[Scene: The King's Public Conference – Wahana Royal Hall, Noon]
Velvet banners hung like sleeping fire across the vaulted ceilings.
The king sat on his golden throne — legs crossed, ringed fingers tapping.
On either side, ministers flanked him like armored statues.
Guards stood along every wall, silent and stern.
One by one, the commoners came.
A man bowed low, sweat on his brow:
"Your Highness… the public washrooms on Market Street—filthy and foul."
The king didn't even blink.
"Tiran," he said without turning.
"Send someone to fix it. If they need funds, take it from the trade levy."
The minister nodded. Case closed.
More came. A widow asking for wheat relief.
A merchant accusing a rival of smuggling.
An old baker seeking a permit for street-side sales.
Each was heard. Some dismissed. Some promised vague solutions.
And then—
Amid the line of waiting men and women, behind a dozen others—
He stood.
The Old Man.
Clothes trembling on his bones.
Fingers clutched tight around a paper-wrapped photo.
Eyes locked on the throne as if staring down destiny itself.
But—
The king turned to his Prime Minister.
"Where is that lunatic?"
"The one who ruins my walks with those damn screams?"
The Prime Minister whispered a few words.
Two guards peeled off from the side and marched into the line.
"You," they said. "The king is asking for you."
Gasps.
Whispers.
Envy.
Irritation.
But no one dared speak aloud.
The old man, still clutching the photo of his son, was escorted past the others.
Into the grand hall.
Onto the polished marble.
Until he stood before the throne, knees hitting stone.
"Your Highness… I beg of you…"
"Quinster may not fall under your law… but your voice holds weight."
"If you speak — even whisper — to the Marines… they will listen."
"They'll investigate. They'll stop what's happening."
The king stared.
Unimpressed.
Annoyed.
A minister scoffed.
"Why not complain yourself, old man?"
The old man's voice cracked.
"I… I tried."
"I have no ship. No coin for the public call booths."
"The shell lines are always busy, and I…"
"I left everything at Quinster."
"I have nothing left."
The king sighed like someone swatting a fly.
"Enough."
"I've got something to end this weeping for good."
He clapped twice.
The doors opened.
And he walked in.
Commander Velgard — Head of the Marines for the Quinster island.
His polished boots echoed as he approached the king.
Armor glinting. A thin, permanent smirk.
He bowed briefly, then turned to the crowd.
"I've heard the story," he said calmly.
"And I can say — without hesitation — this man is lying."
The hall stiffened.
"Quinster is peaceful. Lawful. Disciplined."
"No signs of unrest, no trace of violence."
"Just because a place limits tourism does not make it a dictatorship."
Gasps of relief.
Polite nods.
Some claps.
The old man stood frozen.
Eyes wide.
Then—cut to:
[Scene: Flashback – One Month Ago, Island of Quinster – Mossveil Estate]
The table was rich oak. Covered in empty mugs.
Commander Velgard leaned back in his chair, laughing hard.
"You shot him?!"
"Just for protesting taxes?"
He slapped the table.
"Damn, Mossveil! You're colder than the northern winds!"
Across from him, the Guild Lord of Quinster — Mossveil — raised his glass.
"Had to make a point."
Laughter.
A servant entered with a velvet bag.
Dropped it on the table.
The jingle was unmistakable.
Qalistas.
Mossveil: "Your monthly bribe's due in 15 days, but… consider this a bonus."
Velgard: opens the bag
Grins wide.
They toast.
"To our friendship."
[Back to the Palace – Wahana Royal Hall]
Velgard stands tall before the court.
"This man is disturbed. Confused. Possibly senile."
Laughter.
It started slow.
One minister.
Then two.
Then the room echoed with mockery.
"He's mad."
"Probably delusional."
"Took the place of someone who actually deserved help."
The king waved his hand.
"Don't let him near my palace again."
"Guards. Remove him."
The old man stood motionless.
He didn't resist.
He didn't speak.
He just looked down at the photo of his son.
And let them walk him out.
[Scene: Present – Old Man's Shack, Rain Falling]
Ashen sat, frozen. Words dry in his throat.
Eron stared into the flickering lantern — silent fury written in the lines of his jaw.
The old man stirred his bowl of half-eaten fish stew.
"So… I settled. Out here in the outskirts."
"Someone let me live in their broken-down shack."
"I fish. I sleep. I try not to think too much."
"But I do think. Every night."
"I think about how my son's name was laughed at in a palace."
He looked up.
Eyes clear.
Tired.
But clear.
"So if you're still going to Quinster… know this—"
"You're not walking into a mystery."
"You're walking into a slaughterhouse with golden gates."
Silence.
Only the rain answered.