The southern Zim Continent lay flat and low, veined by a dense web of swift rivers. Over time, their constant branching toward the Southern Sea carved vast deltas.
For decades, this fertile delta soil had been the Empire’s prized breadbasket. Nobles scrambled to earn merits, desperate for a slice of southern land. Imperial ranks were strict: Archdukes, Dukes, and Barons each held three tiers. Only Archdukes of the highest merit once qualified for southern fiefs.
But why keep stressing "decades ago"?
Because now, relentless floods drowned the south. Crops failed every few years. Noble lords bled the land dry with crushing taxes. Survival itself grew cruel.
Some had tried flood control. Once, a petitioner begged the King for aid. Success would’ve been a blessing for the people. Yet court nobles rushed to nominate their own cronies—not for skill, but for glory. To them, taming floods seemed simple.
The appointed fools only worsened disasters, sealing dikes until waters burst through. Southern lands turned from coveted prizes into scalding burdens. Desperate lords dumped their fiefs for anything of value. Beyond prosperous Leahdon, entire territories stood lordless—an unthinkable sight.
Two months traveling south showed me truths harsher than history books described. Last month, I saw a long chain of slaves trudging toward auction. Hollow eyes. Shackles clanking with every step. My whole body trembled.
*I’d sell everything to free them.*
The thought consumed me. But what good would it do? Thousands more faced the same fate. No food. No certainty of dawn. Taxes crushing homes. Nobles breaking families. People selling themselves—and their kin—just to breathe another day.
Yet from noble mansions, laughter and the stench of rotting perfume drifted into the streets.
*What has this country become?*
The question haunted my journey. And across the land, countless others asked it too.
Far north, in Ilan’s frostbitten heart, within Ilanburg’s stone halls—
A man sat high on his lord’s seat, gazing down at kneeling retainers. Deep blue robes, embroidered with gold, draped his frame. A white wolf pelt rested casually on his shoulders. A scar ran from his right brow to his cheek—a mark that lent him fierce grace, not ugliness. Majesty and might fused in him.
As if… he were born to rule.
“So… Tren,” his voice cut the silence. “What royal decree did the capital send?”
“My lord! They demand you divert funds and grain to Tren.”
“Heh. They wield imperial edicts so openly for such pettiness now?” The thought of starving peasants and parasitic nobles ignited his fury. But he tamed it. This wasn’t where rage belonged.
“Give it to them.”
“My lord—you’ll just obey?” A warrior’s voice bristled with discontent.
“We remain the Empire’s people.”
“Hmph. Understood.”
Meanwhile, in Hohaton—
Two youths, barely eighteen, dashed through crowded streets.
“Young masters, please wait! This troubles me greatly!” a servant called.
“Catch us, and we’ll listen!” they laughed, vanishing into a narrow alley.
“Masters, no! That’s the slum quarter!”
His warning faded unheard.
The alley swallowed them. Stagnant air thickened. Lifeless silence pressed in.
“We should leave… right?” one whispered.
“D-don’t be scared!”
“But—”
“No buts! Let’s see what’s inside. I’ve never been here.”
They stepped deeper.
And glimpsed hell.
