Chapter 90 — No Man's Land
The wind howled like a ghost across the plains.
Dust carried the scent of rust, ash, and something else — something older than sorrow.
Moro and his squad stood on the edge of the forgotten region known only as No Man's Land. The sky above was a dull gray that stretched endlessly, with no trace of birds or sunlight. Even the air itself felt heavier, as if burdened by memories of pain.
They had walked for days since leaving the volcano behind. Every step they took seemed to draw them further away from life and deeper into silence.
When they crossed the final ridge, the sight before them froze their hearts.
The earth was cracked open like shattered glass. The trees were nothing but skeletons, stripped bare. Old buildings leaned at strange angles, half-eaten by sand and decay. And there were people — or what was left of them — scattered across the wasteland like faded shadows.
Small fires burned in rusted barrels, surrounded by figures too weak to stand upright. Their faces were thin and gray, their eyes sunken deep into hollow sockets. Children coughed weakly, sitting in the dust beside mothers who could barely lift their heads.
It was not just a place of ruin.
It was a graveyard that still breathed.
Moro stopped walking. His fists clenched. His chest tightened at the sight.
Kiro's eyes darted across the desolate streets. "This… this can't be Mavaria. Not the same land the nobles rule over."
Yaya covered her mouth, unable to speak. The stench of decay hung in the air. Kaya's hands trembled slightly as she looked around — her control over water could heal wounds, but not hunger, not disease, not despair.
Steven stood a few steps behind, silent. His yellow eyes glowed faintly in the dark air, scanning every corner.
Herbet finally broke the silence, his voice cracking. "How… how can people live like this?"
As they moved deeper into the barren town, the reality became clearer.
Old signs creaked in the wind. Shops stood empty, their walls covered in faded posters of smiling faces — relics from a time when hope still existed. The ground was scattered with toys, rusted tools, and fragments of old life.
Moro's boots sank into the dust. He could feel every step echo through him. Every sound was like a heartbeat in the silence.
They turned a corner — and that's when they saw them.
Children. Dozens of them. Huddled near an abandoned water tank, skin pale and marked with strange sores. Some were lying motionless; others stared blankly at the newcomers, too weak to speak.
Herbet fell to his knees, tears in his eyes. "This is… this is wrong."
One little boy coughed violently, clutching his chest. A girl beside him tried to hand him a piece of stale bread — her hands shaking.
Kiro's jaw tightened. "How could the world let this happen? How could anyone look away?"
Moro stood silent for a moment, his eyes trembling. The sight pierced deep into him — into that place where justice burned brighter than reason.
He stepped forward slowly, his shadow falling over the starving children. "Damn…" he whispered, his voice rough. "We have to help these people."
Kiro looked up at him, his expression caught between anger and heartbreak. "You idiot," he said, shaking his head. "Of course we will."
Yaya nodded, her eyes fierce even through the tears. "What kind of warriors would we be if we didn't?"
Kaya exhaled, regaining her focus. "Then let's get to work. I'll purify what little water is left in this town."
Steven lifted his hand, and frost spread across the air, turning the poisoned dust into clean ice crystals. "And I'll seal the disease spreading through the wind."
The group scattered, each moving to do what they could.
Kiro built fires and handed food from their supplies.
Herbet bandaged wounds with the old cloth he carried.
Yaya carried water in her hands, shaping it into glowing orbs to pour into the children's mouths.
And Moro… Moro stayed by the children who could not stand. He knelt by them, speaking softly — his voice trembling but full of warmth.
"You're going to be okay," he said to a boy whose skin burned with fever. "We're here now."
The boy looked up weakly, his eyes barely open. "Who… who are you, mister?"
Moro smiled faintly, even though his chest ached. "Someone who believes you deserve to live."
The boy's lips moved — not a word, just a small, fragile smile.
As Moro stood, something brushed against his boot. A hand.
A man — frail, crawling through the dirt — reached out toward him. His clothes were torn, his face lined with age and pain.
"Save us… young man…" he whispered, his voice broken like cracked glass.
Moro dropped to his knees immediately, grabbing the man's hand. "We will," he said firmly. "I promise, we will."
The man's eyes watered. "They… they took everything. The nobles… they took everything…"
Moro leaned closer. "Who did?"
"The nobles," the man croaked. "The kings and lords of Mavaria. They drained this land dry. They took our crops, our water, our families. All to build their golden cities."
Kiro's eyes flared. "Those damn nobles…"
Yaya's fists clenched. "So that's why this land is cursed. They stripped it bare."
The man's grip weakened, his breath shallow. "Please… save the children…"
Then his hand fell limp.
Moro closed his eyes and lowered the man's arm gently onto the ground. The silence afterward was suffocating.
Kaya's voice trembled. "He's gone…"
Moro stood, looking over the dead land once more. His face was calm, but his aura shifted — deep and silent like a storm waiting to rise.
The air itself seemed to hum with that energy.
Herbet swallowed hard. "Moro… the people here, they… they've been abandoned for years. The government must have hidden this place from the world."
Moro turned toward him, eyes burning faintly. "Then we'll make the world see it again."
They walked deeper into the ruins, trying to find any shelter still standing. Around them, the moans of the dying echoed softly. The deeper they went, the darker the air became — a mix of grief and sickness that clung to their lungs.
At the heart of the town stood a collapsed cathedral. The cross at its peak was bent, and inside were rows of broken pews covered in ash. Candles burned weakly before a cracked statue of an angel.
Yaya whispered, "This used to be a sanctuary."
Moro stepped inside, the floor creaking under his boots. The faint echo of prayers that once filled the hall seemed to linger in the walls.
He stood before the broken altar and placed his hand on it. "How long have they suffered here?"
Steven approached beside him. "Long enough for hope to die."
Moro turned his head slightly. "Then we'll bring it back."
Outside, the wind howled again, carrying faint whispers through the ruins.
It was as if the land itself was alive — watching, remembering.
As night fell, the town grew eerily still. Fires burned dimly as the squad tended to the sick and wounded. Yaya hummed softly, trying to keep the children calm. Kaya sat near a well, using her water to wash infected wounds. Kiro sharpened his sword silently, his eyes filled with quiet fury.
Steven stood on a hill overlooking the wasteland, frost drifting from his hand as he scanned the horizon.
Then he saw it — far away, beyond the fog, faint lights flickering in the distance.
He narrowed his eyes. "Someone's watching us."
Back in the cathedral, Moro looked up at the ceiling, cracked open to the sky. He could see faint stars between the drifting clouds.
"This land…" he whispered, "is where justice must begin again."
Herbet looked at him, unsure. "You think we can fix this?"
Moro didn't answer immediately. His gaze was calm, steady — the same fire he always carried within him.
"We can't fix the world," he said finally. "But we can make it remember what it means to care."
The others fell silent.
The wind outside died down for a moment, and in that silence, the faintest sound of children laughing — faint, distant, like a memory — drifted through the air.
It was as if the land itself had heard Moro's words.
As they all sat around the dying fire that night, they didn't know that far beyond the wasteland, in the golden city of Mavaria's capital, the nobles were already speaking in hushed voices about "the fugitives" who had dared enter No Man's Land.
And somewhere, unseen in the dark, a figure was watching — the same one who had once smiled at Moro from afar. His cloak fluttered in the cold wind, his eyes sharp with interest.
He whispered to himself, "So… you've finally stepped into the heart of Mavaria. Let's see how bright your justice can burn in a place where hope itself has turned to dust."
The moon hung heavy above No Man's Land, casting its pale glow over the broken world below — a world waiting, trembling, for the storm that was about to awaken.
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