My uncle called me ignorant. He said that the years I spent in Cinnabar blinded me to the world outside. Perhaps he was right.

In the most prosperous city in the world, there is a subtle undertone of arrogance—even the poorest Cinnabarn beggar cannot help but boast the superiority of his city to any other.

This is because Cinnabar stands alone in one crucial matter: it does not recognize nobility. Perhaps I should clarify: one can certainly be granted a Cinnabarn peerage. Likewise, it also acknowledges foreign noble titles, at least for those from nations it maintains friendly relations with (and I know of no nation not in that category, considering its role as a major port and trade nexus).

But in Cinnabar, these titles have no power. They neither grant privileges nor afford status. Foreign titles are recognized as a mere courtesy, while Cinnabarn titles can be directly traded for money like common goods! Social status is determined by one factor alone: wealth.

In fact, there is a saying favored among the wealthiest Cinnabarn merchants: I have lost more money than you will ever earn. Furthermore, this is the polite form of the insult. There is an even harsher phrase reserved for outsiders: I have lost more money than you will ever see.

When it comes to wealth, Cinnabar is truly unrivalled. But most Cinnabarns will grudgingly admit that the Korsan Empire reigns supreme in military might. Certainly, you can find the occasional drunkard boast that the Mizzen fleet or even the Lydor guards would rout the Korsan Legions in battle. Of course, such boasts quickly dry up in the face of sobriety. Like all things Cinnabar, the Mizzen fleet and Lydor guards are designed for one thing only: to make money.

With this widespread acknowledgement of Korsa’s might, blind faith in the Empire’s infallibility comes as no surprise. I am certainly no exception to this rule. And yet, little did I imagine that common bandits run rampant in her outskirts as her people starve!

Something is wrong with Korsa. From afar, she shines resplendent with glory and prestige. And yet, that same blinding glow obscures the ugly truth: Korsa is bleeding.

A year ago, I would have shrugged my shoulders in resignation. Such a colossal undertaking is an impossible feat, I would have said.

But a year ago, I did not dream of the impossible. When a bolt of lightning struck me, leaving me bedridden and bereft of Aura, I raged at the unfairness of it all. All those years of training wasted, just like that. Now, I cannot help but wonder. These dreams … are they heaven-sent visions or the deranged delusions of a madman? Because if the things I see are possible …

A voice interrupts my thoughts. “Lord Wilbor? Is everything alright? You’ve been awfully quiet since we left.”

“It’s nothing.”

A pregnant silence passes, and Bicky clears her throat. “Milord, you shouldn’t take things to heart. The villagers—”

“I know,” I interrupt. “I lost my temper. The villagers—there’s no use in blaming them.”

Hans rolls his eyes. “Then why’d you go and stir things up? We had to leave in a hurry because of you!”

“I was … frustrated earlier. That man—I fought in defense of his home, and he told me I was unwelcome.”

“And you lost, too!” Hans cheerfully points out. “Got all beaten up like that.”

“Hans!” warns Bicky. “I wouldn’t know anything ‘bout swordfighting, Milord, but I’m sure you did your best. There’s no reason to feel ashamed.”

“Not that,” I explain. “I was thinking about something else.”

“Something else?”

“Have things really become so bad?” I ask. “Must Korsa bow her head to common bandits?”

Bicky shakes her head. “It’s mostly in the outskirts, or so I hear. There’s no problem in the larger towns, but in the rural areas …”

“The lords in the countryside neglect their duty, but do they not answer to the Emperor? Is this problem within the scope of his gaze, or is distance too great an obstacle?”

“What can we do?” she shrugs. “The First and Third Legions are stuck where they are, and the Fourth and Fifth are far from home. Maybe after Prince Damian comes back, he’ll take care of the problem.”

“And then what?” I challenge. “He’ll go and eradicate them. After all, mere bandits are no match for the mighty Lion and his Fifth Legion. Problem solved, right?”

“That’s right,” agrees Hans. “Go and get rid of ‘em, for once and all. Like a bunch of vermin, the lot of ‘em.”

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“Vermin thrive in dirty places. You get rid of them without cleaning the place, and more will show up, sooner or later.”

Hans shrugs. “It’s in their nature. That’s why we call ‘em vermin. You can’t get rid of ‘em completely, but you can keep their numbers in check.”

“You know,” I say slowly, “recently I spent a night at a farm. It was my first time eating rabbit. It was very skinny.”

He blinks in confusion.

“They told me that it’s a pest,” I continue. “That it ruins the crops.”

Bicky nods. “That’s right. They like to chew shoots and dig up your vegetables. I’ve killed a fair few myself.”

Hans turns to her in astonishment. “You grew up on a farm, Captain? I thought you came from Dorban or something!”

“Dorban?” She snorts loudly. “No way. You know, there’s an easy way to tell if someone’s from Dorban. Just wait for ‘em to open their mouth!”

The two share a laugh. Seeing my blank expression, Bicky explains. “Didn’t it used to be the capital? They’re awfully proud of it all, y’know? All the old buildings, the heritage. Like Cinnabarns and money. Anyway, didn’t mean to interrupt you, Milord.”

“Right. Speaking of Cinnabar, I heard that the heiress of the Taniss Trading House—you ever heard of it before?”

They shake their heads.

“It’s one of the Big Six trading houses who rule Cinnabar. They sell dyes and the like. Anyway, the heiress—I’ve heard that she keeps a pet rabbit. What makes it a pet in one place and a pest in another?”

The two mull the question over.

“She can afford to feed it,” answers Bicky. “Full rabbits make for hungry farmers. Unlike in a rich family, they can’t afford to give away their food like that.”

“It’s the cage,” counters Hans. “Unlike in the wild, where the rabbits run around freely, she’s got it under control. It can’t cause any trouble that way.”

“I think both answers are right,” I say. “You need a carrot and a stick.”

Hans shrugs. “But what does this have to do with the bandits?”

“Are people and rabbits so different, Hans?”

He gapes in astonishment. Before he can retort, Bicky nods in agreement. “I can sort of see where you’re coming from. Some of the bandits … they’re in it to feed themselves. But that doesn’t make it right.”

“That’s right,” declares Hans. “Once a criminal, always a criminal. Can’t let your guard down around that lot. I’ve even seen people sell their own children!”

“Rule of law is maintained by force,” I acknowledge. “But you just told me that you’re overstretched … unable to address the issue. When your stick breaks and you’re out of carrots, what do you think the hungry rabbit does?”

Bicky furrows her brow. “If there really is a famine, I think the Emperor would open the granaries and distribute some food.”

Hans nods. “Besides, if the bandit problem gets out of control, the legions will get rid of them. It’s annoying to deal with, but not as bad as you think.”

“And that’s the difference between us. You believe in the cage. I’m afraid it’s not enough.”

He shrugs. “Either way, I’m just an ordinary soldier. What can I do ‘bout it?”

“What if …” I advance hesitantly, “… what if you could?”

“Huh? What if I could what?”

“What if you could change things. Everything.”

Hans scratches his chin. “What do you mean, everything?”

“Everything and more. Things beyond even your imagination.”

“Hoh?” Hans lets out a chuckle, taking the statement as a challenge. “You wouldn’t believe what I’ve imagined. Try me, then!”

Bicky rolls her eyes but fails to muffle an amused snort.

“Imagine if you could fly through the air—”

“Sprout wings and fly?” he interrupts. “That’s ridiculous!”

“No, in a metal bird.”

“Ha!” declares the soldier. “Now I’ve heard it all. Even Grandmasters can’t fly, and you want to fly in a bird of metal? I think your head’s lost in the clouds!”

“Hans, be polite,” warns Bicky.

“Sorry ‘bout that, milord,” Hans quickly sobers up, jovial mood evaporating. “Didn’t mean no ‘fense.”

“He’s got a loud mouth, but he’s not a bad fellow,” she acknowledges. “He didn’t mean any harm.”

“No offense taken,” I reassure. A man who I once called kin resides at the summit of those who have done me wrong, and the ridicule of a stranger at fanciful tales is but nothing in comparison. Had I heard the same stories a year ago, I would have reacted no less differently.

“Never been good with people,” Hans mumbles. “That’s why I like horses. You feed take care of ‘em, and they take care of you. Just like Janice here.” He punctuates the last word with a slap on the horse’s rear, eliciting a loud whinny of protest.

Bicky’s lip twitches. “Yes. Your horse wife. Anyways, you were saying, Lord Wilbor?”

“Ah! Captain, don’t tell—”

Ignoring his objections, I continue. “How about something a little more down to earth. Imagine if you could grow a thousand chickens on a single farm, each capable of laying an egg daily.”

“Huh? You wouldn’t be taking me for a fool, would you, milord? I’ve never farmed chickens before, but even I know you can’t make a chicken lay an egg every day!”

Bicky nods slowly. “I’ve never heard such a thing, milord.”

I laugh weakly. Even I can scarcely believe it, let alone convince others. A vision from the gods? More like the insane ramblings of a madman. And yet, I cannot shake the growing conviction within me …

“By the way,” I mention, “there was a peddler I met before the village. Said his name was San. Did you see him?”

“That fellow with a donkey who can’t stop smiling?” answered Hans. “Yeah, we bought some supplies off him. Why?”

“It’s nothing. Merely wondering if he got caught by the bandits. A kind fellow, albeit with a few strange stories.”

“Strange stories? Hah! You’re one to talk!”

“Hans!” exclaims Bicky. “Perhaps they never crossed paths.”

“Yes, I hope so.”

“We can offer a coin to Massa later, if you want,” suggests Hans.

“Isn’t Massa the God of Waves?” I ask. “The man’s travelling by donkey, not water.”

“I heard a lot of people have been asking Massa for protection ‘round these parts recently, ‘specially with how messy things are here now. They say he’ll look after you when travelling, even if it’s on land. Fancy that! Surprised you haven’t heard, though, aren’t the Wilbor lands up north?”

“I … I haven’t been home much,” I explain. “I’ve been staying in Cinnabar. Massa doesn’t hold much sway there.”

“Oh, that’s right. You mentioned something like that. Far away from home … sounds kinda lonely.”

“That’s interesting,” says Bicky. “I thought Cinnabar was a port? Strange that they don’t care for him.”

“Ha. There’s a reason why Cinnabar isn’t part of Korsa. I think the only god they worship is money.” I shake my head in resignation.

“In the end,” remarks Hans, “it all comes down to money, doesn’t it?”

We continue to walk in silence.