Lourian warmongering to the west threatened the existence of both nations. With the question of Lourian provocations still fresh, Metzal assumed that this was why Folen had summoned him to a meeting.

“So. What did the Lourians say this time?”

He got straight to the point as he took his seat on the wooden chair behind his designated earthen slab.

“The usual. Although that’s not why I’m here.”

“Ah. Well, if it’s the defensive pact, I already told you that his majesty is still in the middle of considering it.”

“No, not that–Wait, are you serious? We brought it up months ago, and your king still hasn’t decided? Isn’t this span of time unreasonable?”

Reminded of the general Quilan sloth when it comes to commitments, Folen got distracted and started hurling complaints at Metzal. Annoyed by Qua-Toynian persistence to do things their way, Metzal stooped down to Folen’s level and got dirty with his own remarks.

“W-Wait! For Astarte’s sake, let’s focus on why I’m here! This is very important, not just for Qua-Toyne, but for you and everyone!”

Intrigued by the last part of the elf’s statement, the hot-headed dwarf decided to control his temper-driven tongue and listen.

“Last week, on the 19th, we made contact with an island nation to the east. There’s a lot more story and surprises than what I can say for myself because I also can’t believe them myself. What matters is that they’re a starving nation, and they’re hungry for resources.”

Metzal, believing he had heard enough to be convinced otherwise, leaned back on his chair and stopped listening.

“That sounds like your problem.”

Quila had little to offer in the way of resources. If “manpower” in the form of slaves were what they wanted, then they were not interested in any form of agreement with this nation.

“No, dear Metzal, it’s an “us” problem. They asked about you, particularly the black lakes.”

Metzal’s eyes opened. Hearing about the new nation’s interest in the “black lakes,” he leaned inwards with reinvigorated curiosity.

“What about the black lakes?”

“What those lakes are, what you know about them, and most importantly, whether you are selling the liquid from those black lakes.”

His fists clamped up in response as confused rage boiled up in his head.

Why are these newcomers interested in the black lakes? Why do they want the water? On top of it being near useless to them, the black lakes are considered sacred sites in Quilan culture, having a connection to the great emissaries of Shamash long ago.

“What could they possibly want with the black lakes?!”

“Now, now. Do you remember these expeditions?”

Folen took out two thin sheets from his person and showed them to Metzal. Displayed on the sheets were the colored images of the Quilan wasteland with the figures of several men in the foreground. Behind these men were countless derelict truss structures protruding from the arid desert. Laying his eyes on these, Metzal was immediately reminded of the background behind these images.

“The Imperial and Muish expeditions to the sacred boneyard? Yes, I remember those. The king at the time allowed these expeditions for a hefty sum. A robbery, if you ask me. They got nothing but these pictures and some notes from the boneyard, while we got enough gold to more than double our budget for that year.”

“Well, they expressed a lot of interest in the boneyard as well. On top of the black lakes I mentioned earlier, those have more than warranted their attention to want to talk to you about them.”

- - -

With that said, a meeting between them and the new nation was reserved for today. On top of an insatiable curiosity regarding the nature of the people he was going to deal with, he had persisting concerns over what their motives were.

“Just who are these people?!”

Clutching his head to try to contain his runaway anxious thoughts, Metzal could only remember the reminder Folen had left him before he went his ways.

“You will realize it when you see them for yourself.”

Just as he finished replaying that memory in his mind, he heard the shaking sound of the stone slab on his quarters’ entranceway being moved to the side. The towering figure of a beastman clad in sturdy leather armor was revealed to be the one moving the stone slab. Ducking to enter through the low clearance of the entranceway, the beastman soldier then stepped to the side, revealing the smaller silhouette of a female human behind him. Wearing an elegant and clean black suit and slacks, the woman made it appear as if she was a representative of some big shot nation in the civilized areas.

She’s representing that nation, Japan?! Just who the hell are these people, Folen?!

The woman walked forward towards him. Following behind her was a human man whose scarred face and overly complicated red garb with stylish finishes led Metzal to believe that he was a man from the northern island kingdom of Fenn.

Why is someone like him with her?

His question was immediately answered when the woman extended her hand towards him and opened her mouth.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, sir Metzal. I am Fujinuma, representative of the country of Japan.”

Metzal stared at her hospitable eyes blankly, having understood nothing of what she had said. Before he could blurt out unrestrained remarks, the Fennese man next to her spoke up.

“She says it’s a pleasure to be in your presence, sir Metzal. She introduced herself as Fujinuma, the diplomatic representative of Japan.”

Ah, a translator, huh. But why?

Turning his gaze towards the Fennese man, he automatically answered the question he had asked in his mind as if he could read it.

“The Japanese can’t speak or understand Asheran common, hence why I’m here.”

In spite of this straightforward answer, Metzal didn’t find it satisfying.

Proceeding to shake the still extended hand of Fujinuma, he then introduced himself. Mentally, he remembered the reminder Folen had left him, and after what he had experienced in these first few minutes, he started to believe the substance behind those words.

These bastards better be good, you damned she-elf!

Cent. Calendar 05/04/1639, Shibuya, Tokyo, Japan, 10:30

“Eh?!”

“Holy shit!”

“She’s actually an elf?! And she can do magic?!”

Countless surprised voices from all sorts of languages echoed throughout the wide-open spaces of Shibuya in the heart of Tokyo as thousands of people were present to watch the live broadcast of the Qua-Toynian princess giving her address to the National Diet. In what is usually the busiest, most crowded places in Japan, the chic, cosmopolitan culture of flashy billboards and zooming trains were replaced by a chaotic scene of people, mostly non-Japanese, who’ve taken to living in the streets after their catastrophic transfer to Asherah. Shibuya Station, which used to be one of the busiest train stations in the country, had long stopped welcoming passengers and trains alike in wake of the suffocating power restrictions, and thus had become a massive, temporary shelter for those that could not be accommodated elsewhere. People from all over had gathered at the carless Shibuya Crossing, watching in disbelief as the elven princess showered the National Diet with powdered snow through her wind magic.

With so many people present in one place and an event of historic proportions occurring on live television, it was the perfect opportunity for media outlets to come out and do some interviews. One such outlet sent their television crew into the foray, broadcasting their own live broadcast for those not tuned into the official broadcast.

“We’re right here, live, in Shibuya Crossing, where thousands have just witnessed an extraordinary event happen!”

The young-looking reporter gave her best vocal projection as she faced the TV camera looking right back at her.

“Her Highness, Llanfair Gwergin of Qua-Toyne, had just finished dazzling the members of the National Diet with her m... magic? Did you just say magic?! Really?!”

She lost her composure in disbelief at what she was saying.

Just as she was about to resume her report, they heard the crowd of people behind them explode into shouts and jeering.

“What the fuck is this bullshit?!”

“Boo!!! Fucking fake-ass Japanese propaganda!!!”

Turning around, the reporter, along with the cameraman, had their mouths wide agape at what was projected on the several televised billboards all around Shibuya Crossing. In clear definition, they saw the elven princess holding an old tattered flag in stains, but what it depicted was no doubt the shining rays of the Rising Sun. There were exactly 16 rays and the sun was at its center: the flag used by the former Imperial Japanese Army.

“H-H-How?!”

The reporter found herself stammering in sheer shock at what she was seeing. Listening in closely, beyond the thousands of shouts echoing throughout the spacious crossing, were the words of the princess coming from speakers.

“To have the privilege of meeting you in this age is nothing but divine intervention. This doesn’t go just for me, but all of my people as well. In these trying times, could your nation serve as our sun? A beacon of hope in the endless darkness? Just like the very banner that represents your people?”

Although her claim was as dubious as it was extraordinary, there was little doubt of the effect it had on everyone who was watching.

Most non-Japanese who were present, foreign tourists from all over the world which became stuck as a result of the transfer, did not take the event with any hint of positivity. Some were in denial, some were quivering and crying in fear, while the majority were enraged and livid at the princess hinting that the Imperial Japanese were a “beacon of hope”.

The Japanese, however, were mostly divided into two groups: those who didn’t care about it, and those that felt an intense surge of patriotic zeal. Unfortunately for everyone, the latter group had more of a presence in Shibuya than the former.

It didn’t take long for animosity between the non-Japanese and the reinvigorated nationalists to manifest. With everyone extremely tense and emotional following the authoritarian measures put in place by the Japanese government since the transfer, with authorities forcibly shoving foreigners into makeshift camps in empty parks and buildings, enacting strict rationing and labor conscription, and so on, it was a no-brainer that people will start resenting one another. On one hand, the foreigners were angry with the inhumane treatment they’ve received, and on the other, the Japanese were angry with the presence of the foreigners, who they think are taking away the lion’s share of the resources.

Soon, after a single provocation from one side, both sides started to congregate to face off against one another. The tense atmosphere in the crossing turned from uneasy to one of bloodlust in an instant.

“You motherfuckers! Don’t think for one second that we’ll forget what you did to our forefathers! No angelic elf from an alien world is gonna change that!”

“So what? This transfer was obviously a sign from the gods! They know who’s more deserving! You pests are nothing but a nuisance!”

“Fuck off! We didn’t choose to come with you on your little quest to become the conquerors of this world!”

“The way I see it, you dumbasses were the ones who came here in the first place! We are the rightful homeowners of this house, and what we say to you outsiders, you must follow!”

Degrading insults replaced all meaningful exchanges.

The atmosphere got even worse, and all it took was one event to set off the sensitive powder keg.

As the reporter continued to report about the rapidly disintegrating order at the crossing, the sound of ear-piercing feedback coming from loudspeakers reached their ears, prompting everyone to stop what they were doing to cover them in response.

“Good day, everyone!”

Immediately after the feedback faded, they heard the squeaky, high-pitched voice of a woman, which through the loud volume of the loudspeakers got even those from the other end of one of the streets to hear her. The reporter looked around to find the source, coming upon a conspicuous white van with loudspeakers on top and ultranationalist slogans painted on banners all across it. Standing beneath these aggressive words was a woman whose age was indiscernible when going by her voice and appearance, holding a wired microphone.

“There! Point the camera towards her and the van!”

At the reporter’s command, the cameraman swiveled around to point the bulky TV camera he was holding towards the van.

“Good day to all of you Westerners out there! To all of you Asian foreigners, good day as well! Finally, to my fellow, red-blooded countrymen; the standard-bearers of the exalted flag of the rising sun and the heralded emissaries of the sun goddess... Good day to all of you!!!”

In response, the majority of the Japanese present greeted her back in cheers.

“GOOD DAY TO YOU TOO!!!”

The shouts were loud enough that they echoed throughout the highrise-flanked major streets that led to the Shibuya Crossing.

“A very good day indeed!–Now, as per the announcement of her highness, Princess Llanfair Gwergin, we are the beacon of light in this dark, horrible, new world! However, affecting this shining beacon are insects clamoring to take a piece of the light, blocking it out and forcing everything to go back to a darkened state! These insects are none other than YOU!!!”

The woman shamelessly extended her menacing index finger towards the crowd of foreigners, which were predominantly made up of East Asians such as ethnic Chinese and Koreans.

“We’re tired of your foul presence, a privilege that we, full of tolerance and mercy, allow simply because we’re the said beacon of light!”

“Yeah!!!”

“Send them on a boat out to sea! Get them out of here!”

Spurred by this overwhelming surge in nationalistic fervor, brought about by the words of two women, a Japanese and a Qua-Toynian, the Japanese crowd began physically provoking the equally massive crowd of foreigners.

“If you dare–and I say dare provoke our wrath–, we will not hesitate to repeat Nanki–no, it will be the great massacre of Kanto! We will bring it upon you!!!”

The woman made explicit threats of genocide, but the immorality of her statements and tone were drowned out, if not completely ignored, by the Japanese crowd, including bystanders and passersby that were ignoring the devolving situation at the crossing. The mixed words of Mandarin Chinese, Korean, English, and other languages coming from the foreign crowd clashed with the barrage of threats, fists, and garbage being hurled by the Japanese.

“Oh god...”

The reporter watched on teary-eyed as a massive, thousand-man brawl ensued. The sheer animosity and hatred shown by her fellow countrymen had an effect on her, causing her bowels to feel more acidic and her heart feeling like it was sinking. For the first time in her memory, she felt ashamed to be Japanese. Her words wanted to come out, both for the sake of reporting the ongoing incident and her own feelings of wanting to get rid of her secondhand guilt. Swallowing her hesitations, she turned back to the camera and continued with her report.

“We have an unexpected development here in the middle of Shibuya Crossing where as you can see, thousands of people have begun fighting amongst one another, throwing objects, fists, kicks–”

As she, together with other media crews on the scene, reported the chaos at the crossing, the loud, unnerving wails of police sirens reverberated across Shibuya. Dozens of police cars and black armored trucks descended on the crossing, their incoming presence alone scaring off a large portion of the crowd that dispersed into the countless alleyways and building spaces all across the vicinity.

Myhark, Qua-Toyne, 18:20

The sun was setting on another uneventful day in the Qua-Toynian port city of Myhark as the normally crowded cobblestone streets were now mostly devoid of people, who’ve already taken to their homes to prepare for the night ahead. With the sky dyed in a beautiful yet almost furious fusion of indigoes and oranges, oil lamps all across the city were beginning to light up, providing the darkening surroundings with a constant, imperfect semblance of daylight.

Somewhere close to the harbor, one in was finishing servicing their last customer. The innkeeper, an old dwarf, named Lars, was behind the counter accounting for their earnings that day. For every few gold and silver coins he took note of, he would scratch the itchiness on his nape coming from the sweat and grime of a hard day’s work. After having gone through half their day’s earnings, the presence of another soul in the vicinity drew his attention.

Emerging from one of the hallways that led to the rooms was one of his employees, a human named Poma. His exhaustion was obvious in his loose movements, although he may just still be not used to working in an inn, having only done the job for a month. Still, despite his shortcomings, he was doing well, a fact that not even Lars could deny.

“Thanks for your work today, Poma. You can go home now.”

Feeling the need to give some gratification to the young man, he offered him to go home for the day.

“What? But boss, won’t you need me for tonight?”

It was awfully nice for Poma to protest, thought Lars. However, this was one thing he was going to insist on.

“Nah, I’ll have Cid take over. He’s been begging for another job after being booted by the garrison for excessively trying to woo Milly, the poor lass.”

With this opportunity to finally get a night off, Poma almost bawled his eyes out as he thanked Lars. After packing up his belongings, he bid one last good night before setting off onto the now darkened streets of Myhark.

Taking one of the undeveloped dirt roads that lead into the heart of the city, Poma kept his sack close to his person. His vigilance was at a normal level, but the significant lack of powerful lighting along the road did unnerve him a bit. What little light in the form of oil lamps outside the facades of some buildings only gave him enough to gauge whether or not he was still on the same road.

However...

“Hm?”

He caught a glimpse of a silhouette of a person standing behind an unlit corner of one of the buildings to his left. They were standing on an unmarked alleyway sandwiched between two minor storehouses that led to a parallel street on the other side. Since there was little lighting, it was difficult for him to make an accurate image of the contours of the person, but he had enough to go by to conclude that it was a person.

Still, he did not feel any particular fear from the person, nor did he get the urge to avoid them. On the contrary, he dropped his guard, evident in the slower beating of his heart. He looked at the person with emotionless eyes, unchanged even when the other party decided to look back at him. With attention firmly established between them, Poma spoke first.

“Just came back from Awan? Are their oranges for sale?”

In response to this unusual, baseless question that came out of nowhere, the other person entertained the question with an answer that was just as out of place.

“If I did, I’d have none left for my ailing wife.”

Hearing the reply he expected, Poma approached the other person and entered the alleyway. He was wearing light clothes and carrying a light leather satchel, the perfect getup for someone who intends to travel far within a short span of time at short notice. Poma then maneuvered close to their ear, whispering something.

“Here’s my report, complete with rough sketches and all.”

He then handed him a parcel, which the other guy immediately placed in his satchel.

“That better make it to the lieutenant general.”

“Don’t worry, I heard that every single report we’ve so far sent back over the last month is getting the leadership fidgety, even his majesty himself.”

“Sounds like it’ll be all over soon. I hope to shit we get something good out of this.”

“We will, brother. Glory to the house of Louria!”

Parting ways with the messenger, Poma set out back on the dirt road towards his lodgings. On the way, he pondered about the recent events that led up to where they were now. Before, he was confident that they would be able to secure victory once they commenced the invasion, even when taking into account the possible lack of cooperation and loyalty from the lords and princes. However, something unexpected happened along the way. Ever since the terrifying flying object appeared over the skies of Myhark weeks ago, weird visitors he had never seen before started appearing at the harbor. They wore inexplicably clean and sophisticated clothing and carried with them an aura that evoked respect, but what really unnerved him were the things they brought with them.

Massive seagoing vessels, various artificial flying objects that flew at various speeds, sometimes exceeding that of what wyverns could achieve, alien-looking knick-knacks, and worrisome above all: objects held by certain people wearing all-green clothes that appeared to be guns. Unfortunately, he had little information outside of hearsay and his own visual accounts, so he didn’t have much of an idea of who they were and where they came from other than a common word that was rapidly becoming known throughout the city. He had never heard of it before, but whenever he heard it, it was usually used in reference to these unexplained visitors.

“Japan...”

He mouthed the word out loud, yet it still didn’t make any sense. Although since it was in reference to these worrying visitors of note, he included it in his intelligence report that was now on its way back home.

“Only time will tell what kind of role they play...”

With lots of doubts in his mind and a droopy body, Poma continued to walk back to his lodgings to rest his spirit and recuperate from fatigue for the coming day.