Outside the House of Conference, located in Crescent Parish near The Crest itself, hundreds of protesters from all over the kingdom gathered. The Crest—an esteemed building serving as both the governor's residence and primary office for other officials—stood as a silent witness to their outcry.
In hand, they hoisted colored cardboard signs into the air, their voices rising with conviction. One sign read, "Stop killing our children for entertainment" in bold black letters on a white background, streaked with what looked like blood pouring down from the top. Another came as a pair—two people standing side by side. The left sign read, "They hunt to survive" while the right countered, "Why can't we?" Both were painted in dark green letters on a light green and brown background.
Scattered throughout the crowd, the most prevalent sign bore the message: "Our kingdom! Lead with one of us, or govern none of us!" A stark reminder that there were those in the kingdom that did not like the fact that someone who wasn't a born and raised citizen was governing them.
Though these protests remained peaceful, the collective unrest was undeniable. The kingdom's people were disheartened—some merely dissatisfied, others deeply unhappy by the way things were being run.
But despite the roaring of hundreds outside, a quieter, more exclusive gathering was about to take place within the House of Conference—one reserved solely for media professionals.
Although the event was being publicly broadcasted, the governor knew that certain media figures held more sway with the people than she did. So, she invited them, hoping their reports would shape public opinion in her favor. If their perspective resonated with their audiences, perhaps she could shift the tide of sentiment.
"Ladies and gentlemen, before we begin, a reminder: once I hand the floor over to the governor, we will be broadcasting live to all of Meteor Kingdom. Please conduct yourselves accordingly—the entire kingdom will be watching."
With that, Callum, the governor's advisor, stepped aside, ceding the floor to Governor Vale. Cameras flashed, the live broadcast began airing, and reporters pressed record.
Clearing her throat, she began, the voices in the room fading to silence while camera flashes continued. "Over the last decade, Meteor Kingdom has undergone immense change. We have gained much, achieved much—but we have also lost much. If you'll join me, I'd like to take a moment of silence for those who are no longer with us."
The flashing cameras came to a halt, and silence settled over the room. Across the facility and in homes throughout the kingdom, hearts united in a solemn pause—a moment that reset minds and commanded attention as soon as the governor spoke again.
"I look out at our kingdom, and it is clear that the bonds between our parishes and citizens have grown thicker, stronger over the last decade—and rightfully so. Living here has taken some readjustment, and for that, I place the blame on myself. The unprecedented number of missing persons during my inauguration, the destruction that tore through our parishes, the countless loved ones lost—I take full responsibility for failing to prevent or stop these tragedies."
Vale glanced down at her notes, but frustration gripped her. Her fingers clenched the pages resting on the stand, crumpling them. Then, with conviction, she declared, "For these reasons, I am canceling this decade's Wetland Trials."
The words shattered the hush in the room. Reporters jolted from their emotional trance, cameras flashing once more as a surge of voices erupted in protest, disbelief, and urgency.
"I know you all have a lot to say," Vale continued, steady despite the commotion. "I will now be taking questions and statements."
Hands shot into the air, a chaotic wave of demands for answers.
"Yes, you." Vale pointed to a journalist seated at the center of the audience.
The woman stood, holding her recorder steady. "Hello, Governor Vale, Florence Heimer from Parish Times," she introduced herself. "I'll keep my question short and simple—why cancel this kingdom's biggest televised event and tourist attraction? Wouldn't that be a major blow to our economy?"
The Meteor Kingdom Wetland Trials were so renowned that even with certain kingdoms imposing restrictions on its broadcasts, the event remained globally recognized. It alone accounted for 5% of the kingdom's annual revenue—a staggering 1.4 trillion notes.
Vale scanned the room. Silence thickened as reporters leaned in, recorders aimed directly at her.
"I thought it would be obvious," she said. "With all the loss we've suffered over the past decade, I believe it's time to eliminate a controlled reason for even more. We all know how dangerous the tournament is. Even more so since—"
She stopped herself.
The Wetland Trials had existed long before Vale arrived in Meteor Kingdom, but under her governance, they had become even more dangerous. And for what? Entertainment? A display of strength and skill?
It wasn't her decision to make the tournament more brutal. With each generation, new waves of competitors pushed the limits, rendering the old trials too easy. And as someone with the literal power to shift the game's landscape, the kingdom—and the world—turned to Meteor Kingdom's own Mother Nature to raise the stakes.
She had never been particularly fond of the nickname, but Vale couldn't deny the parallels between the mythic figure of nature's mother and the persona the world had built around her. So, she embraced it. And it got her to where she was today—not necessarily in power, but as the face of it. Influence.
"Next question?" Her voice carried through the hall.
As hands shot up once more, she scanned the room before settling on an older gentleman seated at the end of the front row. "Hello, sir. What might your question be?"
The old man took his hat—embroidered with the letters KHA—from his lap and grabbed his cane. Rising to his feet, he made his way to the center of the row, positioning himself directly before both the governor and the crowd.
Vale unhooked one of her three microphones from the stand and handed it to a tech crew member, gesturing for them to pass it along.
"Thank you," the old man said, accepting the microphone. "Hello, everyone."
A sharp, high-pitched ring echoed through the room as the microphone adjusted.
"Hello, Mister…?" Vale prompted, hoping for his name.
"Mister is fine," he replied. "You might not know me, but I know you, and that's all that really matters." His voice was steady, almost measured. "I'm not here on behalf of anyone or any official business like that. Just as a man from the past."
Vale kept her expression composed, though an uneasy sensation crept over her. "And what can I answer for you today, sir?"