Men’s Bad Day Comes
Beyond the lands, in a faraway kingdom, there once lived a king who dreamed of ruling all thirty-two realms. He gathered vast armies and marched to war. The thirty-two kingdoms, lost in their own quarrels, fell one by one. Fifteen were conquered before the remaining seventeen finally united against him.
The conqueror was called the King of Fire and Blood. His name was Jerafoth.
He rode two dragons: the Dragon of Insanity, which let him think beyond imagination itself until madness and genius became the same thing, and the Dragon of Blood and War. Three billion soldiers followed him. A thousand royal knights, each mounted on obsidian griffins—the rarest and deadliest of their kind—rode at his side. He seemed unstoppable. The allied seventeen kingdoms mustered 1.9 billion souls. Thirty-four princes, each carrying the blood of a different royal dragon (Light, Storms, Earth, Fire, Frost, Wind, Oceans, Darkness, Nature, Thunder and Lightning, Wisdom, Shadow, Gravity, Animation, Destruction, Foresight, and Spirits), led the resistance. Each prince commanded two hundred holy knights blessed by the Church. The war lasted over a hundred years. Countless died; countless more were born only to fight. Entire generations knew nothing but blood and fire. Then, one day, Prince Leonardos of the Dragon of Light walked up to the dark lord and slid a sword through his heart.
Peace—impossible, unimaginable peace—finally returned. “Miss Emelia, wake up!” The sharp voice cut through the lecture hall. Professor Sera glared at the sleeping girl in the back row, chalk still in hand, the board behind her covered with the most important history lesson of the year.
Emelia Dimfulsen, daughter of Count Franklin Dimfulsen, rubbed her eyes and mumbled, “Why are you all in my bedroom…?” The class held its breath. Veins bulged on Professor Sera’s forehead.
“Would you prefer to stay awake for the rest of this session, stand outside in the corridor, or shall I summon your family to discuss your behaviour?” Emelia’s eyes snapped open. She finally registered the rows of desks, the high windows, the Academy of Haultin for the gifted. Panic hit. “I’m so sorry, Professor! I was up all night finishing homework, that’s why I—”
“Then you won’t mind showing me this homework,” Professor Sera said, already walking toward her. Emelia gave a nervous giggle. “I would, but… I gave it to my servant Josh to carry, and he must have forgotten to—”
The door opened. A young man in the Dimfulsen crest stepped in—fit, neatly dressed, brown hair, clear blue eyes. He bowed slightly. “Lady Emelia, I forgot to return your homework.” He handed her the books, then turned to the professor. “My apologies for entering unannounced, Professor Sera. May I have permission to leave?”
Professor Sera stared at him, then at Emelia, golden eyes narrowing. “Permission granted.” “Thank you, Professor.” Josh bowed again and left. Emelia started to sit. “Who told you you could sit?” Professor Sera snapped.
Emelia froze upright. “You did complete your work,” the professor continued, “but sleeping through a lesson about the War of Fire and Blood—especially when you are noble-born—is unbecoming. This time you are excused. There will not be another. Understood?” “Yes, Professor,” Emelia squeaked. The lecture resumed. The other students barely reacted; Lady Emelia’s antics were legendary. Some chuckled, some whispered. One student, however, watched with quiet fascination. Prince Agusten, sixth son of the King of Ramura, golden hair and unusual purple eyes, leaned against the window frame and smiled faintly. To him, Emelia was like fire—annoying if you stood too close for too long, yet essential, warm, impossible to look away from.
Outside, Josh waited, annoyed but relieved his lady had escaped punishment. He had found her unfinished homework that morning, completed it himself, and run across the academy to save her. He waited to escort her home.
Years ago, Josh had been the son of a farmer. Bandits raided his village, killed every man, chained the women and children, and took everything else. Night after night the bandit leader called Josh and two young girls to his tent. Some captives broke completely; some were forced to do unthinkable things. Josh saw a boy handed a club and his own mother dragged before him. Josh was made to clean the blood afterward.
He learned that meat still appeared on plates even when no new livestock arrived. Rage was the only thing that kept him sane. One night, when the leader summoned him again, Josh drove a sharpened stone into the man’s throat. He burned the camp. Some captives chose to stay in the flames rather than live as husks. Some bandits begged for water. Josh walked away. He reached the Kingdom of Ramura half-dead, learning to survive on scraps and pity. “By death comes life,” he told himself.
Then one day a little girl with golden eyes found him in an alley. “Hey, yellow there! Hungry?” Josh didn’t look up. He knew pity. She stayed. “Here, want some chicken?” The smell hit him. When he finally raised his head, he saw a whole fried chicken offered like it was the most normal thing in the world. But it was her eyes that stopped him—bright, innocent eyes he hadn’t seen since the world went mad. A sudden impact snapped him out of the memory. “Thank you so much, Josh~! Without you I would’ve gotten detention!”
Emelia had thrown herself at him in a grateful hug. Josh’s head had struck a rock. Now he lay on the ground, unconscious and foaming slightly at the mouth.
“JOSH!” The scream shattered Prince Agusten’s teacup two storeys above. He knew that voice. Adjusting his jacket, he ran. He arrived to find Emelia panicking and Josh out cold, blood trickling from his scalp. The prince put it together quickly: Emelia + enthusiastic hug + rock = this.
By dusk everything was calm again. Josh woke with a headache, escorted a remorseful Emelia home, and accepted yet another flustered thank-you from her and a tired “be careful next time” from Prince Agusten.
As the two walked away, the prince smiled to himself. “Well, that was entertaining. What else do you have for me, Emelia?” Later that night, Emelia personally helped bandage Josh’s head, chattering the whole time about how heroic he was. Josh just smiled.
“Without you that day, holding out that fried chicken,” he said quietly, “I wouldn’t be here.” Emelia tilted her head. “Is this not what you wanted?” Little Josh from years ago had stared at the chicken in disbelief. “Why are you acting like this is normal?” Little Emelia had grinned. “Then can I give you a hug instead?”
She had hugged him without hesitation. “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine. Come with me—I’ll give you a home.” Two days later they lay beneath the great tree in the Dimfulsen estate. “This,” Emelia said, tracing the bark with her finger, “is where my great-grandfather proposed to my great-grandmother. Then my grandfather to my grandmother. Then my father to my mother. It’s our family’s sacred tree.”
Golden sunlight filtered through the leaves. Josh noticed something. “Look—see that rock? It’s shielding a tiny flower from the wind and rain.” Emelia’s eyes lit up. “Just like in fairy tales! The knight protecting his princess.” Josh smiled softly. “Then I can be the rock, and you can be the flower.”
Emelia punched his shoulder. “Do you think I’m that weak?” “Well, you do seem too weak to catch me—” He snatched one of her books and ran. The chase lasted until evening. Exhausted and laughing, they fell asleep shoulder to shoulder beneath the tree, fairy-tale books scattered around them like fallen petals. When the orange sunset woke Josh, he gently shook Emelia. They gathered their things. As they walked away, Josh glanced back.
“Let’s call it the Promise Tree,” he said. “It sounds wonderful,” Emelia answered. Neither noticed the protecting stone crack, nor the second flower that had begun to grow beside the first. Years passed. Josh’s talent with weapons was discovered. He was conscripted, trained before dawn—running ten kilometres with sandbags tied everywhere, learning to turn anything into a weapon, mastering aura, the force that unified body, blade, and soul until a warrior’s strength multiplied thirtyfold. Then came the final trial: tame a griffin or die. Most cadets raised chicks into holy knights’ mounts. Some dared to claim adult silver griffins and slay twenty-seven wyverns to earn the rank of royal knight. Josh chose neither. He fought a fully grown golden griffin—rarest of all—and slew fifty wyverns from its back. He became something more: a secret Paladin, Holy Royal Knight, personal guardian of crown and kingdom. A decoy in shining armour stood in public; the real Josh worked in shadow. The Church and the royal mages rebuilt his body: • Eyes of the Roc, king of birds—no prey could hide. • Heart of the iron-toothed lion-tiger—no darkness could cloud it. • Bones of the fearless wolverine—unbreakable. • Regeneration of the immortal axolotl. • Speed of the thunder-cat cheetah. • Strength of the mountain earth bear. • Hide of the honey badger—no blade could pierce. • Neck of the dark-sky owl—blindness impossible. • Kidneys of the mighty camel, immunity of crocodile and shark, and dozens more gifts besides.
He died for ten hours while they worked. Then he opened his eyes and lived again. While Josh vanished into duty, Emelia and Prince Agusten grew closer—first small talk, then shared books, lunches, walks, hobbies, magic lessons, and finally quiet dates under the same Promise Tree. Her wildfire energy and his calm steadiness felt like the fairy tales she loved so much.
War came again. The King of the Nine Seas, the pirate El Zi Bond, challenged the continent. Josh met him in single combat atop storm-tossed waves. When it ended, Josh had lost his right eye; the Sea King bore a scar across his chest. The war was declared a draw. The pirate sailed free, chasing the horizon.
A victory celebration was held. At its climax, Prince Agusten—now king’s sixth son no longer young—and Lady Emelia of House Dimfulsen were married. As the couple walked the aisle of red and gold silk, noble knights lined the path, swords raised in salute, heads bowed. Emelia passed one knight who felt… different. Something tight in her chest. She glanced up for a fraction of a second.
Beneath the helmet, a single tear rolled from the only eye the knight had left. “I have the sword to protect you,” the knight whispered to himself, “but not the heart to stand beside you.”
A blue eye watched the couple exchange vows. Decades later, the gates between the mortal world and the demon realms tore open. Every race—centaurs, elves, dwarves, humans, merfolk, naga, gorgons, beastmen, birdfolk, treants—from all seventeen kingdoms marched to war. Kings and dragon-blooded princes led the charge. Josh, older now, scarred, unbreakable, faced the Monarch of the Fifty-Four Legions of Hell: Baheyal. He was losing. Bones shattered, blood poured, yet he stood on willpower alone.
He raised his sword for one final strike. Time stopped. A goddess appeared, her true dragon—the progenitor of all dragons—coiled behind her. “Who are you?” she asked. “I am Josh.” “What is your duty?” “To protect.” “Do you know the price of that strike?” “I know.” The goddess smiled. Time resumed. Light exploded from Josh’s body. Golden armour formed from his very flesh. With one swing he roared a single word: “SAMAEL.” The gates slammed shut forever.
When the armies arrived, they found only another dead soldier among millions. Far away, Emelia—now queen—felt something impossible slip from the world, like a name she had never been allowed to forget suddenly vanishing from her tongue. They say an unknown hero closed the gates and purged the remaining demons. 2.1 billion lives were lost across the wars.
Every weapon of the fallen was driven into the earth as a memorial—a forest of steel. One sword, almost invisible among the millions, glowed for half a heartbeat. Only Emelia noticed. Then it was gone.
The price of that final strike had been the complete erasure of one man’s existence—no past, no present, no future. History remembers only “the Hero.”
But sometimes, beneath the Promise Tree, an old queen dreams of a boy with one blue eye offering her fried chicken, and she wakes up crying for a name she can never quite recall.
And if you look very closely at the roots of the tree, two flowers still grow where a cracked stone once stood.
Even the tiniest flower, given enough time, can split a mountain of rock in two.
