The story begins far from castles, dragons, and kings.

In the cold countryside of the Kingdom of Therians, beneath a gray sky covered with heavy clouds, a man named Mular worked silently in his field. The sound of metal striking the earth echoed through the empty farmland while the freezing wind moved through the crops like whispers from unseen ghosts.

Mular was a farmer in his forties, his hands rough from years of labor and war. Deep scars covered parts of his arms, reminders of battles he wished he could forget. From a distance, he looked like an ordinary man living an ordinary life.

But there was nothing ordinary about him.

In Therians, land was a symbol of power. Farmers were born poor and usually died poor. No matter how hard they worked, owning even a tiny piece of land was considered impossible unless someone belonged to the nobility or possessed great wealth.

Yet Mular owned one of the largest farms in the region.

The villagers respected him for it, but behind their smiles existed something else.

Jealousy.

Because everyone knew the truth.

Mular had earned his land from the king himself.

Years ago, before peace returned to Therians, the kingdom faced a brutal war against Monsters called Gouls.

They came from portals from their world to our world. They came through portals from their dying world, seeking to conquer this world and claim it as their own.

Entire armies had fallen. Cities were destroyed. Soldiers disappeared every day beneath blood-soaked snow.

At that time, King Ragna gathered his greatest generals inside the royal war chamber. Day after day, the nobles argued without finding a solution. Fear slowly consumed the palace as defeat became inevitable.

And then a farmer entered the room.

The nobles laughed the moment they saw Mular.

Some mocked his clothes. Others questioned why a commoner was allowed near the king.

But Mular ignored all of them.

He walked directly toward the massive battlefield map placed in the center of the chamber and quietly studied it. The room slowly fell silent as his eyes moved across every river, mountain, and military position.

Then he spoke.

At first, nobody believed him.

His strategy sounded insane.

Instead of defending the kingdom’s strongest fortress like everyone expected, Mular suggested abandoning it completely and leading the enemy deep into the frozen valleys of northern Therians.

The generals called him a fool.

But King Ragna listened.

Three days later, the king followed Mular’s strategy.

And the impossible happened.

Mular lured the Gouls deep into the frozen valleys, where the mountains themselves became their graves. Supply lines collapsed. Thousands froze to death before even reaching the battlefield. Therians attacked at the perfect moment and crushed what remained of the invading forces.

The war ended shortly after.

Mular became a hero across the kingdom overnight.

Songs were written about him. Soldiers praised his name. Even nobles who once mocked him were forced to bow their heads in respect.

As a reward for saving Therians, King Ragna personally granted Mular ownership of fertile farmland near the capital.

For any normal man, that reward would have been enough.

But not for Mular.

Deep inside his heart lived a dream he could never kill.

He wanted to become the Hand of the King.

The position was more than a title. The Hand of the King was the mind behind every war, the person who advised the ruler, controlled military affairs, and shaped the future of the kingdom itself.

And Mular truly believed he deserved it.

He had saved Therians when the generals failed. He had accomplished what nobles could not.

But despite all his achievements… the king refused him.

No explanation. No second chance.

Only silence.

That silence slowly poisoned Mular over the years.

Even now, while working beneath the freezing sky, he still remembered the humiliation burning inside his chest.

To the kingdom, he was a hero.

To the nobles, he would always remain nothing more than a farmer pretending to stand among kings.

Mular suddenly stopped working when he heard soft footsteps behind him.

A small child stood near the edge of the field, quietly watching him.

The boy looked no older than three years old.

His name was Flan.

The cold wind moved gently through the child’s dark hair while his unnatural blue eyes stared silently toward the horizon. There was something deeply uncomfortable about the way he looked at the world — calm, emotionless, almost as if he understood things no child should understand.

Mular stared at his son for several seconds.

Even after all this time… those eyes still unsettled him.

“Father,” Flan suddenly said quietly.

Mular raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”

The child slowly pointed toward the distant mountains far beyond the fields.

“The kingdom will burn one day.”

Silence filled the air.

The wind stopped. Even the birds seemed to disappear.

Mular felt a strange chill crawl through his body as he looked at his son.

Then Flan smiled.

And for the first time in many years… Mular felt fear inside his own home.

Winter had always been cruel in the Kingdom of Therians.

The winds carried a freezing bitterness capable of cutting through skin like blades, and the nights often felt endless beneath the pale silver moon hanging over the kingdom. But for the people living near Mular’s farm, the cold itself was no longer the thing they feared most.

They feared his son.

Flan was only three years old.

Yet whenever people spoke about him, they lowered their voices as if afraid the child might somehow hear them.

The villagers could not explain why they felt uncomfortable around him. Nothing about his appearance seemed truly frightening. In fact, Flan looked unusually beautiful for a child his age. His dark hair moved softly with the wind, and his deep blue eyes shined like frozen crystals beneath sunlight.

But those eyes…

They never looked innocent.

Children laughed. Children cried. Children played.

Flan simply watched.

Always silent. Always observing.

Sometimes the villagers caught him staring at people for long periods without blinking, almost as though he were studying them instead of looking at them.

And somehow… that frightened them more than monsters.

One afternoon, several older boys gathered near the center of the village, playing an ancient war game similar to chess. The game had existed for centuries in Therians and was often used by soldiers and commanders to improve battlefield strategy.

Most adults struggled to master it.

Flan defeated them all within minutes.

Again.

The older boys grew visibly frustrated as the small child calmly moved pieces across the board with emotionless precision. Every trap they attempted had already been predicted before they even thought about it.

“You cheated,” one of the boys snapped angrily.

Flan slowly lifted his eyes toward him.

“If I cheated,” he said quietly, “you wouldn’t have noticed.”

The boy froze.

A strange silence fell over the group.

It was not just what Flan said… It was the way he said it.

Cold. Calm. Without hesitation.

Like an adult speaking through the body of a child.

One of the village elders had once watched Flan play for nearly an hour without saying a single word. Afterward, the old man returned home pale and disturbed.

Later that night, he told Mular something he would never forget.

“That child doesn’t think like us.”

At first, Mular dismissed the villagers’ fears as ignorance.

Flan was intelligent. That was all.

But over time… even Mular began noticing things he could not explain.

Sometimes Flan spoke about events before they happened.

Not clearly. Not directly.

Just small things.

A storm arriving hours before dark. A horse collapsing during travel. A fight breaking out between neighbors.

And every single time…

He was right.

Mular tried convincing himself these were coincidences.

Yet deep inside, uncertainty slowly began growing inside him like poison.

One evening, while snow quietly fell outside their home, Mular entered the dining room and suddenly stopped.

Flan sat alone beside the fireplace.

In front of him lay a wooden war board.

Dozens of game pieces had been arranged across it in perfect formation.

Mular frowned.

The positions looked familiar.

Too familiar.

Slowly, he walked closer to the table.

Then his expression changed.

Flan was recreating the Battle of the Northern Valleys — the exact battle that had ended the war against the Gouls years ago.

Every soldier placement… Every movement… Every tactical position…

Perfect.

Mular felt his chest tighten.

Nobody had ever taught Flan this battle.

No maps existed inside the house. No books described the strategy.

And yet somehow…

The child had rebuilt the entire war by himself.

Flan calmly moved one final piece across the board.

“The king made a mistake here,” he said softly.

Mular stared at him. “What?”

Flan pointed toward the center of the battlefield.

“If the Gouls had attacked from the eastern ridge instead of following the valley… Therians would have lost the war.”

Silence filled the room.

Mular slowly looked down at the board again.

Then fear crawled through his body.

Because Flan was right.

The eastern ridge had been the one weakness in the strategy.

A weakness nobody had ever discovered.

Not the generals. Not the nobles. Not even King Ragna himself.

Only Mular knew about it.

And now…

So did a three-year-old child.

The fireplace crackled softly in the darkness while snow continued falling outside.

Flan lifted his blue eyes toward his father.

Then he smiled.

“I would have won,” he whispered.

For the first time since surviving the war against the Gouls…

Mular felt truly helpless.

There was no kingdom greater than Therians.

At least, that was what the world believed.

Its cities were built from black stone strong enough to survive dragon fire. Its armies were feared across every continent. Its banners flew over trade routes, mountains, and frozen seas alike. Even the air inside Therians felt different — colder, heavier, filled with pride and power.

For centuries, the kingdom stood above all others.

And at the center of that greatness stood the royal capital itself.

Massive walls of ice-covered steel surrounded the city like an unbreakable fortress. Towering statues of ancient kings watched silently from above while armored dragon riders crossed the skies overhead, their shadows passing across the streets beneath them.

To outsiders, the capital of Therians looked less like a city…

And more like the heart of an empire destined to rule forever.

Inside the Royal Palace, dozens of nobles stood in silence within the Grand Hall. Golden chandeliers illuminated the massive chamber while soldiers wearing silver armor guarded every entrance.

At the far end of the hall sat King Ragna upon the Frost Throne.

Even among warriors, Ragna was considered terrifying.

His long white cloak rested behind him like flowing snow, and the pressure of his presence alone was enough to make lesser men lower their eyes. Countless scars marked his body — proof that the king fought beside his soldiers instead of hiding behind walls.

Some called him the strongest Ice King in history.

Others called him the man closest to becoming a legend.

But despite the kingdom’s glory…

Something was wrong.

The atmosphere inside the hall felt tense.

Uneasy.

Because news had arrived from the southern borders.

Another portal had opened.

A soldier knelt before the throne, breathing heavily from exhaustion.

“The Gouls attacked another village near the eastern trade roads, Your Majesty,” he reported. “No survivors were found.”

Silence spread across the chamber.

One of the nobles cursed quietly beneath his breath while another nervously tightened his grip around his wine cup.

The Gouls had become humanity’s greatest nightmare.

Nobody understood where they truly came from. The portals connecting their dying world to this one appeared without warning, tearing reality apart before unleashing creatures hungry for destruction.

Some Gouls looked human.

Others looked like monsters born directly from hell itself.

And every year…

The portals increased.

Ragna slowly leaned back against his throne.

“How many this time?”

The soldier hesitated.

“Over three hundred Gouls, Your Majesty… including high-class variants.”

Several nobles immediately panicked.

“That close to the capital?” “How is that possible?” “The barriers should’ve detected them!”

But Ragna remained calm.

Cold.

Dangerously calm.

“Send the Third Dragon Battalion,” he ordered. “Burn everything near the portal before more creatures emerge.”

The soldier lowered his head immediately.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

As the man hurried out of the hall, the nobles began arguing among themselves once more.

Some demanded stronger defenses. Others wanted to close the borders completely. A few even suggested abandoning smaller villages near portal zones.

Cowards hiding behind expensive clothes.

Ragna watched them silently with growing disappointment.

Then suddenly—

The massive doors of the Grand Hall opened.

A tall man entered wearing dark green royal armor marked with silver wind symbols across the chest.

The atmosphere instantly changed.

King Yamin had arrived.

Unlike Ragna’s cold and overwhelming presence, Yamin carried himself with confidence and elegance. His long black hair moved gently behind him while sharp gray eyes scanned the room with amusement.

He smiled.

And somehow that smile felt more dangerous than a sword.

“My old friend,” Yamin said casually while approaching the throne. “I leave my kingdom for three weeks and suddenly the world starts collapsing again.”

For the first time since the meeting began…

Ragna laughed.

A real laugh.

The tension inside the hall immediately weakened as the two kings embraced each other like brothers reunited after years apart.

Many younger nobles looked shocked by the sight.

Legends often made powerful rulers seem less human in stories.

But Ragna and Yamin truly trusted one another.

They had fought together since youth. Survived wars together. Bled together.

People used to say that if both kings stood on the same battlefield, defeat became impossible.

Yamin eventually sat beside the throne while servants filled silver cups with wine.

“The Gouls?” he asked.

Ragna nodded slowly. “They’re increasing again.”

Yamin’s smile faded slightly.

“That’s not the only problem,” he said quietly.

Ragna looked toward him.

For the first time since entering the hall, Yamin seemed serious.

“The other kingdoms are afraid of Therians.”

The nobles immediately fell silent.

Ragna narrowed his eyes. “Afraid?”

“They believe your kingdom has become too powerful,” Yamin continued. “Trade. Dragons. Military strength. Territory. You dominate everything.”

“And?”

“And fear creates enemies.”

A cold silence spread across the hall.

Because everyone there understood the truth.

Therians stood above the world for too long.

And kingdoms rarely tolerated living beneath another kingdom forever.

Far beyond the palace walls, snow continued falling over the capital.

Meanwhile, somewhere in the distant countryside…

A three-year-old child with blue eyes stared silently toward the horizon as if already hearing the footsteps of the coming disaster.