Four Days Later
The Grand Assembly Hall of Kresh'tovara, capital of Vel'koda'mir, could hold ten thousand people when filled to capacity. Today it held exactly that—soldiers, officers, civilians, government officials, all gathered to hear Supreme Commander Drak'thelon address the nation.
The Commander stood on an elevated platform, his military dress uniform gleaming with medals earned through forty years of campaigns. Behind him, the flag of Vel'koda'mir hung thirty feet tall—crossed swords over a red field, symbolizing the nation's martial identity.
"Citizens of Vel'koda'mir!" His voice, amplified by chakra-enhanced acoustics, carried to every corner of the hall. "For too long, we have watched in silence as our brothers and sisters—fellow mana users—have been persecuted across the border. The kingdom of Ul'varh'mir has committed unspeakable atrocities. East City. Forty-seven villages. Half a million souls MURDERED for the crime of being born with mana capability!"
The crowd roared with outrage. Fists raised. Voices chanted condemnation.
"We share their blood! We share their power! We ARE mana users, and when one of us bleeds, WE ALL BLEED!" Drak'thelon's fist slammed against the podium. "No more silence! No more complicity! Vel'koda'mir marches to WAR! We will cross into Ul'varh'mir not as invaders but as LIBERATORS! We will save our people! We will bring justice! We will show the tyrant king that mana users DO NOT KNEEL!"
The hall erupted. Ten thousand voices screaming approval. Soldiers stamping feet in rhythm. The sound was deafening, primal, the collective roar of a nation preparing for righteous war.
Drak'thelon raised his hands for silence. When he spoke again, his voice carried solemn weight. "This will not be easy. Good people will die. Brave soldiers will fall. But their sacrifice will be MEANINGFUL. When this war ends, when the dust settles, history will remember Vel'koda'mir as the nation that stood against genocide. That fought for the powerless. That proved mana users are not prey to be hunted!"
Another roar. Louder. Longer.
As the assembly dissolved into patriotic fervor, Drak'thelon descended from the platform and entered the private chamber behind it. His public face—righteous, determined, noble—dissolved immediately.
Inside, his senior command staff waited. General Kreth'mar. Admiral Ves'kala. Intelligence Director Porth'alan. The actual decision-makers behind Vel'koda'mir's military machine.
"Well?" Drak'thelon asked, dropping into a chair. "How did I sound?"
"Inspiring," Kreth'mar replied with a thin smile. "The recruits will be lining up by tomorrow morning."
"Good. We'll need them." Drak'thelon poured himself wine from a crystal decanter. "Now, let's discuss the actual plan. The one we don't tell the masses."
Admiral Ves'kala spread a map across the table—Ul'varh'mir's territory marked in red, potential acquisition zones highlighted in blue. "Eastern provinces first. Richest dungeon density. We claim them as 'protection zones' for rescued mana users. Once secured, we never give them back."
"The Mizox'tra forest regions," Intelligence Director Porth'alan added, tapping another section. "Rare wood monopoly. Worth more than gold if we control the supply."
"And the refugee populations," Kreth'mar said, his tone clinical. "Every mana user we 'rescue' becomes a citizen of Vel'koda'mir. Instant population boost. Immediate loyalty because we saved them. Plus, their gratitude makes them politically reliable."
Drak'thelon nodded slowly, studying the map. "What about casualties? Our soldiers, I mean."
"Acceptable," Kreth'mar replied without hesitation. "We're looking at maybe eight thousand dead if the campaign goes poorly. Fifteen thousand wounded. But we gain territory worth five times our military budget, population increase of two hundred thousand minimum, and moral authority that makes us the leading mana-user nation on the continent."
"And the mana users who die before we reach them?" Ves'kala asked quietly. "The ones Ul'varh'mir kills while we're still mobilizing?"
Drak'thelon took a long drink. Set his glass down carefully. "Regrettable. But necessary. Every civilian death strengthens our narrative. Makes our intervention more justified. Makes other nations less likely to oppose our territorial acquisitions." He met their eyes one by one. "A few thousand mana user deaths is a small price for what we're gaining. They die martyrs. We become heroes. Everyone wins."
"Except the martyrs," Porth'alan observed dryly.
"Except the martyrs," Drak'thelon agreed. "But they were going to die anyway. At least this way, their deaths serve a purpose."
The chamber fell silent as the command staff contemplated the cold mathematics of their plan. Save some. Let others die. Gain everything. Lose nothing but other people's lives.
"When do we march?" Kreth'mar asked finally.
"Three days. The elvish offensive has Ul'varh'mir completely focused on their northwestern front. We enter from the southeast, claim we're reinforcing their defense, and once we're in position..." Drak'thelon smiled. "We redefine what 'defense' means."
Four hundred thirty kilometers northeast, where Seleun'mhir's mountain passes opened onto fertile valleys, Misaki Haruto stood at the border checkpoint and felt something loosen in his chest that had been tight for eight days.
They'd made it. Eight hundred two people—elderly, children, wounded, exhausted—had walked one hundred forty kilometers through hostile terrain, evaded pursuit, fought off soldiers, and reached safety.
The border between Ul'varh'mir and Seleun'mhir was marked by ancient stone pillars carved with territorial agreements dating back six centuries. Beyond the pillars, Seleun'mhir military personnel waited—not threatening, but alert. Ready.
A captain stepped forward, his uniform showing the mountain nation's insignia: a hammer crossed with a pickaxe over grey stone. His expression was professionally neutral.
"State your business."
Shy'yao moved to the front, his ancient authority evident despite travel-worn clothes. "I am Chief Shy'yao of M'lod village. These are refugees from seven villages of southern Ul'varh'mir. We seek asylum from persecution."
The captain's eyes swept the crowd. Eight hundred people. Families. Children. An infant being held by a small girl who looked barely old enough to care for herself. Old men leaning on walking sticks. Women carrying everything they owned in simple packs.
"Follow me," he said finally. "All of you. We'll process this at the garrison."
They walked—the entire column—into Seleun'mhir territory. Foreign ground. Neutral nation. Safety.
The garrison was built from grey mountain stone, functional rather than beautiful, designed to withstand siege if necessary. Inside, they were directed to a large courtyard where Seleun'mhir soldiers began the processing.
"Three representatives step forward," an officer commanded. "We'll hear your case officially."
Misaki looked at Shy'yao, who nodded. Together with Riyeak—massive, imposing, clearly a warrior—they approached the officer.
In a private chamber, facing a panel of three Seleun'mhir officials, they explained. The purge. The flight. The battles. The desperate march north.
"We're not criminals," Shy'yao said firmly. "We're not invaders. We're people who refused to die quietly."
The lead official—a woman named Commander Yresh'tal—listened without interruption. When Shy'yao finished, she exchanged glances with her colleagues.
"You and your people will be held in protective custody while we verify your claims and determine asylum eligibility. You'll be provided food, clothing, shelter, and medical care. You will not be harmed. But you will remain under supervision until formal asylum is granted or denied."
"How long?" Misaki asked.
"Days. Maybe a week. These decisions require bureaucratic approval." Yresh'tal's expression softened slightly. "But unofficially? You'll be approved. Seleun'mhir doesn't turn away genuine refugees."
Relief washed through Misaki like physical warmth. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. Wait until you hear what's happening in your former homeland."
That caught them off-guard. "What do you mean?" Shy'yao asked carefully.
Commander Yresh'tal gestured for them to sit. "You've been in the forest for over a week, yes? No contact with external information?"
"Correct. We were running for our lives."
"Then you don't know." Yresh'tal pulled out reports, spread them across the table. "Ul'varh'mir is at war. Full-scale war. The High Elf kingdom of Xyi'vana'mir declared war nine days ago and invaded from the northwest. They've captured approximately thirty percent of Ul'varh'mir's northern territory. Naval battles. Ground campaigns. Thousands dead."
The room went silent. Misaki felt his brain struggling to process the information.
"War?" he finally managed. "With the High Elves? Because of... because of the purge?"
"Exactly because of the purge. Xyi'vana'mir issued an ultimatum. King Ashtherion'vaur refused. They attacked." Yresh'tal consulted another report. "And it gets worse. The king is dead. Assassinated by his own queen, who apparently was half-elven and had been feeding intelligence to Xyi'vana'mir the entire time."
Riyeak's massive frame had gone completely still. "The king is dead?"
"Dead. The military seized control. General Vaiolder declared himself the new ruler. And—" Yresh'tal paused, as if checking her next words. "Vel'koda'mir has entered the conflict. Officially as Ul'varh'mir's ally, claiming they're coming to 'rescue' mana users from persecution."
"Vel'koda'mir?" Shy'yao's ancient eyes narrowed. "The militaristic nation? They're intervening against genocide of mana users?"
"So they claim. Though our intelligence suggests their actual motives are territorial expansion and population acquisition." Yresh'tal looked at each of them in turn. "The war you started by resisting—the small rebellion of seven villages—has exploded into continental conflict. Three nations mobilized. Tens of thousands dead. Territory changing hands. And it's only been nine days."
Misaki stared at the reports without seeing them. They'd been running through forests, fighting small skirmishes, worried about pursuit columns and food supplies. Meanwhile, the world had been tearing itself apart.
"We didn't know," he said quietly. "We had no idea."
"Few people did. War moves faster than information in remote regions." Yresh'tal gathered the reports. "Your people will be processed and housed in the refugee quarter. Temporary shelter until permanent arrangements are made. You're safe here. Seleun'mhir is neutral—we don't participate in foreign wars."
As they stood to leave, Misaki asked one final question: "The refugees from other villages. The mana users Ul'varh'mir was hunting. Are they... are any of them alive?"
Commander Yresh'tal's expression hardened. "Some. Not many. The purge operations continued even after the war started. We estimate maybe twenty thousand mana users escaped. Out of half a million."
The number landed like a physical blow. Half a million dead. Twenty thousand saved. The arithmetic of genocide.
"Go," Yresh'tal said gently. "See to your people. Process what you've learned. Tomorrow we'll discuss next steps."
Outside, Misaki found Lyria distributing food to refugees—simple mountain bread and dried meat, but more than they'd had in days. Sera sat nearby with Kyn, the little girl actually smiling as she ate. Children played in the courtyard despite exhaustion. The elderly rested against walls, finally able to stop running.
Eight hundred two people. Safe. Alive. Refugees in a foreign land, but refugees who'd survived.
"We made it," Riyeak said quietly, standing beside Misaki. "Against every impossible odd. We actually made it."
"Yeah," Misaki replied. "We did."
But the knowledge of what had happened—what was still happening—hung over the moment like a storm cloud. They'd escaped one war only to learn they'd sparked a larger one.
And somewhere south, in territory they'd fled, nations were killing each other over principles and territories and power.
The refugee crisis they represented was just beginning.