Chapter 2 — The Child Feared by All

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.

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