[Scene: Old Man's Shack – Midnight]
Rain whispered faintly against the old roof.
The single lantern still flickered in the corner, casting dancing shadows across the wooden floor.
Ashen sat cross-legged near the wall, eyes watching the old man's still form — curled up on a thin, patched-up mattress.
Ashen (quietly):
"When will he wake up? He's been out for four hours now."
Eron (calmly):
"Any time. I just made him sleep — easier that way for me to use healing magic."
He leaned forward, hands resting on his knees, posture tense.
Eron:
"And we need to talk to him."
Ashen nodded.
Eron (firm):
"His reaction to the word Quinster wasn't just grief. It was trauma. Something's seriously wrong with that island."
A creak. A breath.
The old man stirred — blinked — and slowly sat up on his makeshift bed.
Old Man (groggy):
"…Where am I…?"
He looked around.
His eyes found Eron.
Eron (dryly):
"Right in your house, gramps."
Then — Eron lifted a single hand.
A faint pulse of mana shimmered out from his fingers, surrounding the old man like a thin, transparent cocoon.
Ashen (startled):
"Wait—what are you doing?"
Eron (focused):
"Mana field. I'm wrapping him in it."
He didn't stop casting.
Eron:
"It stabilizes his nerves and dampens emotional spikes. This way, when we talk about Quinster, his heart and mind won't spiral like before."
Ashen gave a small nod, impressed.
The old man blinked as the warmth of the field touched him — then sighed.
His body relaxed slightly.
Eron (serious):
"Alright, old man. I need you to be honest."
Eron:
"Are you from Quinster?"
There was no hesitation.
The old man sat upright.
His voice, though cracked, held steel.
Old Man:
"Yes."
He looked at both of them — eyes clearer than they'd been all day.
Old Man:
"And I suggest you turn back. Never go there."
Ashen sat forward.
Ashen:
"Why? What's happening?"
The old man exhaled slowly, like dragging a memory up from the bottom of a well.
Old Man (bitter):
"The guild there… it's a dictatorship now. Ever since the new leader took over."
A pause.
Then—
His face crumpled slightly.
Old Man:
"They shot my son."
Neither Eron nor Ashen moved.
The old man's voice wavered, tears forming.
Old Man (whispering):
"He was just protesting. Peacefully. Against rising taxes. Against corruption."
A beat.
Old Man:
"They shot him because he was leading it. Killed my wife too. She was standing beside him."
His hands clenched around the edge of the mattress
Old Man:
"They were coming for me next. I didn't even bury them. I just ran. Took my boat. Came here."
Silence.
Even the rain outside seemed to hold its breath.
Eron lowered his gaze.
Ashen swallowed hard, his eyes shimmering.
The old man looked up — this time more composed.
Old Man:
"I tried telling people here."
He gave a sad, brittle laugh.
Old Man:
"They called me crazy. A senile, paranoid old man."
He looked at them both now — eyes steady.
Old Man:
"But I swear on the ocean, what's happening in Quinster… it's not just politics."
[Scene: Flashback – 6 Months Ago, Island of Wahana – Royal Mansion District]
It was a hot afternoon. The kind that made the stones burn under bare feet.
The Royal Mansion of Wahana stood tall at the end of a golden-brick road — wide gates, two fountains, and vines blooming up its whitewashed walls.
Just outside the gates, a man in rags stood — sunburnt, hollow-eyed, voice hoarse from days of screaming.
He held nothing but a rolled set of soaked papers and a tiny, cracked picture of his son.
Old Man (then):
"I want to see the King! Please! I need help!"
The guards at the gate stood firm, unmoved by the desperation in his tone.
One of them stepped forward — young, moustached, clearly not new to this kind of encounter.
Guard:
"King doesn't meet commoners directly. Especially not ones without appointment."
Old Man (pleading):
"Please! I've come from Quinster. My son—my son was murdered by the guild! Please!"
Guard (shrugging):
"The king doesn't have time for every sob story."
The old man dropped to his knees.
He wept into the stone, clutching the photo to his chest.
But no doors opened.
No royal eyes saw him.
And so he stayed.
Days passed.
He made a makeshift bedding out of sacks beside the mansion wall.
Every morning, he'd stand up — dust himself off — and scream again:
"Let me speak to the King!"
But he was never heard.
Instead, the town began to whisper.
Woman at the market:
"Isn't he the madman who lives outside the palace?"
Man buying fruit:
"Hear he's an alcoholic. Burned his family down and ran off."
Boy by the fountain:
"Think he's cursed. Screams at ghosts all night."
One day, it rained. Hard.
The old man, soaked and shivering, still shouted through it.
His voice cracked so hard it stopped.
He slumped, unconscious, by the gate.
And there he remained… until a boot gently nudged him.
He stirred awake.
Above him stood a guard. Not hostile. Not amused either.
Guard (flat):
"Next week's the King's Annual Public Conference. One day a year he listens to complaints."
The old man blinked, barely registering the words.
Guard (sighing):
"You show up there. You might actually get to speak."
He turned and walked off.
The old man sat upright.
Then smiled.
Old Man (whispering):
"…God heard me."
He looked at the photo of his son.
Old Man:
"We're going to get justice, my boy. Finally…"