Weeks of reports followed Roy’s disappearance.

  They arrived labeled as cooperation requests—letters framed politely, sealed officially, all asking the same thing in different words. Ragnar endured them until patience turned into exhaustion.

  Then he left.

  The new capital had been built at the central axis of all allied nations, meant to symbolize unity and efficiency. Ragnar traveled there personally, unwilling to rely on messengers any longer.

  The journey itself was the answer.

  Burned villages marked the roads—some still smoldering, others long abandoned. Broken guard posts stood where borders once mattered. Evacuation lines moved steadily, but never fast enough. Children walked without parents. Parents searched without hope.

  Orphans had become common.

  Ragnar noticed more than ruins.

  Officials spoke openly along the roads, discussing rerouted resources.

  “Population density is lower here.”

  “Wasteful to reinforce an evacuated region.”

  “Better to focus where returns are guaranteed.”

  Efficiency, spoken casually.

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  When Ragnar passed a village destroyed because evacuation arrived too late, the reason was already written in reports.

  Sacrifices were necessary to stall mutated beasts.

  The words tasted bitter.

  At the capital, Ragnar delivered his report directly.

  The response came quickly.

  “There aren’t enough people to send,” the upper guild officials said.

  “Commanders are prioritizing key population centers.”

  “Resources are limited.”

  Heroes, they explained, had already issued broad evacuation orders. Villages were expected to comply independently.

  “We can’t save everywhere,” one official said calmly.

  Ragnar nearly broke a neck.

  He restrained himself.

  Instead, he reported Roy’s absence—factually. He spoke of what Roy had done before leaving. Of cleared forests. Of prevented disasters. Of a man who acted without announcement or reward.

  The officials listened.

  They did nothing.

  During his stay, Ragnar learned more.

  Whispers spread quietly through the capital. Not rebellion—dissent. People questioned hero methods. Questioned verdicts. Questioned the meaning of salvation.

  But words without power did not travel far.

  “As they say,” Ragnar heard once, “without power, even truth becomes false.”

  Opinions were suppressed. Not violently—procedurally.

  Healers worked until collapse, hands shaking as they stitched wounds caused by delays and misjudgments. They did not complain. Complaints were treated as obstruction.

  They worked as if standing on the edge of a blade.

  When Ragnar finally turned back toward Ruby, his steps were faster.

  The line had been crossed.

  Not suddenly.

  Not loudly.

  But undeniably.

  He remembered Roy’s words.

  Stay safe. Stay sharp. Those bugs will come.

  Ragnar understood now.

  He did not know when the world would break.

  But he knew enough to prepare his village for what circled above it—unseen, patient, and growing closer.