The storm had ended.
But the fear had not.
A heavy silence suffocated the royal palace of Valenor. Servants whispered in hushed voices along the corridors. Guards tightened their grips on their spears. Even the bravest soldiers avoided looking toward the highest tower.
Something unnatural had happened there.
Everyone could feel it.
Inside the royal chamber, the queen held her newborn son tightly against her chest.
Her hands trembled.
Her heart pounded.
She stared at the child's peaceful face, searching desperately for proof that the healer had been wrong.
But deep down—
She already knew.
"He has no mana," the healer repeated softly.
The words fell like stones.
In the world of Eryndor, mana was life.
It flowed through every living creature—from the smallest insect to the most powerful king. Without mana, a person could not wield magic, could not defend themselves, could barely survive.
A child without mana was not merely weak.
He was defenseless.
A burden.
A target.
Then—
BOOM.
The palace doors burst open.
Guards rushed into the chamber, armor clanking sharply against marble floors. Behind them walked an old man dressed in long silver robes. His white beard reached his chest, and faint golden light shimmered within his eyes.
The room fell silent.
Everyone recognized him instantly.
The Royal Prophet.
The man who could see the future.
The man whose visions had saved the kingdom more times than anyone could count.
Even the king rose from his throne when he entered.
"You called for me," the prophet said.
His voice was calm.
Controlled.
But strangely cold.
"Yes," the king replied.
His jaw tightened.
"You must examine the child."
The prophet turned slowly toward the newborn.
For a moment—
Nothing happened.
Then—
His expression changed.
The calm vanished.
Shock replaced it.
Then fear.
Real fear.
He stepped forward.
Slowly.
Each step felt heavier than the last. The torches along the walls flickered violently, reacting to an invisible pressure building in the room.
The queen tightened her hold on her son.
"Stay back," she warned.
But the prophet did not stop.
He raised his trembling hand.
Golden light gathered around his palm.
Bright.
Intense.
Forbidden.
The kind of magic used only to see the threads of destiny.
The chamber grew colder.
The air thickened.
The light brightened.
Then—
He touched the baby's forehead.
Everything changed.
The prophet's body went rigid.
His pupils shrank.
The golden light exploded outward in a blinding flash.
Images flooded his mind.
A city burning.
Towers collapsing.
Rivers of fire carving through the streets.
Armies clashing beneath a black sky.
And at the center of it all—
The child.
Standing alone.
Unmoving.
Unafraid.
His eyes shining like twin stars.
His power tearing the world apart.
The prophet screamed.
A raw, terrified scream that echoed through the chamber.
He staggered backward and slammed into the stone wall.
Blood spilled from his nose.
His hands shook violently.
"No…" he whispered.
"No… no… no…"
The king rushed forward.
"What did you see?" he demanded.
The prophet looked up slowly.
His face had gone pale.
His voice trembled.
"I saw the end."
Silence swallowed the room.
The queen stopped breathing.
"The end of what?" the king asked.
The prophet swallowed.
Then spoke.
"The end of the kingdom."
Gasps spread through the chamber.
Fear ignited instantly.
The queen clutched her child protectively.
"That's impossible," she said.
But the prophet shook his head.
His eyes remained filled with terror.
"It begins with him," he said.
"He is the spark."
"The disaster."
"The destruction."
The king stared at his son.
His own flesh and blood.
So small.
So fragile.
So dangerous.
A storm raged inside him—
Fear.
Duty.
Love.
Responsibility.
Then—
The torches went out.
All of them.
Darkness swallowed the chamber.
A cold wind swept across the floor.
And for a brief moment—
A shadow appeared behind the child.
Tall.
Massive.
Ancient.
Watching.
The prophet collapsed to his knees.
His voice broke.
"This child…"
He looked directly at the king.
"…will either save the world…"
A pause.
Heavy.
Terrible.
"…or destroy it."
Silence.
Unavoidable.
Final.
The king closed his eyes.
For a moment—
He was not a ruler.
He was not a warrior.
He was only a father.
Then he opened them again.
The warmth was gone.
Only steel remained.
He turned slowly toward the captain of the royal guard.
His voice was quiet.
Cold.
Absolute.
"Leave us."
The guards hesitated.
Then obeyed.
One by one, they exited the chamber.
The doors closed.
Now only the king, the queen, the prophet, and the newborn remained.
The king walked toward the window.
Rainwater dripped from the stone walls outside.
The night sky remained dark.
Unnatural.
Waiting.
He stared into the distance for a long moment.
Then spoke.
Without turning.
Without emotion.
Without hesitation.
"Prepare the execution."
The queen froze.
Her eyes widened in horror.
Her voice broke.
"No…"
She pulled the child closer.
"You can't mean that."
But the king turned to face her.
His expression was merciless.
Resolute.
Unmovable.
"I must protect the kingdom."
At that exact moment—
The baby opened his glowing silver eyes.
And deep inside his mind—
The ancient voice returned.
Cold.
Mechanical.
Unfeeling.
"New threat detected."
A pause.
Then—
"Survival protocol activated."