The King staggered through the thick snow, his wounds searing with each step. The howling winds seemed intent on claiming him, the cold biting into his bones. His eyes, bloodshot and weary, scanned the desolate landscape ahead. The battle had been a massacre—five thousand men lost, and only five survivors remained. His body ached with exhaustion, and yet, there was no rest in sight. Even the thought of returning to the kingdom seemed futile, a cruel joke in this forsaken winter.

"We'll be dead before we even make it back," the King muttered, his voice barely rising above the wind's cruel laughter.

The General, his left arm lost in the chaos of battle, trudged beside him. His remaining hand gripped a bloodied sword, though his steps were just as heavy. The wind bit at his exposed skin, but his sharp eyes caught something in the distance—a soft glow amidst the storm.

"Boss," the General said, his voice cutting through the air like the steel in his hand. "Do you see that?"

The King squinted through the snow, unsure at first. But then, a faint warmth seemed to beckon them. It wasn't natural, not in a land cursed by snow and endless winter.

"That light… it's coming from the woods," the General continued, his voice steady despite the overwhelming fatigue. "Let's check it out."

They made their way toward the source of the light, the snow crunching beneath their boots as they moved. As they drew closer, they saw it: a peculiar monument stood at the forest's edge, its form dark against the storm. Two statues guarded the entrance, one shattered and broken, the other intact, its features sharp and unyielding.

The General's eyes narrowed, and he stepped closer to the monument, feeling an unnatural pull toward it. "This... this looks otherworldly," he said, awe tinging his voice. "No snow on top... but the storm has raged for hours."

The King studied the monument with a growing unease, the feeling that something was wrong gnawing at him. It was as if the monument had simply appeared out of nowhere—untouched by the storm that raged all around them.

As the wind howled louder, the light seemed to grow stronger, pulling them in.

The group stepped into the temple, their footsteps muffled by the strange silence that seemed to hang in the air. The walls of the structure were unlike anything they had ever seen—twisting columns, unfamiliar patterns etched into the stone, and an ancient, unreadable script that seemed to shift as they stared at it. It was as though the temple, and perhaps even the language itself, had come from another dimension, or perhaps another time altogether. The monument outside had been strange enough, but now they were standing in the heart of something far more otherworldly.

"What is this place?" the King murmured, his voice barely audible over the growing sense of unease.

Before anyone could respond, a loud cracking sound echoed through the hall, sharp and heavy, as if something had broken. Without hesitation, the King and the General exchanged a glance and rushed toward the noise, their instincts in sync despite the weariness that clung to them.

At the far end of the hall, they found what had caused the noise—a small, stone podium, and lying on it, a baby. It was as if the child had been placed there with no care at all, peacefully resting amid the strange surroundings. The King and General cautiously approached, their steps slow, as though the air itself was holding its breath.

The baby seemed normal at first. But then, as they drew closer, the child's eyelids fluttered. Slowly, the baby opened his eyes, and as the King's gaze met his, a chill ran down his spine. His instincts screamed in warning, the primal fear of something unseen flooding him. He could feel his heart race, his body tensing, but he could not look away.

The baby stared up at him, a tiny wail beginning to form in his throat. Then, with no warning, the baby cried out, loud and shrill, breaking the eerie silence.

Startled, both the King and the General froze.

"Boss," the General said, trying to hide a grin as he broke the tension. "Look, you made him cry. Not you, comfort him—pick him up."

The King, his face contorted in discomfort, shook his head. "You pick him up."

The General's smile widened as he raised his remaining hand. "I don't have an arm, remember?"

With a sigh, the King gave in. He reached down and carefully cradled the baby in his arms, the child immediately calming in his embrace.

"See? You're good at it," the General remarked, his tone light. "No wonder you're a father."

The medic, who had arrived alongside the rest of the crew, gently took the baby from the King's arms to examine him. After a moment of checking the child's health, he nodded. "He's healthy. A boy."

The King's gaze turned somber as he looked toward the warrior who had been struggling to stay alive, his breath labor

The storm raged on, snow battering the ancient temple as the survivors made their decision to stay the night. The King's question to the medic had already been answered—a disappointed shake of her head, signaling there was no hope for the remaining wounded warrior. Their group was shrinking by the hour, and the weight of survival pressed on all of them.

By the dim firelight, the King held the baby in his arms. He gazed into its small, innocent face. There was something about the child—an unexplainable pull, a spark of something extraordinary. After a long silence, he spoke, his voice firm but carrying an undercurrent of uncertainty.

"I will adopt this child," the King declared, his words startling the others. "There's something about him... something I cannot ignore."

The group said nothing, though their expressions revealed mixed emotions—relief, hope, confusion, and even apprehension. Slowly, they settled for the night, each finding what little comfort they could. But for the King, sleep did not bring solace.

---

The nightmare was vivid, mercilessly dragging the King back to the battlefield. He could hear the clash of swords, the screams of dying men, and the sight of blood staining the snow-covered plains. His warriors—five thousand strong—had fought not for conquest but survival, to protect the kingdom's most fertile land, Xeroses, far to the South. The land had been seized by the Ragnarok Brothers, four ruthless warlords who had thrived under the South King's negligence. The Duke of Xeroses had been slain, and the brothers claimed the land as their own, their forces spreading like wildfire toward the Western Empire. The King saw their faces, twisted in triumph as his army fell.

He awoke with a start, sweat coating his body despite the freezing cold. His chest heaved as he steadied himself, still feeling the echoes of his soldiers' cries. But something else caught his attention—a movement outside.

Grabbing his sword, the King stepped out into the frigid night, his boots crunching against the snow. At the temple's entrance, he found the General standing alone, his figure silhouetted against the storm's dying light.

"What are you doing out here?" the King asked, his voice low but firm.

"Keeping watch while you all sleep," the General replied without looking back. "But… what good am I now, with only one hand?" His tone carried bitterness. "The full me couldn't even win that war for you. What use is half of me?"

The King's expression hardened, his voice steady. "You are, and will always be, the most skilled warrior of my kingdom."

The General turned his head slightly but remained silent for a moment. Then, with a voice heavy with despair, he asked, "What are we going to do now, boss? We lost the most valuable war. The kingdom will starve. People are going to die. What are we going to do?"

The King had no answer. His silence was louder than any words he could have spoken. The two men stood there, the weight of their failure hanging between them as the night dragged on.

---

By morning, the storm had passed, and sunlight bathed the snowy landscape. But it brought no warmth to the hearts of the survivors. They awoke to find another of their own had fallen—the warrior who had fought so valiantly to survive had taken his last breath in the night.

In solemn silence, they buried him just outside the temple, marking his grave with a rough stone. The medic wept quietly, her youth unable to mask the toll this journey was taking. The King knelt by the grave, placing a hand on the stone, and whispered, "You fought bravely. Rest now."

With heavy hearts, the group gathered their belongings and prepared to march toward La Porta, the Southern Empire's outpost. The journey ahead was long, and the wounds they carried—both physical and emotional—were deep. Yet, as they left the ancient temple behind, the King held the baby close, determined to protect him at all costs, even as uncertainty loomed over their future.