King Of The GTSES Ch 22: History Lessons Of The First King!

The following days passed in a blur of parchment, ink, and exhaustion.

After witnessing the titanic battle between Kyvareth and Lysera, Thron had expected some time to recover—to wander the castle gardens again or maybe enjoy another oversized meal in peace. But Lysandra had other plans.

If the kiss had been her way of softening him up, the woman had certainly stopped holding back now.

Each morning, Thron found himself seated before that tiny desk again, dwarfed by the mountains of books stacked around him. The library—his so-called classroom—always smelled faintly of old paper and candle wax, and the air hung thick with quiet expectation. Lysandra stood behind her lectern like a general ready to lead her army to war. Unfortunately for Thron, he was the army.

"Now," she began one morning, adjusting her glasses with a precise flick of her finger, "tell me, Your Majesty—how does Vytharion sustain its cities?"

Thron blinked, halfway through a yawn. "Uh... with food?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Obviously with food. How, Thron."

"Right, right," he muttered, rubbing his temple. "They... uh... grow crops? Big ones?"

Lysandra sighed, the kind of sigh that could crush a man's confidence into dust. "Incorrect. The majority of sustenance is conjured through mana cultivation and grown in the fields of Vael. The soil itself is bound by spellcraft to renew with every harvest."

"Right," Thron said quickly, sitting up straighter. "Magic farming. Got it. Totally what I was gonna say."

"Of course you were."

If sarcasm could be weaponized, she'd have conquered half the world by now.

Still, Thron tried his best. He really did.

Through Lysandra's relentless lessons, he began to piece together a picture of the world he now ruled—a world so unlike his own that it almost hurt to think about.

Vytharion, as she explained, was not merely a kingdom of giants—it was a civilization built on balance. The people here, immense in size and strength, lived alongside the natural magic that flowed through their land like invisible rivers. That magic—mana—was the foundation of everything: food, construction, medicine, even communication.

Every structure in the capital pulsed faintly with energy, powered by enchanted stones. Entire districts floated above the ground, suspended by ancient runes carved into the bedrock. Lysandra told him of towers that could store storms in crystal cores, of forests that glowed blue when the moon rose, and of forges where fire and water were made to dance together in perfect rhythm.

It wasn't just the magic that fascinated Thron, though—it was the people.

Vytharion's citizens, all towering women of different sizes and statures, were divided into Orders—each serving a role that maintained the balance of the kingdom. There were the Order of Guardians, like Kyvareth and Lysera, whose strength defended the borders and trained the warriors. Then came the Order of Scholars, to which Lysandra belonged, preserving and advancing knowledge both magical and historical. There were also the Order of Healers, the Order of Builders, and even the Order of Voices, who served as diplomats, artists, and storytellers.

Each order was bound not by wealth or title, but by purpose.

"The First King," Lysandra said one afternoon, walking between shelves as Thron struggled to take notes, "understood that power without harmony leads to ruin. He created these Orders so that the kingdom's strength would never turn inward—never against itself."

Thron nodded absently, doodling something that vaguely resembled a sword on his parchment. "Smart guy. Guess that's why you all still exist."

She turned, catching him mid-doodle. "Indeed. And if you don't wish to be the last king, I suggest you learn to focus."

Thron dropped his quill immediately. "Y-yes, ma'am."

She hid a smile behind her hand before continuing.

The more she taught him, the more he realized how vast and complex this world really was. His own realm—his human world—suddenly felt small by comparison. There, power came from steel and politics. Here, power came from the very essence of the world itself—from the mana that flowed through everything, even the air he breathed.

But what fascinated him most was what she said about the connection between the people and the king.

"The King's bond," she explained one late evening, her tone softer now, "is not symbolic, Thron. It is spiritual. The kingdom itself recognizes the King's will. The land flourishes when he is at peace... and withers when his heart is burdened."

Thron looked up at her, blinking. "So you're saying the weather depends on my mood?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes." Lysandra crossed her arms. "You carry the echo of the First King's soul. The kingdom responds to it, even now."

"That's... honestly kind of terrifying."

Her lips curved faintly. "Then let that fear guide your wisdom."

By the time she dismissed him that day, his head was spinning—not from boredom, but from sheer disbelief. Everything about this place—its scale, its power, its expectations—felt so much greater than him.

As Lysandra left him alone among the books, Thron leaned back in his tiny chair and stared up at the towering shelves that reached the ceiling.

He muttered under his breath, "Magic farming, glowing forests, living weather... yeah. Totally normal day."

Then he sighed, shaking his head. "Guess I'd better make sure I don't have a bad mood tomorrow or I'll cause a hurricane."

From somewhere down the corridor, Lysandra's voice floated faintly back, sharp but amused:

"I heard that, Your Majesty."

Thron froze, grimaced, and then quietly buried his face in his hands.

Yeah. It was definitely good not to mess with Lysandra.