I was meant to die on that battlefield. We were outnumbered by millions, our fate all but sealed. We should have perished that day. We were nothing but insects before an army that could have drowned us in sheer numbers. I remember the screams. The banners burning. The way the ground turned into a river of blood beneath our feet. I remember gripping my sword so tightly my fingers went numb. I remember praying—not for survival, but for death to be painless.

Yet, not only did I survive, but we achieved a victory worth remembering. Not because of fate. Not because of the gods. But because of him.

Somehow, I survived. But this is not my story.

This is the tale of my king—the Nightmare of Drakseid. A man who turned the impossible into reality, who performed miracles in war, and who fought to bring peace to a continent drowning in bloodshed.

It is the Year 310 of the Vermanyan Calendar, a system established by the Round Table of Vermanyan—a council where kings and emperors gather once a decade, desperately attempting to maintain peace in a continent filled with ambition and greed. But peace is fleeting, as incursions and feuds are constant. The world is ruled by might, and the four great powers that lead the council stand on the brink of war:

The Elven Empire, masters of magic and ancient wisdom, who confine themselves to their great forests, where trees soar over a thousand meters high.

The Dwarven Kingdom, unrivaled in craftsmanship and technology, occupying the mountainous and rocky regions.

The Distia Empire, expansionist and ruthless in its pursuit of dominance, possessing the largest empire with a vast diversity of land and life forms.

The Empire of Sapphire, the mightiest of them all, a religious nation of humans and demi-humans.

Between these warring giants lies Drakseid, a kingdom trapped in a web of ambition, diplomacy, and conflict. A land neither weak nor powerful—until fate intervened.

That year, a child was born to the majestic king and queen of Drakseid. A child of prophecy.

The Oracle’s words echoed through the halls of the palace:

"He will make his people lift bronze, bring down the stars, and build mountains of flesh. And when the sky falls, he shall push it back up."

At the time, many dismissed it as poetic nonsense. Others saw it as a foretelling of greatness. None understood its true meaning. Not yet.

For generations, the Kingdom of Drakseid had survived by any means necessary, relying heavily on its allies. But its poverty was undeniable, with little more than a small supply of gold as its primary export. Trade was fragile, and even that meager gold supply was running dry. Our roads were rough, our armies small. I remember my father cursing under his breath as he counted the last few copper coins in his hand, wondering if we’d have enough to buy grain before winter came.

However, under the vision and effort of its rulers—King Henry, Queen Ester, and Minister Josh—the kingdom slowly began to reform. Trade flourished, life improved, and the weight of poverty began to ease. The rough roads and small army were changing.

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The greatest joy for our king and queen came with the birth of their first child, a son. His arrival was celebrated throughout the kingdom, and he was given the name Rhydher, after the kingdom’s legendary founder. His full name: Rhydher H. Drakseid.

Little did we know what this child would become? Yet, even then, there was something in the air, an unspoken belief that he was destined for something far greater than anyone could imagine. But what would I have known? At the time of his birth, I was just a child tending the fields alongside my parents, oblivious to the storm of war that was coming.

Years passed. Rumors began to spread—whispers of the young prince’s ingenuity, ruthless discipline, and radical military reforms. At first, they were dismissed as exaggerations. But before long, the truth became undeniable.

Then, the military recruitment was announced when the prince turned six. Boys and girls aged twelve and above were called upon to join—an unprecedented decree that nearly threw the capital into chaos. The idea of child soldiers was unheard of, but before fear could take hold, the terms of recruitment were read aloud.

I will tell you of those terms soon. But know this—it was that decree that led me to enlist.

I did not join for glory, nor for wealth. I joined because I wanted my name etched into history. And in doing so, I embarked on a journey beyond my wildest imagination.

It was the year 316 of the Vermanyan Calendar, and inside the largest fort of the Drakseid Kingdom, a few hundred of us stood in formation. The fort loomed over us like a silent judge, its towering walls scarred by years of battle and extreme weather. The name of the fort is Hope, our ancestor’s last stronghold in their survival.  Boys and girls, aged 12 to 16, arranged by rank and age. Beside us stood the kingdom’s veterans, battle-hardened but weary, their armor dented, their faces carved with experience. Every officer, every commander, even King Henry himself, was present. The air was thick with expectation. Then, a voice ordered silence. The highest-ranking general stepped forward. And then, to everyone’s shock, the one who took the stage was not a war-hardened general—but the six-year-old crown prince, Rhydher.

He was the cutest child I had ever seen. Small, fragile-looking—he should have been playing with wooden swords and chasing birds in the palace gardens. A part of me wanted to pat his head and give him a cookie. But then he stood firm, composed himself, and spoke—and in that moment, I felt my breath hitch. His presence was overwhelming. His voice—cold, measured, carrying the weight of a man who had stared into the abyss and never looked away. His eyes weren’t those of a child. They were the eyes of a ruler. A conqueror. They burned into my soul like a dagger, stripping me bare.

Before I heard him, I wanted to believe it was a mistake. That a six-year-old had wandered into this place by accident.

Many had whispered that the prince was a fool. That a child pushing for military reform and debating his elders was either delusional or arrogant. But standing there, under his gaze, I knew—they were wrong.

And then, in a fleeting moment, I saw it. A vision. A battlefield littered with corpses. My comrades and I, standing victorious, our bodies weary, our mouths dry from war. And at the center of it all, Rhydher—handing us water, ensuring that none of us went thirsty.

In that moment, all my doubts disappeared. I would follow this child to the ends of the earth. To war. To death. To victory.

I was just sixteen at the time.

But all of this? All of it is nothing compared to what lies beyond our shores. Vermanyan is just one of the three great continents. Yet, to travel beyond it is to invite death. The seas are not our ally. The waves hide creatures so massive, so ancient, that even the mightiest fleets are reduced to nothing more than drifting wreckage. I know this because I’ve seen it. I was there when one of them breached the shoreline, its monstrous form blotting out the sun. We tried to kill it but failed even though we had the advantage at land. It still had enough strength to escape after we throw our might at it. The damn creature had thick shells, long tentacles or arms and hooks or suckers that dries us up of our energy and blood leaving us like a twig. But that is a tale for another time.

We should hear this story from his own words too. He claims to come from another world where magic does not exist and a single weapon can destroy the world. Frankly, I find that impossible. The strongest magic spells can barely blow up a village. Still I can say his ingenuity and thoughts are not of this world.