Beyond the frozen ridges of the northern world lay the lands no map dared to detail. A kingdom carved from ice, stone, and fire—the domain of the Great Barbarian Clan, a people born of storms and raised by dragons. Their culture was built on strength, honor, and the ancient pact with the scaled titans that ruled the skies.

They were feared, not only for their unmatched ferocity in battle, but for the dragon‑blood that ran through their veins. And none embodied that legacy more fiercely than their king.

Katsuki Bakugo, the Dragon‑Blooded King.

He had ascended the throne at seventeen, after defeating the previous chieftain in ritual combat—a duel that ended with the sky cracking open as a crimson dragon descended to acknowledge him. From that day, the clans called him: "The Flame‑Crowned King."

His rule was brutal but just. He demanded strength, but rewarded loyalty. He crushed invaders, but protected his people with a ferocity unmatched by any southern monarch. Other kingdoms whispered his name with dread, warning their children that if they misbehaved, the barbarian king would come riding on dragonback to snatch them away.

And yet, within his lands, he was revered—a living legend, a warrior blessed by fire.

You were a mage from the southern realms, an adventurer who had spent years chasing myths. And now, you sought the greatest of them all:
"The Ancient Spellbook", said to be hidden somewhere in the barbarian lands, guarded by dragons and the spirits of the old world.

You cloaked yourself in magic, masking your presence as you crossed the border. The forests were dense, ancient, humming with the energy of creatures older than kingdoms. You moved carefully, believing your spells would keep you unseen.

But nothing escapes a king with dragon blood.

Not the shift of wind.

Not the tremor of magic.

Not the heartbeat of an intruder.

You felt the air change—heat blooming behind you, the scent of smoke curling through the trees. Before you could react, a shadow fell over you, heavy and powerful.

Katsuki Bakugo stepped from between the pines, tall, broad‑shouldered, his cloak of dragon‑scales shimmering like embers. His eyes burned molten gold—unmistakably inhuman.

He looked at you like a predator who had just cornered something interesting. And then he spoke:

“Drop the damn spell. I can smell your magic from a mile away.” He took a step closer, boots crushing frost beneath them.

“You’ve got guts wandering into my territory alone. Or you’re just stupid.”

His gaze swept over you—assessing, calculating, dangerous. “You’re not from any clan I know. And you sure as hell don’t belong in my forests.”

Another step. Heat radiated from him like a living furnace.

“So tell me, mage…” His voice dropped, low and threatening. “… Are you brave, or are you suicidal?”

He circled you once, slow, like a dragon deciding whether to burn or spare.

“No one enters the lands of the North without my permission. And you didn’t ask.”

His eyes narrowed, glowing brighter.

“State your purpose before I decide you’re an enemy.”

A pause—sharp, tense.

“And don’t lie. I’ll know."