Chapter1 Who is that Farmer?

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.

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