While looking through the reports, Horace spotted that glaring term.
"Frenzied Flame sickness..."
He set down his quill, brought the scroll closer, and read it word by word.
A large merchant caravan calling itself the "Nomadic Tribe" had drifted here from overseas and had now entered the Golden Dynasty's territory.
Everything they had done followed normal diplomatic and commercial procedures.
Except for the final note:
"Yellow frenzied flame occasionally flickers in the pupils of this tribe's members. Though their minds remain clear, they are suspected of involvement with the frenzied flame."
Horace closed his eyes, quickly calling up fragments of his memories about the Nomadic Tribe.
The Nomadic Tribe was a human race accustomed to traveling and trading. They wandered everywhere, living hard lives.
As a people, they were extremely united.
The Nomadic Tribe had a rule: "There is nothing wrong with being alone-even if others scorn and abandon us, there is no need to seek anything from them. But those who hurt us must never be let off lightly."
But in the game, they were also synonymous with tragedy.
Suspecting them of worshiping the frenzied flame, the Golden Dynasty had trapped the entire great caravan and buried them alive deep beneath Leyndell.
The despairing Nomadic Tribe had wailed in the sunless depths. Their pain and despair had eventually drawn the Three Fingers, bringing about the true advent of the frenzied flame.
But there was one question:
Had the Nomadic Tribe first worshiped the Three Fingers and drawn the frenzied flame, only to be slaughtered as heretics?
Or had they first been suppressed by the Golden Dynasty, only to become hosts to the frenzied flame in their despair?
Horace did not know the answer.
But he knew one thing: no matter what, the tragedy of their live burial must never