act33side

Exactly as I have said. What can I possibly hide before the King of Sarkaz?

But if you're not interested in my gift of good faith, then I see no need to carry it with me anymore. It's heavy, after all.

He casually casts the bag into the furnace, where it is incinerated in an instant.

Without a sound.

The furnace is always an impressive sight, no matter how many times one sees it.

Your Highness need not pity him. He should have foreseen the risks when he approached the Scar Market.

I trust Leithanien was not miserly with its terms.

It's simple, Your Highness. I prefer immediate payment over empty promises. But more importantly, I don't work with the losing side.

Are you predicting our victory?

It wasn't I who saw it. It was the Cyclops who left the prophecy a thousand years ago. I'm simply betting that Your Highnesses are the protagonists of the prophecy.

Regardless, the safest business for the Scar Market is with Your Highnesses. It would keep business flowing for at least the next fifty years or so.

Is that not so, Your Highnesses?

You're clever. Prophecy doesn't bring victory, but we can. Bring your mercenaries. We're moving out.

The crowd stirs.

The Sarkaz procession leaving the city is quiet, except for the occasional clang of weapons and equipment.

Their silence is rooted in the knowledge of the fate that awaited them beyond the city’s gates.

They wrap banners, torn from the walls, around their waists, or clutch Originium spikes, chopped from the streets, as makeshift weapons...

Each has their own ritual to remember the city that they may never return to.

Mom... Dad, where are you?

Dad! Mom!

Hmph... people really need to watch their kids. They can’t be allowed to run wild.

Ouch...

Careful.

Th-Thank you.

Where did you come from? Why are you also leaving the city? You'll fall if you’re not careful.

I'm looking for my mom and dad. Are you going out, too?

Yes... I'm going to the battlefield.

Are you looking for your mom and dad there, too? Can I come with you?

No... I'm by myself.

Why are you going out, then?

Because I don't want to hide in the city. I want to fight the people who are doing bad things to us. That's what my parents told me before they... they left.

I... I want to fight, too, but Mom and Dad won't let me go. I tried to sneak out and got a beating when they found out. But I don't want to be away from Mom and Dad.

We'll go together then, and find your mom and dad. But there'll be a lot of bad people out there. Are you scared?

You're not scared. Mom and Dad aren't scared. I'm not scared either!

The disheveled child pumps his fists to show courage, but his trembling betrays him.

The older child knows that the young boy does not fully understand what is happening outside the city.

But the young boy knows something simple but true.

Bad guys should be chased away. Families should stay together. So he takes the boy's hand, and joins the procession.

How do we find your parents when we're out there?

They work for Babel. They have a picture of a tower on their clothes.

Babel. I know that place.

Are you from Babel too?

No, I grew up in a Military Commission institution. I guess I'm from the Military Commission.

Military Commission? What's that?

A place that protects people, just like Babel.

What's your dad's name? Let's squeeze our way to the front. Maybe they're up ahead.

Goodluck!

Good luck?

Yes, he's Goodluck... why are you laughing?

Nothing... let's shout his name. Maybe he'll hear you!

Two children squeeze forward in the procession, holding each other's hand, calling out 'Goodluck' with their tiny voices.

A few heads turn, and sigh when they see the young and naive faces.

<i>Good luck</i>.

It is what they all need.

On an evening in the autumn of 1068, the music playing in the Kurfürst of Wasserland's study was interrupted by the sound of frantic knocking on the door.

The fleet that was pursuing the nomadic city of Kazdel had broken off its pursuit.

'Those crazy devils charged straight into a Catastrophe. It's only by sheer good luck that they got away.'

Years later, the Kurfürst of Wasserland still recounted the reason for his failure with palpable disdain.

How tiny we seem when we stand beside the tracks of this ship.

Yes, it's a most impressive war machine.

With their bodies as barriers, the Nachzehrer halted its advance at a tremendous cost. The Banshee's shrieks, powerful enough to shatter consciousness, only managed to force the Leithanians to retreat below deck...

If not for the Catastrophe and the rough terrain in this valley—

We're so far behind, and time is running out.

Kazdel must have equally powerful weapons, if not more so.

All our previous attempts have failed...

A century ago, few believed we could build a nomadic city out of Kazdel, yet we did. If we are to catch up to them now, we cannot afford to take the conventional path.

We have word from the Damazti. The battleships on the horizon are slowing down.

Have they given up?

No, the Kurfürst's orders were to continue the pursuit, but the commander of the fleet ordered them to slow down.

They're concerned about the Catastrophes and the terrain. They've seen what happened to this ship.

At the current rate, we can expect to engage them at dusk.

We have bought enough time for Kazdel to retreat.

Theresa looks back at the two storms entwining on the wastes, trying to catch a glimpse of the city.

She sees nothing. Where is Kazdel now? Is it still moving through the storm? Are the people in the shelters safe?

The storms are converging. Our retreat has been cut off. A battle is inevitable... Theresis?

I never thought I'd see you lose focus on the battlefield.

What's that?

That's...

The storms rage, the young taunting the old.

The newborn storm slams into the dying storm to the war drums of thunder.

Roiling air currents clash and combine between the two storms...

Violence begets peace, and a passage appears where the storms converge.

Lightning flashes and thunder cracks.

A path through the storm.

The storm...

Let's go, Theresa. The storm has given us a path.

Those who survive through it will have another chance.

We'll do it together.

The Damazti Cluster passes their command to every Sarkaz present.

The warriors see their leaders walk into the storm side by side and follow with no hesitation.

The procession advances into the tempest, the strong supporting the weak, the brave encouraging the fearful.

Do you see that, Theresis?

Within the roar of the tempest, they seem to hear the voice from the snowstorm in that childhood dream.

They see—

...The prophecy.

The thin, cloaked figure turns at the sound of her voice and sees the storm-bound procession.

Theresis sees a child. Mist, gilded by the setting sun, shrouds her shoulders, rising and blending with the shrieking winds above.

He takes off his gauntlet and stretches his bare hand into the mist.

The mist dissipates, and in his bloodied hand is the stone blade that the child is holding.

(Slurring) Yew... argh! Gra... grab!