Kays Translations

Chapter 34: The Wrath of the White Sand

The Claw Druid Master quickly understood the weight of Marlon’s words. Only now did he begin to grasp the enormous impact those few sentences had unleashed upon the two high-ranking figures.

For by midday that very day, White Sand City had already been placed under strict martial law. A sweeping operation was launched almost immediately—an all-encompassing hunt for suspected spies of Helpha.

Yes, a spy purge. A grand investigation of the Helpha infiltrators…

The stern-faced Mayor Kachibu, with no time to waste, gathered nearly every journalist from the city’s newspapers and periodicals. In a manner both dramatic and unprecedented, he held a press conference and revealed a piece of news so shocking, so explosive, that it reverberated like thunder across White Sand.

With the aid of the famed priestess Andini—the Forest Goddess’s chosen, a woman who alone had mastered the miracle of resurrection—Gavi Riley, the prominent goblin publisher who had been brutally slain the previous night by rebelling Durel slaves, was brought back from the clutches of death. And upon his return, he whispered a secret so devastating it threatened to shake the city to its very core.

The bloody uprising of the Durel slaves was no accident. It was not the desperate revolt of oppressed men and women seeking freedom. No—it was an insidious plot, ignited from the shadows by Helpha spies who still lingered within White Sand, unwilling to accept defeat. These hidden agents had deliberately stirred chaos, unleashing a suicidal riot to shatter the peace and harmony the city’s citizens had fought so hard to preserve.

And worse still, evidence soon surfaced that the carnage bore the taint of another hand. Twisted and fanatical demon-worshippers had joined the slaughter. These zealots sought to please their dark abyssal lords with rivers of innocent blood, and what they planned beyond that… none dared imagine.

Thus, in order to protect the three hundred and sixty thousand souls who called White Sand their home, the city government declared a week-long campaign of martial law and relentless suppression. Its codename: “The Wrath of White Sand.”

No sooner had the mayor spoken than the words were seized upon by the newspapers. Within hours, the speech was carved into tens of thousands of hastily printed extra editions. And soon, like a sudden storm, these papers flooded every corner of the city.

Strangely—or perhaps not so strangely—a great many of these papers found their way aboard ships docked at the harbor, and even onto the decks of civilian airships anchored by the coast. From there, carried by sailors and merchants, the sensational news spread far beyond White Sand, seeping into towns and cities across the land.

And while the city reeled, the police wasted no time enforcing “The Wrath of White Sand.” In a narrow alley beside Sphincrack Street, they uncovered a hidden altar dedicated to demonic rites.

The sight was enough to chill even the bravest heart. Around the altar lay dozens of youths—boys and girls alike—stripped bare, their throats cruelly slit, their bodies drained of blood. They had been sacrifices to some abyssal lord of evil, their young flesh desecrated, their innocent lives twisted into offerings of torment. Their corpses bore signs of savage abuse, the marks of cruelty so vile that even the most hardened officer could not hold back bile.

Nearly twenty cultists were captured on the scene. Subjected to the harshest interrogation, they confessed. Yes, the slain youths had indeed been taken amidst the chaos of the previous night’s uprising. They had been chosen as unwilling tributes to their abyssal master.

And their leader—how curious, how damning—carried the blood of Helpha. A revelation that aligned all too neatly with the mayor’s earlier claim: that the riot had been orchestrated by Helpha’s agents.

The cultists’ testimony was, of course, devoured by the city’s reporters. Soon another wave of extra editions hit the streets, spreading fresh horrors.

In these pages, the journalists painted haunting portraits of the slain youths. They described their lives before death, their bright futures now forever stolen. Some had been orphans, some the beloved children of local families. All had once carried the glow of promise, only to be reduced to lifeless husks upon a bloodstained altar.

Even Marlon Lister, the young genius recently awarded White Sand’s highest honor—the Gemstone Oak Leaf Medal of Valor—took up his pen. In the pages of the White Sand Morning Post, he published a moving tale. Inspired by the death of one orphan boy who had resisted evil to the very end, clinging to light and ideals until his last breath, Marlon wrote a twisting, emotional piece titled The Orphan of White Sand.

The protagonist of his tale? A boy by the name of Oliver Twist.

This was the spark. The final straw.

White Sand’s good-hearted citizens erupted in fury. Their grief transformed into righteous wrath, and they clamored for the oldest punishment reserved for demon-worshippers: the pyre. They demanded every one of those cultists be tied to stakes and burned until nothing remained but ash, their vile souls purged by holy light, sacred chants, and consecrated water.

Of course, such extrajudicial punishment was far from the law. The merciful mayor could not openly condone it. Yet the tide of anger was unstoppable. The people stormed the police station where the cultists were held, overwhelming the guards.

The police, themselves mostly citizens of White Sand, could not bring themselves to fire upon their neighbors. Thus, the mob forced its way inside, seized the tortured and half-dead cultists—including their bloodied leader of Helpha descent—and dragged them out into the streets.

And so it was that the cultists, bound to wooden stakes, met their fiery end. Their screams were drowned by the roaring flames and the chants of the people. There was no “after.” Their souls scattered into nothingness.

“Marlon, my friend… why do you lend your wit to such schemes? Why feed the ambitions of a mayor who will stop at nothing to preserve his seat of power?”

The Druid Master’s voice was heavy when the whispering trees carried him the news—the cultists had been executed at the hands of “outraged” citizens.

Marlon raised both hands, his expression one of innocent protest. “I didn’t plot anything! I merely told stories… and then wrote a novel to fit the moment.” His face was full of grievance, as if accused unjustly. But then, after a pause, he added candidly, “Still, Mayor Kachibu did promise much. He vowed to push factory owners into hiring ordinary citizens in great numbers. He swore he would employ strong veterans as auxiliary policemen. And… once peace returns, he’s promised me a tract of land at a bargain price—land where I’ll build a film city.”

“A… film city? What on earth is that?”

The Druid tilted his head, genuinely puzzled, for such a concept meant nothing in his world.

Marlon grinned slyly, lowering his voice as though sharing a secret. “You’ll see, old Kang. In time, you’ll see. Better yet, why not invest a little? Ten, twenty thousand gold perhaps? I swear to you, within ten years you’ll double your fortune in dividends. Come now—how about it? You’d be one of the original shareholders.” He waggled his brows playfully, clearly trying to tempt the Druid.

But the Druid was not so easily swayed. Wealth was no lure to him. He waved the matter aside with a gruff snort. “Leave that for now. I came to tell you something else. Your minotaur brother, Ester… he has awoken. Yet he is not himself. He sits dazed, dull-eyed, as though part of his soul has been lost.”

Marlon’s eyes widened, his composure shattering. He leapt to his feet. “Ester is awake? Where is he? Take me to him at once!”

He heard the Druid’s words, yet his heart clung only to the first half of the message. The latter half—the warning that the boy’s mind was broken—Marlon brushed aside.

To him, it was far too natural. How could a boy, once full of hope and promise, remain whole after watching his home destroyed, his life torn apart in a single night? Who could ask such a child to smile, to remain calm, as if nothing had happened?

Previous chapter | TOC | Next chapter