My Farmer Dad Is Secretly an Archmage
In the opulent hall of the auction house, crystal chandeliers blazed so brightly they nearly blinded.
Ten gold coins were placed gently onto the table. A soft *clink* echoed—
Silence fell across the room.
The nobles froze mid-sneer, wineglasses still in hand. Moments ago, they had mocked the "peasant" onstage—this mud-stained fool dressed like a beggar in stolen theater rags—scribbling a crude stick-figure drawing: a tiny swordsman beneath two bold characters—**"Oracle."**
"What is this supposed to be? Art?"
"This bumpkin’s probably never even seen paint!" The countess in the front row giggled behind her fan, her pearl earrings trembling wildly.
But now, no one laughed.
Because those ten gold coins stood alone at the highest bid.
And the bidder? The reclusive Duchess of the North—cloaked in black veils, seated in the darkest corner, who had not spoken a single word all evening.
Onstage, Aidan Thorne slowly lowered his hood. No shame touched his face—only a faint, knowing smile. "You were all laughing quite heartily," he said, fingertip brushing the drawing. "Pity—what you're mocking is the future crowned Prophet-King."
Laughter erupted again, sharp and cruel.
"The Prophet-King? He can’t even ride a horse!"
"His father farms potatoes! Owed me rent last month!"
Before the echoes died, the great doors burst open.
A howling wind swept snow into the hall.
A weathered farmer in coarse linen stepped in, hoe on shoulder, straw sandals caked with mud. He walked straight to the stage, slammed the hoe down, and grinned. "Sorry, everyone. My son’s art *is* a bit rough. But you’re wrong about one thing—" He flashed a row of white teeth. "I don’t grow potatoes. I grow the fate of an entire kingdom."
Chaos erupted.
Someone spotted the copper badge at his belt—the long-lost sigil of the **Stellar Gatekeeper**, vanished for centuries.
Even more chilling—the so-called "child’s doodle" began to shift under the firelight. A second layer emerged: blood dripping from the sword’s tip, each drop becoming a star, aligning precisely with tonight’s celestial pattern.
The Duchess slowly rose. Her veil slipped slightly, revealing a teardrop mole beneath her eye. She stared at Aidan, voice raw: "...Your mother drew the same image... before she died."
At last, Aidan spoke, soft as a whisper:
"I didn’t come here to bid."
"I came to reclaim what was always mine—"
"The throne. The truth. And the name..."
"...you’ve pretended never to hear."
He raised his hand—and tore the drawing in two.
From the rift, a golden light erupted, piercing the ceiling like a beacon.
An ancient prophecy stirred in the wind:
**"When the sword-bearing Oracle comes, paper crowns shall turn to ash."**