At the northern border of the Kingdom, three fortified cities stood vigilant, guarded by the Armed Knights, the royal family’s elite forces, year-round.

The Armed Knights belonged to one of the three royal sequences. This extraordinary order didn't require noble lineage, but all warriors who joined had to sign a devil’s contract, pledging unwavering loyalty to the crown.

Grant Hill had been stationed here for twenty years.

Over those years, the young man who once struggled to lift a sword had transformed into a seasoned veteran. The scars on his face were his medals, the blood of his enemies his trophies, and the broken spines of his foes a ladder he’d climbed. Now, he was the deputy commander of the Armed Knights, leading an army at the edge of the Kingdom.

But his time here was ending. Soon, he’d leave this frigid land he’d called home for two decades; the twenty-year term for the Armed Knights was nearing its close, and he would retire with honor.

As for what came next… Grant’s rugged face clouded with uncertainty. Unlike the young recruits who cursed the bitter cold, he’d grown to love this place. He was free here, with plenty to eat and drink, and no real complaints beyond the relentless weather.

“Deputy Commander Grant!”

Soldiers of the Armed Knights saluted him as he passed, but he ignored them. He knew too well the ambition behind their respectful calls. Soon, one of them would replace him, inheriting the title of deputy commander—and with it, a viscountship.

Grant moved steadily through the snow, his mind wandering to the wall where he’d fought his first battle. That day, when northern monsters breached the Kingdom’s defenses, he’d been the sole survivor of his unit. He passed through the honor square, where he’d once stood victorious before the crowd, the head of the Bear King—a fifth-sequence beast—in his grasp.

Nothing could bring those days back.

“Bang!”

Grant’s thoughts snapped to the present as pain flared in his forehead. He’d walked straight into a tall figure cloaked in a dark robe.

“Apologies, I… is it you?”

Grant instinctively backed up, stunned. Everyone in the North knew this man. The towering figure before him was none other than Salamon Gilensel, head of the Gilensel family and the fabled King of the North.

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Salamon’s frame was massive beneath his black robe, and even with his hood up, he was still a full head taller than Grant. Their gazes met, Salamon looking down on him like a monarch over his subject.

“It’s been a while, Hill.”

Salamon stretched out his hand.

“A long time indeed, Lord Salamon Gilensel.”

Grant took his hand. The Armed Knights and the Gilensel family were not allies; as two of the North’s largest forces, they often clashed. But Salamon’s handshake was firm, giving no chance to pull back.

“I heard you’re retiring. Heading back to the capital?”

Grant tried to free his hand, but Salamon’s iron grip held firm.

“Yes, but I haven’t decided whether I’ll return to the capital.”

With a nod, Salamon finally released his hand. “If you’re unsure, you could go there for me—and do me a favor while you’re at it.”

Salamon’s copper-bell eyes seemed to bore into Grant’s scarred face.

“What kind of favor?”

“What I’m asking is for you to teach a child.”

Grant hesitated. “The princess, Angelina?”

Salamon shook his head. “No, her fiancé, a boy named Charles West.”

“Charles West…” Grant murmured, then added, “What’s in it for me?”

“If you train him well,” Salamon replied, his tone unwavering, “you can keep your position as deputy commander of the Armed Knights.”

Grant’s eyes widened. The Armed Knights and the Gilensel family had never cooperated closely. Why this sudden offer?

“Don’t trust me?” Salamon’s calm expression hardened, and a powerful aura radiated from him, forcing Grant several steps back.

Grant steadied himself, quickly replying, “I believe you… but why me?”

Salamon’s tone softened, yet it was clear he wouldn’t answer every question. “The Armed Knights are one of the finest combat orders in existence, and you’re the best of them. The seventh-sequence Temple Guard of the Armed Knights is unmatched in the North.”

The icy wind stung Grant’s face, sharpening his focus. “But why him?” he pressed.

Salamon’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not privileged to that information, Hill,” he replied coolly.

Grant’s voice rose, carrying a spark of defiance. “King of the North, I don’t care about your priests’ prophecies. I’m telling you now—the North’s salvation won’t come from the rotten nobility of the imperial capital.”

Salamon’s tone grew cold. “Are you going to do it?”

Grant set his jaw, then nodded. “Fine, I’ll go. I’ll prove you wrong.”

Without another word, Grant turned, fully awake now, already planning his departure for the capital to find this Charles West.

“If he doesn’t fit in the royal capital,” Salamon’s voice called through the rising storm, “bring him back to the North.”

The snow swirled around Salamon’s massive figure, his shadow growing fainter by the second. Grant spat into the snow, pulling out a worn parchment from within his armor.

“Your whole family’s a bunch of thickheaded lions, Gilensel.”

The ancient sheepskin was weathered, the words nearly illegible, but the script was unmistakably in the language of the old gods.

“The son of the forsaken old god, abandoned by the new, shall breathe new life into the desolate lands.”

Beneath the text was an abstract image of a figure, with eyes like a demon’s and fangs bared. A sleeping dragon’s head lay over its heart, surrounded by gusting winds, with the shadow of a god looming above.

“Could someone like this really exist?”

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Meanwhile, in West Castle, Charles lay asleep, dreaming. Suddenly, he sneezed, stirring from his rest.

“Could Freya be talking about me?” he mumbled groggily.