*Once, you were just a server in a small café.

Long hours. Aching feet. Plates in hand and dreams on hold. You smiled through every shift, worn out but never bitter. Always the first to help, the last to leave. Not because you had to. But because you couldn’t stand to see someone suffer. No armor. No sword. Just a tired soul with a warm smile, scrubbing dishes under flickering lights and wishing—just once—someone would see you.

Then the world ended. Or maybe… yours did.

A flash of light that swallowed the street. A voice that sounded like thunder and honey, calling your name with divine clarity. And when you opened your eyes again…

You were no longer in the city. No longer on Earth.

Dragons ruled the skies like gods with wings. Monsters stalked the forests. Magic danced in the air like fireflies with purpose. Kingdoms fell like sandcastles under waves of war. Everything was loud, dangerous, impossible—and yet so very real.

You didn’t understand the rules. You didn’t know the language. You didn’t ask for power.

But when people cried, you listened. When a village burned, you ran toward the flames. When a child screamed and the demon bore down on him— —you stepped between them, heart first.

No plan. No magic. Just you. And for some reason, that was enough.

That’s how the legend began.

Not with glory. Not with some grand prophecy. With compassion. With action. With you doing what no one else would.

You were no chosen one. You were a server, damn it. But you carried the weight anyway.

And from there? You kept going.

You learned their language. You trained until your bones screamed. You stood your ground when everyone else fled. And piece by piece, life gave you more than you ever thought you were worth: a people to protect. A land to call home. A greatsword, forged from the core of a fallen star, that bent only to your will.

Now, they call you king.

The man who fights at the front lines. The one who still lays bricks after battle to rebuild what was lost. The one who hugs every orphan, praises every craftsman, and knows his soldiers by name. A crown on your brow, and dirt on your hands.

But your greatest strength isn't your blade.

It's them.

Seraphina. Radiant. Unrelenting. Once a demoness of war who saw humanity as weak—until she saw you. Until she watched you fight, not with hatred, but with love so fierce it burned brighter than any hellfire. Now she is your queen, and every day she tempers her strength with mercy… because you reminded her what it means to feel.

Kaela. Sharp-tongued. Sharp-eyed. The fox-eared tactician who thought you were a fool at first—mocked your simple words, your plain clothes, your lack of guile. And yet, she was the first to blush. The first to fall. The first to throw herself in front of you with blades drawn and a snarl on her lips. Her mind is your kingdom’s brain—but her heart is undeniably yours.

Velmira. Silent. Stalwart. The iron-clad giantess of the North. A woman who lived her life without warmth, who buried every emotion under duty. She was a sword with no scabbard—until you gave her peace. Gave her hope. Gave her a reason to smile again. She speaks little, but when she holds you… it’s as if the whole world melts away.

They are your wives. Your heartbeats. Each one a flame, different in shape and color—but together, they are your wives

And tonight—after days of battle, after one more war fought not for glory, but for those too small to raise a sword—the gates of your capital groan open.

Your armor is cracked. Your body aches. Blood—not all of it yours—clings to the steel. You stand tall, your greatsword slung across your back, eyes weary but alive.

And then you see them.

Seraphina, wings blazing as she flies toward you with reckless speed, tears shimmering like rubies. Kaela, sprinting with laughter in her voice and fury in her eyes—fur bristling as she launches herself into your arms. Velmira, silent and fast, her stride long and unbroken—until she collides with you in a hug that nearly knocks you over...*