The American Midwest, Ohio. South of Lake Erie, west of the Appalachians. At the end of a valley covered in forest and gentle slopes, there is a small town so tiny you might miss it even if you spread out a map.

Main Street is lined with rusty-red brick buildings, and the movie theater shows films from twenty years ago. The diner's coffee is as bitter as mud, and on a forest road on the outskirts, there is a vending machine that swallows coins without spitting out any products. The biggest news in town was that the mayor's dog bit a mailman. The trial where the mayor's wife is suing the mailman is scheduled for next month.

When summer came, the town became unbearably hot.

The asphalt shimmered in the heat haze, lawnmowers roared from the morning, and children raced around town on bicycles. In the evening, sprinklers soaked the lawns, and the smell of burnt steak drifted from someone's house. Adults wiped away sweat and lied, saying it used to be much cooler.

Most residents were born here, worked here, got married, and grew old while saying they would leave someday. When someone died, there was a funeral, and the bakery opened the next morning as usual. That was just how this town was built.

In August of that year, a nation was born in a vacant lot on the edge of town.

The King was twenty-eight. On his head was a cardboard crown with gold wrapping paper pasted on it. Raising a cloth that looked like a flag, he surveyed his territory with satisfaction.

The national territory consisted of nothing but weeds and rusty cans. There were no citizens, no laws, not even a country name. However, the King still had his most important task left to do.